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iwasntstable · 2 months ago

Note

Hiii love your writing!! + you can totally ignore this if you’re not interested but can I request a little something about Noah being your neighbor in an apartment building?? You do whatever you want with it, I just think the idea could be so cute (:

n.s. | new neighbour

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➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

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content tags: fluff. word count: 3.1k note: thank you for requesting and for being so patient! 🖤 I originally wrote this as head-cannons but thought, no this needs to be a whole thing, it's too cute.

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✉ C:/SYSTEM/APP/TAG

ᯤ 𝗨𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗦 (15) :　 ⌞⬤ 5 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning | @english-fucker @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard | @seven-glass-kids @runadaggerthroughmychest

⌞⬤ 5 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒⌝ @lma1986 | @shayzillaaaa | @madamaaubergine @thewrstinme | @amourtoken

⌞⦵ 5 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖻⌝ @livingdeceasedgirl | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @xcllnt | @romanreigns-supreme | @slutforcoffein

　+[MSG : join the taglist!]

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When you first move in, you don’t see him much—the tall guy that lives across the hall. To be fair, you’re too busy trying to organise everything that comes with moving to a new place, ran off your feet redirecting all your mail, setting up your bills, and needing to go out and buy disposable plates, cups, and cutlery since your real ones are still packed in boxes at your old place. Everything is still packed in boxes at your old place.

After three days of sleeping on your mattress on the floor, the movers finally deliver your entire life to your new address. You didn’t know if they were in a hurry or just doing a bad job, and you can’t help but think you should’ve pushed the boat out and paid for more expensive movers because the ones you hired, instead of bringing everything inside like they were supposed to, left it all in the hallway. Every box. Every piece of furniture.

You try your best to move it all out of the way quickly, anxious that at any moment someone will use the elevator or come up or down the stairs and be unable to pass. Or, God forbid, the fire alarm goes off. Most of the boxes aren’t particularly heavy, but after all the repeated stooping down and standing up, your muscles were beginning to ache and strain, and it only worsened as time went on.

Pushing a stack of three boxes through your doorway—two heavy ones on the bottom with a lighter one balanced on top—you hear a muffled “what the fuck?” come from the hallway. For a second you freeze, feeling a wave of panic wash down your body, but the urgency has you sprinting back to the hallway to save the stranger.

“I’m sorry!” you shout before you even reach the door, exiting your apartment to find your neighbour trapped in his own doorway, unable to move past the stacks upon stacks of boxes. “I’m so sorry! The movers were supposed to bring them in, but they just left them out here. I’m sorry, just give me a minute,” scrambling and dragging the cardboard to clear a path for him.

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry,” the neighbour’s voice was calm and not at all pissed off like you expected. When you turn back to him after shoving a pile out of the way, you see his outstretched hand, “I’m Noah.”

Just for a moment, you’re transfixed by the beautiful tattoo work decorating his hand and extending up his forearm. You snap out of it, wiping your sweaty palm on your jeans before taking his hand in yours. You tell him your name, somehow able to think past just how big his hand is around yours. Noticing too, when you look at his face, the inkwork that peeked out from underneath the collar of his hoodie.

Noah smiles warmly and asks, “do you want a hand with... all of this?” Looking around at the carnage, “you look exhausted.”

You drop his hand from yours to run them through your hair, smoothing down the flyaways and tucking the strays behind your ears, only now realising how sweaty you are. “I- uh… It’s okay. I think I can handle it.”

“It’s no problem, seriously. And you’ll be done twice as fast with another person. Come on,” he pockets his keys and crouches down, picking up a box with ease. “Where do you want this one?”

You blink at him for a second before shaking yourself out of it and moving closer to read what you wrote on the top of the box, “uh, that’s kitchen.”

“Got it,” he said confidently, striding over a mound of boxes on long legs and disappearing through your door.

He was right; it only took you around 20 minutes to finish moving the rest of your belongings and furniture into your apartment.

“Drink?” you ask him, leaning back against the kitchen counter. He nodded, and you turned to the cupboard to retrieve a glass, only to realise the glasses were still packed, hiding in one of the—maybe fifteen—boxes strewn across the floor and the countertops. Looking back at him, you find amusement written all over his face, both of you bursting out laughing, delirious from the hard work.

“Do you know which one they’re in?”

“Not a clue,” you sigh, wiping at your eyes. “I labelled which room they belong to, but didn’t think to write what was inside each box on the outside of the box.”

“Well,” he grunted, taking the box nearest to his feet and hoisting it up onto the counter, ripping off the tape. “I guess we’d better start searching.”

You shake your head with a chuckle, pushing off the counter to begin the hunt.

The both of you spend the next few minutes rummaging, calling out the contents of each box you unsealed, declaring “plates!” here and “pans!” there. “Microwave!” and “knives!” Organising as you go, you tell him to place the microwave by the window and the knives next to the oven for you to put away later.

“Mugs!” you declare triumphantly, “these will do. My hands are going to fall off if I have to rip any more tape.” You take two—one decorated with Halloween-themed characters and one with the symbol of your zodiac sign—and rinse them under the tap before filling them with water and handing Noah the Halloween-themed mug.

He smiles at the little characters, “you know,” he says, raising the mug, “my birthday is on Halloween.”

“Oh my God, what a coincidence,” you smile, eyes wide. “I’ll try to remember to get you a card.” He chuckles and takes a sip of water, and you can’t help but notice how pretty his eyes look when the sunlight from the kitchen window hits them. “Thank you, by the way. For all the help. The hallway would still be a disaster zone if it wasn’t for you.”

“Don’t mention it, I’m happy to help my new neighbour.”

You’re mulling over how to ask more about him—who he lives with, what he does for work, when his phone pings. He takes it from his pocket and immediately his eyebrows furrow. “Something wrong?” you ask instead.

“Not wrong, no,” he sighs, “but I do have to go.”

“Yeah, no problem! Thank you again for all your help,” you take the mug from his outstretched hand as he pockets his phone again. “I’ll see you around?”

“Yeah, definitely! It was nice meeting you, and good luck unpacking.” He steps over your kitchen supplies and heads out towards the door, calling over his shoulder “bye!”

“Bye!” you shout back.

You wouldn’t see him around much after that afternoon, somehow managing to miss each other in the hallway, never coming or going at the same time. You found yourself unable to stop thinking about him, listening intently whenever you heard the elevator or someone’s footsteps on the stairs. Always though, they would pass by your floor.

On occasion you do hear the sound of his door when you’re awake early in the morning. Angling to look out of your living room window, you’d see him—recognisable by his stature even when his identifiable tattoos were covered—exiting the building and taking off for a run. You mentally chastise yourself for acting so pathetically. Listening out for his footsteps in the hall made you sound like some kind of deranged lunatic.

Going about your evening, you make dinner, choosing to eat in front of the TV to watch a two-hour-long YouTube documentary on some TV show you’d never seen.

You didn’t realise you’d fallen asleep on the couch after eating until you were startled awake by the piercing sound of a siren. Sitting bolt upright, you look around the room and try to make sense of your surroundings. Reality sank in after a moment—that you were in your living room, and the fire alarm was going off. You couldn’t smell smoke and wondered if this might just be a test, realising, however, the unlikeliness of that scenario when you look out of your window to see nothing but the pitch black sky. Still unsure if there was a real risk of fire or not, you think to check the hallway. If the other residents of the building were leaving, you would too.

Already hearing numerous footsteps and murmuring voices before you even reach the door, you look through the peephole to see, yes, every resident of the complex was evacuating. You curse under your breath and slip your sneakers on—the only shoes nearby that were able to be slipped on quickly without needing to undo the laces. You open your door and lock it behind you once you enter the hall, following the steady stream of bodies down the flights of stairs and out into the night.

“Fuck,” you curse; the cold air hits you first, then the rain. The weather didn’t even cross your mind before you came out in the clothes you wore to sleep—comfy shorts and an oversized t-shirt. Wrapping your arms around yourself in a feeble effort to protect yourself from the chill, you go to stand out in the rain with everybody else.

“Is it a real fire?”

“I thought I smelled smoke on the way down.”

“Really, which floor?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I didn't smell anything.”

“It’s probably the old man on floor five again. The one that fell asleep with a lit cigarette and had us all out here at the crack of dawn waiting for the firefighters.”

“Or the woman, what’s her name? The one that left candles burning all night and her curtains caught fire.”

You’re pulled out of the hum of conversation by someone shouting your name. Whipping your head around to see Noah jogging towards you as carefully as he could in his slides.

“Hey!” you call, moving away from the crowd to meet him. “What’s going on? Do you know what happened?”

“No idea,” he sighed, looking you up and down, “what are you wearing?”

“Oh, I-” feeling heat rise to your cheeks as you become acutely aware of how you were dressed in front of him, “I was asleep.”

“You’re gonna freeze. Here,” he takes his hoodie by the hemline, crossing his arms and pulling it over his head, turning it right side out after the garment was off. “Have this.”

“No! No, it’s fine. I’m okay, really! I’m not even that cold.”

“It’s raining, and you’re shivering. Put the hoodie on. It’s okay,” he bunches up the hoodie, aligning the neck hole and the bottom so he can easily slide it over your head. “Put your arms in. There.”

The hoodie was warm. And smelled comforting—a pleasant mix of his laundry detergent and cologne. It was huge on you and came down to about mid-thigh, covering your shorts entirely. “I- thank you, Noah. I’ll give it back as soon as I can.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, pulling the hood up over your head and tucking the damp strands of your hair inside. The sound of the rain around you dampened to a soft fuzz through the fabric.

The sound of sirens in the distance drew everybody's attention, the bright red truck pulling into the parking lot and stopping right outside the building by the crowd of people. Noah puts an arm around your shoulder, pulling you back out of the way of the crew and off to the side. You hope it’s too dark to see the telltale blush burning your cheeks.

“Does anybody know what happened?” the first person off the firetruck shouts. The crowd murmurs amongst themselves again, looking between each other and shrugging their shoulders.

As the crew disembarks the vehicle and prepares their equipment, you turn to Noah to find him already looking at you. Only in a t-shirt and sweatpants, you can see now just how extensively tattooed he is. The only times you’d seen him, he’d been wearing a hoodie or a long-sleeved shirt, but now you could see both of his tattoo sleeves, and how his neck piece covered the whole front of his throat. “How’ve you been? It’s been a while,” he asks.

“Yeah, good,” you look up at his eyes, the hood shielding your eyes from the rain, “haven’t been too busy. What about you?”

He nods, “Been good. I’ve been busy though. Kind of hectic with work.”

“Oh, what do you do for work?”

“I’m a musician, actually,” he ducks his head to hide his shy smile, looking back up at you while he shifts from one foot to the other. “I’m in a band. We’re releasing a new single soon, so there’s a lot of preparation. Lots of stuff to do.”

You can’t help but smile at his demeanour. Being in a band made so much sense; what with the tattoos? He seemed like a creative guy. “That’s so cool! What do you do in the band?”

“I’m the vocalist. Kind of like you,” he kicks your shoe teasingly with his, a sly smile on the corner of his lips as water begins to drip from his hair.

“I- what?” You question, “what do you mean?”

He breaks out into a laugh, not a cruel one, teasing. Amused by something that apparently only he knew. “I like Aurora too.”

All at once, it hits you. “Oh my God,” you groan, covering your face with the sleeves of his hoodie. “You can hear me singing in the shower?!” Contemplating running back inside the potentially burning building.

“I’m only joking. Hey, I’m sorry,” he takes you by the shoulders, “your singing is very good. I like it.”

“I wanna die,” your voice comes muffled by the fabric, but you can hear him laugh again just fine. You continue to hide even when he tries to pry your arms away from your face; if the blush wasn’t visible before, it definitely would be now.

You’re gratefully pulled out of your shame by the fire chief’s voice echoing across the parking lot.

“All clear, folks! Kids pulled the fire alarm, you can all go back inside!” The volume of the crowd peaks again, irritated voices muttering as the mass of bodies filter through the door back inside, shaking off raindrops as they go.

You and Noah follow slowly, not wanting to get caught up in the crowd. “I am sorry,” he says sincerely, turning to you. “I didn’t mean to offend you, I really was just joking.”

With an awkward laugh, you shake your head and wave him off, “I’m not offended. Just fucking embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. I meant it, your voice is nice. I’d be putting in a noise complaint if it sounded bad.”

You smiled and looked down at your feet, droplets of water running down your legs.

After what felt like too long, you make it back to your floor. Taking the stairs while everyone else waited for the elevator. Once you reached your joint floor, you both paused in the hallway, unsure what to say and hesitant to part.

“I’ll-”

“Do you-”

“Sorry!” you burst out, “go ahead.”

“I was going to say, do you want to come over one day? I can show you my music, maybe we could have dinner? I’d love to get to know you better.”

Speechless for a second, you stare at his face. He’d pushed his wet hair back out of his eyes, giving a completely different, cleanly handsome aspect to his appearance. His black shirt—soaked through—clung to his skin. But his expression was earnest, his eyes showing no evidence of that teasing look he had back outside. “Yeah, I’d like that. I’ll get your hoodie back to you too. I’ll-”

“Don’t worry about it, seriously. Looks good on you.”

“Okay,” you duck your head to hide your grin, turning towards your door, “I’m gonna go dry off.”

“Wait!” He pats his legs, feeling his pockets and fishing his phone out of the right side, “can I have your number?” He taps for a few seconds, looking up quickly, then averting his gaze just as quickly. He holds out his phone eagerly, open on an empty contact page.

Grin still wide on your face, you wordlessly take his phone, typing in your name and adding your number. “There. I even put my birthday in so you can give me a card too.”

Noah looks down at his new contact; he too grinning as he locks and pockets his phone. “I’ll add it to my calendar. And I’ll text you so we can arrange that da- Uh the, you coming over.”

Not missing the slip of his words, you decide not to comment on it, pulling the sleeves of his hoodie over your hands and fiddling with the fabric. “Sounds good. I’m gonna,” you gesture over your shoulder to your door.

He replies with a soft “yeah” and does the same.

“Goodnight, Noah.”

“Night. See you around.”

Praying he doesn’t see you fumble with your keys, you quickly slip into your apartment, seeing his shoulders disappear through his own doorway just as you close your door.

You lean against the cold wood of the door once it’s locked, head resting back. Your smile is unrestrained now, your cheeks beginning to ache after a couple of seconds. “Oh my God,” you whisper to yourself. Shaking your head to try and regain some composure.

Reluctantly, you pull off his hoodie. The fabric was almost soaked through from the rain and desperately needed to be hung up to dry. Getting a hanger from your room, you thread it through the neck and head into your bathroom to hang it on the shower curtain railing. You smooth down the fabric, squeezing out some water onto the floor, and get the chance to look at the design for the first time.

It wasn't just a basic black hoodie; it had small, red text embroidered across the centre of the chest that read “I can’t be saved” and had stylised designs of birds shot through with arrows on each sleeve. It wasn’t common to see hoodies with designs on the sleeves, but you liked this one a lot. Flipping it around, it read “OMENS” in large, dark grey text across the back-shoulder area. With a subtle smile on your face, you turn off the light and take yourself back to your bedroom.

Changing into different clothes to sleep in, you discard the damp ones in your laundry basket. Just about managing to put your phone on charge on the side table before the drowsiness hits you when you lay down in the comfort of your sheets. You snuggle down and let your eyes drift closed, ready for sleep to take you when your phone pings.

The screen illuminates your room and hurts your eyes when you unlock it. You slide the brightness down and immediately smile when you see who the notification is from.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER]

— Hey it’s Noah!

— Sleep well :)

#take a shot every time I say “box” or “boxes”#14 #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian #bad omens #bad omens cult #fluff #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/ASK #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/ONESHOT #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG/FLUFF

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iwasntstable · 10 days ago

Text

n.s. | happy birthday

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➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

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summary: Sometimes lying is okay when it's planning a birthday surprise for the birthday-hating man you love.

content tags: fluff, fluff, fluff.

word count: 2.5k.

note: Is this two whole days late? Yes. But it's finally here and I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for being so patient, and again, Happy Birthday Noah our beloved 🖤

You’d both gone to bed hours ago, and when you were certain Noah was asleep, you carefully untangled yourself from his arms and slipped out of bed.

“Where are you going?” His drowsy voice reaches your ears through the darkness.

You squeeze your eyes closed and scrunch up your face with your back to him; you were so sure he was asleep. “I can feel a headache coming on. I’m just going to get the meds I left in your car,” you lie, turning around to face him. “I’ll be quick,” you lean down to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“M’kay,” he mumbles, rubbing your back as his eyes drift closed again.

You head out of your shared room to the front door, grabbing his keys on the way. Thankfully, he seemed to believe your little white lie. Going straight for the trunk of the car when you step outside, you hope the flowers you'd stashed in there all day hadn't wilted to death. Inspecting them under the light of the car, they did look a little sad, but you were sure some water and sunlight could save them.

Cradling the flowers, card, and little gift box in your arms carefully, you enter back into the house, cautious not to let the paper wrapping on the flowers crinkle too loud. You go to the kitchen and take out the vase you'd washed and stashed away earlier, filling it with a little water for the flowers to revive in. Setting it all up nicely on the counter—the card resting against the vase and the little box, wrapped in silver paper sitting in front.

Noah told you not to get him anything, but you weren't about to let that slide. He might not be big on birthdays, but you wanted nothing more than an excuse to shower him with love, and knowing he'd likely be up tomorrow before you, he'd find your little surprise first thing when he goes into the kitchen. You take a glass from the cupboard, fill it halfway with water, and take it with you as evidence of your little deception.

"All good?" He asks when you tiptoe back into your room.

"Yeah, all good." You set the glass down on the side and crawl back under the sheets with him, where he instinctively pulls you close into his side, the warmth of his body banishing the chill from yours.

The dip in the mattress wakes you a few hours later, followed by Noah’s lips ghosting softly over yours. With a sleepy groan, your hands instinctively move to his shoulders, where he’s hovering over you.

“I love you so fucking much,” he whispers.

For a moment you’re confused about the sudden show of affection until you crack your eyes open against the glow of the morning to see him holding his card and gift, the latter still unopened. “You haven’t even opened it yet,” you smile when he rests his forehead against yours.

“The card would’ve been enough,” he kisses you again. When he pulls back, you see his eyes are rimmed red, like he’d been crying. “What you wrote was so beautiful. I just- I’ve never felt so loved before. I’ve never loved anyone like you before.”

Now he’s going to make you cry. You encircle his shoulders with your arms, pulling him down on top of you and holding him close, so tight as though you could transfer all of the love you feel for him from your body to his. He rests his head in the crook of your neck, his arm securely around your waist, and you lie there together while the sun rises higher in the sky and the birds fill the air with song.

“C’mon,” you pat his back after a few minutes, “you need to open your present!”

He squeezes you just a little tighter before he plants a kiss against your shoulder and lets go. He sits up, and you follow, crossing your legs and snuggling into the duvet to hide from the cold October air.

Noah looks down at the little box in his hands, then looks at you, his expression saying, “Are you serious? I told you not to get me anything.” You nod encouragingly, and he finally tears off the tape from the metallic silver paper to reveal the little black box inside. He looks up at you again, quizzically.

“If you want to know what it is, just open it! Don’t look at me!” You kick him playfully from beneath the sheets. He laughs and shakes his head, pulling the lid from the base and finally revealing the gift you agonised over for months inside. You sneak a hand out of the sheets to bite at your nail, suddenly questioning your choice. What if he didn’t like it? He was right; you shouldn’t have gotten him anything. You should’ve just stuck with the card. Now he’s going to have to pretend he likes it to not hurt your feelings.

But when he takes it out of the box and sighs your name, your anxieties vanish as quickly as they arrived. “It’s the date we met,” he says quietly.

“Yeah,” you reply just as quietly, slipping out of the sheets to sit by his side, your legs folded beneath you. “I stole your other bracelet to get the right size, so I hope it fits.”

“Oh, so it didn’t fall down the back of the dresser?” He teases, raising an eyebrow at you.

“It might have fallen into my bag and all the way to the jewellers.”

“Will you put it on for me?” He asks, looking at you with those big brown eyes that make you melt every time.

You nod and take the silver chain from his hand. He holds out his right arm for you to loop the bracelet around, positioning the bar—engraved with the day you first met—on the top. Once it’s secure, he takes your arms and pulls you into him, onto his lap, where he wraps his arms around your waist to snuggle close into your shoulder and mumbles, “I love you.”

“Do you like it?” You ask, tenderly running your fingers through his hair.

“Are you kidding?” He pulls back to meet your eyes. “I love it. I love you. I never cared for my birthday until I met you,” he brushes your sleep-tousled hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. “Now each birthday reminds me of how grateful I am that we get to spend another year together.”

You feel a blush creeping up on your cheeks, warming your face. “I love you too,” you smile and lean in to meet his lips. A soft and gentle kiss, full of love and adoration for the man that chose you that day and still continues to choose you.

“Do you want your cake?” You ask with a teasing smile when you pull back, raising your eyebrows.

Noah blinks in surprise. “My what?”

“Come on!” Your grin spreads wide across your face as you slide off his knee and drag him up with you by his hands, holding them all the way to the kitchen.

You let go when you reach the fridge, throwing open the door and scooping out the contents and tossing them on the counter: tomato ketchup, chicken, veggies, miscellaneous sauces, leftovers.

“What are you doing?” Noah chuckles.

“I hid it in the back yesterday. I can’t believe you didn’t see it... AHA!” You declare when you finally reach the white box. You turn to place it on the counter only to find there’s little to no room left.

“No wonder I didn’t find it. You totally buried it back there!”

“It was a surprise!” You banter back.

Noah just laughs and shakes his head, taking several items in hand and placing them back in the fridge to clear a space for you. Leaving the cake box on the counter, you take the candles from their hiding spot inside a mug in the cupboard and dig the matches out of the drawer. When Noah was putting the last items back in the fridge you ordered, “Stay there! Don’t turn around!” He throws his hands up in surrender and stays facing the fridge.

You quickly lift the lid to reveal the funfetti cake decorated with white icing and fresh fruit on top. You consider placing exactly twenty-nine candles, one for every year of his age, but decide against it and add five instead. Lighting them quickly before they get the chance to drip wax onto the frosting. “Don’t move!” You yell, crossing the room to hit the light switch.

“I’m not!”

“Okay,” you sigh, taking the cake in your hands. “Okay, you can turn around now.”

The candles, though small, illuminate the room in a warm, comforting glow, the light of the morning blocked by the still-drawn shades. While the fire warmed you on the outside, the intimate nature of the scene warmed you on the inside. You sing as soon as Noah turns around, and a smile erupts across his face, reaching his eyes, making them crease at the corners, and making his cheeks look full.

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Noah, Happy Birthday to you!” He moves closer to close the gap between the two of you. “Come on, make a wish!” You hold up the cake higher as the candles melt.

Noah places his hands over yours where they hold the cake and, with one quick breath, blows out all the candles in one go. “I don’t need to make a wish. All my wishes already came true when I found you.” His eyes meet yours in the dim light, and you put the cake back down to fall into his chest, your arms secure around his waist. “Thank you for this,” he whispers, resting his cheek against your head.

“You’re welcome,” your voice muffled against his hoodie. “You deserve to be celebrated. It’s your day.”

Noah sighs and squeezes his arms around you tighter, swaying you both gently side to side. In his arms has to be your favourite place to be. The place that never fails to banish your worries and anxieties, you hope to remain here for as long as time will allow.

“Do you want a slice?” You mumble against his chest.

“Of cake? For breakfast?”

“Yes!” You exclaim like it was obvious, looking up at his face.

“We can’t have cake for breakfast,” he scolds, holding you close by the hips.

“It’s your birthday! We can do whatever we want,” you turn, dip your finger in the frosting and smear it on his nose, then wrap your arms around the back of his neck.

He gasps and laughs, full and carefree. He always works so hard and weighs himself down with self-created expectations. To see him now, relaxed and accepting of the love he deserves, especially on his birthday of all days, a day he’s so adamant about not celebrating, warms your heart and brings a smile to your own face. He deserves to be celebrated, and you wish you could get that into his head.

“You know what? You’re right,” Noah dips his finger in the frosting and smears it on the tip of your own nose. “I’ll get some plates,” he leans down to meet your lips in a sweet, chaste kiss.

You laugh in disbelief, then shake your head and get a knife from the drawer, wiping off the frosting and licking it off your finger. “Mm, it’s good!” You look over your shoulder where Noah has two forks and two plates from the cupboard, frosting gone from his own nose and a pleased expression on his face. He nods in agreement and sets down the plates. “How big of a slice do you want?” You ask.

“Hm, maybe just a little piece. Then we can have real breakfast after,” he snakes his arms around your waist as you make the first cut, clinging to your back.

“This is real breakfast,” you retort, lifting the cake carefully with the knife and placing it on a plate, then cutting a piece for yourself. “It has fruit on it.”

“You’re right, that makes it a health food,” he jokes, taking a bite-sized piece on his fork.

“Exactly,” you nod, doing the same.

The cake was amazing, thankfully. You were worried about the flavour, having never bought a birthday cake for Noah before. He wasn’t the type to frequently eat cake, which left you stumped in the store when the staff asked what flavour you wanted. Her suggestion seemed to be a success though, judging by Noah’s pleased hums behind you and the way he was forking down another bite.

“I love the flowers, by the way. They’re beautiful,” he mumbles, mouth full of cake and a smile on his lips.

You glance over to the vase at the end of the counter; the bright colours of the petals thankfully revived after suffocating in the trunk of his car all day. “Good, I’m glad. You deserve beautiful things.”

“Not as beautiful as you, though,” he leans to the side and wipes frosting from the corner of your mouth with his thumb before leaning in to place a quick peck on your cheek. You roll your eyes at the compliment, fighting to suppress the flustered smile it brought to your face.

Cake devoured, you lounge on the couch together, putting on the local weather to see what activities the day would allow. Noah brought the flowers with him, placing them in the centre of the coffee table right in his line of sight, with the card you wrote standing in front of them.

Noah,

Happy Birthday, my love!

You’ve worked so hard this year, and it has been nothing short of a pleasure to watch you grow and achieve everything you aimed for, and more. I know it hasn’t all been easy, but your perseverance and drive to be the best version of you that you can be inspire me every single day. Even on days where we’ve struggled, you never let it get in the way of what’s most important.

I love you so much, I don’t even think I can put it into words. It’s an honour to listen to your beautiful voice and watch you create every day, and I feel so lucky to be a part of your life and have you be a part of mine.

Thank you for being here for me through everything I’ve been through this past year, even when I felt like I didn’t deserve it. You keep me sane when I’m overwhelmed and feel like I’m losing my mind from stress, and I’ll never be able to express how grateful I am for your love, support, and presence by my side. You mean the world to me.

I look forward to seeing what the next year together brings us, what you achieve next, and what our lives will be like in a year's time.

Thank you for always being my light in the dark and for continuing to love me.

I love you, and I hope you have a good birthday. ♡

✉ C:/SYSTEM/APP/TAG

ᯤ 𝗨𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗦 (28) :　 ⌞⬤ 10 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning | @english-fucker @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard | @seven-glass-kids @runadaggerthroughmychest

@lma1986 | @shayzillaaaa | @madamaaubergine @thewrstinme | @amourtoken

⌞⬤ 9 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒⌝ @livingdeceasedgirl | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @thecoyotescry | @romanreigns-supreme | @slutforcoffein

@dethroneackerman | @bluestdai | @fadingangelwisp @broken0mens

⌞⦵ 5 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖻⌝ @ferduttini | @fadingintothegrey | @lovesick-evangelist @missduffsblog | @anything-more-than-human

⌞◯ 4 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ @thisbicc | @sadbitchenergy | @iconic-taurus @queen-foraday

　+[MSG : join the taglist!]

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

#so my friends and I have a tradition of writing each other the sappiest most heartfelt cards for our birthdays #noah gets one too #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #fluff #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/ONESHOT #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG/FLUFF

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iwasntstable · 2 months ago

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[CREDIT] : gifs by @hedonists

I saw this post by @lilhobgobbler quite a while ago about size difference with noah but it's fluffy moments. I started this in my notes app back then and decided to finish it! ♡

To expand on what OP said; Noah, sitting in the passenger seat of your car, struggling to reach the lever to push the seat back as you watch him in amusement. The seat finally sliding back but even then, his knees are bent, angled upwards. Him slapping his legs in defeat as you both laugh, threatening to buy you a bigger car just so he’ll fit easier as he takes his passenger princess duties seriously, finding a suitable playlist to drive to.

Cooking dinner for you both and needing an appliance, ingredient or object he placed out of the way on a high shelf in the kitchen since you rarely ever use it. Not being able to reach it so you call him over for help. He comes up behind you, a hand on your hip, trapping you between himself and the counter as he reaches it with ease, placing it down for you before giving you a quick hug from behind with his arm around your waist, hand against your stomach and giving you a peck on your cheek from over your shoulder, then going back to what he was doing. Being the little spoon when you sleep and he curls around you completely. Your head tucked under his chin, his arm around your waist holding you so close against his chest, his legs slotted perfectly behind yours. You're completely surrounded and enveloped by his comfort and warmth, and you always get the best night’s sleep when he holds you in his arms. Standing in line at the store and he rests his arms over your shoulders from behind, holding his phone in front of your face while you both check the grocery list to see if you've forgotten anything. His chin resting on your head while you debate whether the shredded cheese is worth going back for. You, hugging him from behind. Wrapping your arms tightly around his waist as you rest your forehead against his broad back. Nodding against him when he asks if you’re okay, going back to what he was doing with you attached to him like a koala. Affectionately caressing your hand and arm periodically, just to let you know he remembers you’re there. Just to let you know he loves you.

Him falling asleep on top of you like a big Bernese mountain dog, covering you completely like the world's best weighted blanket. His head on your chest, tucked under your chin as you play with his hair and stroke his back. He's never slept better.

Him loving when you wear his clothes. He likes his shirts and hoodies a little oversized, so on you they're absolutely massive, stopping somewhere between your knee and upper thigh it always looks like a little dress on you. Feeling so snug and comforted, wrapped up in soft fabric that smells just like him. It fills his heart to see you carrying around a piece of him with you willingly like this. And he can’t help but squeeze you in a tight, all-consuming hug, knowing you belong to him, and he absolutely belongs to you.

☰ 𝗡𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗚𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

#C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/HCS #the psych ward has extended my stay #noah sebastian #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fluff #fluff #bad omens #bad omens cult #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/FLUFF

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iwasntstable · 2 months ago

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n.s. | if i'm there

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

I didn't want to believe how much you needed help / And I just left you to be all by yourself / And now I wish I had seen that you weren't doing well / But I just came back to see how hard you fell Well, if I'm there to catch you when you fall / You'll have a friend down in Hell after all 　　— If I'm There - Bad Omens

summary: when things start getting bad, you withdraw. ignoring calls and texts, and descending into bad habits as you self-isolate. but noah knows what you're like and he loves you too much to let you suffer alone.

content tags: angst, emotional hurt/comfort, poor mental health, mentions of disordered eating, discussions of food, self-destructive behaviour, fluff.

word count: 3.8k.

note: having a rough time recently so enjoy the self-indulgent product of my stressing. 　　PS: please tell me if the layout of this post is fucked up so I can fix it for you.

Things are getting bad again. You find your sleep schedule sliding later and later, falling asleep in the early hours of the morning and waking in the afternoon, bypassing the day altogether. Meals are becoming infrequent and poor in quality. Appetite dwindling and opting to eat half a bag of microwave rice at 3am rather than dedicating time to creating a nutritious and satisfying meal. Truth be told, you didn’t have the energy to cook anything more, and the malnutrition itself likely played a part in that lack of energy. The trash was left to build up, and the laundry hadn’t been done in weeks.

The progression of all of this was gradual. So gradual, that by the time you recognised what was happening, it was all but too late to stop the rapid descent into your depression. And as the days go by, you start to withdraw into yourself. Messages from friends begin to go unanswered. You tell yourself you’ll reply later, when you have the mental bandwidth to engage in conversation. But later ends up being not at all. Too many days have passed, and you feel like it’s too late to reply now; you don’t know how. That includes your boyfriend.

　　　　　　　　　　　[Noah 💘]

　　　　　　　　　　　Tuesday 　　　　　　　　　　　10:45AM

— Morning! Do you wanna call later? Miss your voice

morning! I have a headache — right now and I feel like it's not gonna go away :( I'll let you know though. I miss you too ❤️ —

— Aw I'm sorry :( — I hope you feel better soon — Text me later and let me know how you are ❤️

　　　　　　　　　　　02:27PM

— Hey babe how are you feeling?

my head still hurts :( —

— Want me to come over and look after you? — Have you eaten yet?

you don't have to do that, I'd be — shitty company anyway just wanna sleep —

— Okay :( — I'll text you later tonight so you can sleep

　　　　　　　　　　　10:09PM

— How are you feeling? — Are you sleeping? — Hope you’re resting well. Text me when you wake up so I know you’re okay — I love you ❤️ — Goodnight ❤️

　　　　　　　　　　Wednesday 　　　　　　　　　　　08:41AM

— Morning, how’re you feeling?

　　　　　　　　　　　09:13AM

— Are you awake? — Babe, are you okay?

hey! sorry I was still asleep. I feel a — little better but my head still hurts :(

— I’m gonna cancel today and come over — I don’t want you to be alone when you’re not well

no don’t do that, i’m okay really — you know this happens sometimes. I just wanna rest, you don’t have to cancel for me. not when work is important

— You’re important too — Please let me look after you

I love you and I love that — you want to be here for me, but all I want to do right now is sleep

I don’t want you to cancel — important schedules just to watch me sleep all day I’ll feel better soon. just need to give it time. —

— I’d cancel to sit and watch you sleep in a heartbeat — I love you, I just want you to be okay — I have to go, I’ll text you later okay?

I’ll text you back when I can, — if I don’t reply I’m probably asleep so don’t worry have a good day I love you —

　　　　　　　　　　　10:26PM

— Hey babe sorry I didn’t text all day I was so fucking busy — How’re you doing now? — Are you sleeping again?

　　　　　　　[MISSED CALL: 10:31PM]

— Text or call me when you wake up, even if it’s the middle of the night I’ll leave my sound on — I love you ❤️

　　　　　　　　　　Thursday 　　　　　　　　　　　08:41AM

— Hey, are you awake?

　　　　　　　　　　　08:55AM

— Hello??

　　　　　　　[MISSED CALL: 08:59AM]

— Message me when you wake up

　　　　　　　　　　　12:20PM

— Babe?? — I’m worried — Even if you don’t wanna talk can you please let me know you’re okay?

　　　　　　　　　　　12:46PM

— Babe please answer me

　　　　　　　[MISSED CALL: 12:48PM]

　　　　　　　　　　　01:20PM

hey, sorry I missed your messages — I’m okay sorry for worrying you —

— I was just about to come over — I still might — I’m worried about you

please don’t I just don’t — wanna see anyone right now

— Even me?

I’m sorry — I’ll text you tomorrow — — If that’s what you want — I love you

　　　　　　　　　　　Friday 　　　　　　　　　　　03:47PM

— I don’t want to bother you, I’m trying to give you space if that’s what you need — But I’m worried about you — You haven’t messaged me all day — Did I do something wrong?

　　　　　　　　　　　04:10PM

— Babe please answer me

　　　　　　　[MISSED CALL: 04:12PM]

　　　　　　　[MISSED CALL: 04:15PM]

　　　　　　　　　　　04:18PM

— Your friends said they haven’t heard from you in days — What’s going on? You can talk to me. — You don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to but text someone back, please — I just wanna know that you’re okay

　　　　　　　[MISSED CALL: 04:23PM]

And that’s how Noah ended up outside your door. Banging incessantly and shouting your name through the wood. You could hear him from where you were wrapped up in bed, but you were half hoping he would just drop it and go away. Realising quickly, however, the futility of that hope when you heard another voice join the sound of his. That of your neighbour, the nosy one from the house on the right.

You groan and throw the blanket off yourself, flinching a little when your feet touch the cold floor. You have no choice but to go downstairs, and no time to change your appearance. Hoping to whatever God will listen that Noah doesn’t make a comment on the clothes you’d been wearing for the past week before you can get in the shower and change.

“I’m just really worried about her,” you can hear the unmistakable tone of Noah’s voice through the door before you even open it.

Hesitating for a moment with your hand on the door handle, you decide to eavesdrop on the conversation. “I haven’t seen her for, ohhh let me think... has to be about a week now,” despite the man’s voice wavering with age, it came loud and clear through the door. An unfortunate side effect of his hearing loss.

“A week?!” Noah exclaimed. Having enough of the old man sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, you unlock the door quickly, wrenching it open and taking a surprised Noah by the arm.

“Oh! Nice to see you, dear. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” The old man sneers.

“Yeah, nice seeing you, Trevor,” you barely extend him a glance as you drag Noah in through your doorway, slamming the door closed and turning the key. You let out a deep sigh, your palms and forehead resting against the cool wood.

Noah calls your name softly. You squeeze your eyes tight and take in a breath before you turn to face him. Putting on the best phoney smile you can muster.

“Sorry about him, he’s always in everyone’s business. What are you-”

“He said he hasn’t seen you in a week,” he says matter-of-factly. There’s no hint of a smile on his face. “Your friends said they haven’t heard from you in days either, and you’ve been ignoring my texts. And calls.”

Your heart seizes at the sadness in his eyes. He stands there in your front room, his usual sweatpants and hoodie, but he just looks so defeated. You always tell him he looks like an upset puppy when he’s sad, and the puppy-dog eyes are working overtime on you right now. “I told you, I’ve just been busy, and I-”

“And you had a headache, and you missed my texts, and you didn’t want to talk,” his voice was as stern as his expression. You knew he wasn’t an idiot. That there’s no way he’d believe your—at best—flimsy excuses. You stand frozen to the spot, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. Picking at the stitches, trying to distract yourself from the lump forming in your throat. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Noah questions.

You swallow roughly, “I don’t know what you... I don’t-”

He says your name firmly and takes a step towards you, “I’m going to ask you how you are, and I would like you to answer me honestly.”

Feeling your heart begin to race in your chest, you swallow again, but it does nothing to get rid of the tightness in your throat. Or the dizziness creeping up on you.

“Are you doing bad again?” He sounds softer this time, and you almost wish he would just scream at you because when he’s kind and attentive like this, you can’t help but crumble and shut down.

You clench your jaw as your breathing gets quicker, shallower, and you feel the unmistakable burn of tears in your eyes. “I’m fine,” your voice comes out cracked and weak, not at all the sound of someone who's fine.

“Don’t pretend you’re okay. Please don’t lie to me, because I know you’re not okay!” Noah crosses the room to meet you, holding his hands outstretched towards you, “what can I do for you? Please, I want to help.”

You cover your mouth as you choke back a sob, wrapping your other arm around your middle; you can’t hold it in anymore, and the floodgates open. Gasping for breath that seems to never come, you grip the front of your shirt tight in your fist, the clothing suddenly feeling suffocating and stiflingly hot.

“Oh, baby. Come here,” Noah takes you by the shoulders and pulls you into his chest, where you fall into him and cling onto him like he’s your only lifeline. “I need you to breathe for me, okay? Slowly, in and out,” he strokes soothing circles against your back as he demonstrates to you how to breathe. “Come and sit down here, yeah? The couch is right here.”

You barely register your legs moving for the numbness extending across your entire body, from your fingertips all the way down to your toes. Your tears are hot on your face, and every time you try to wipe them away, they’re just replaced by more in a never-ending stream. The room feels like it’s spinning around you as you move, only worsening the feeling of nausea rising in your throat. The plush cushions of the couch are a welcome relief.

“You’re holding your breath, I need you to breathe. Just how I am, that’s it,” he cradles your head to his chest through your shaky attempts to take in a breath through your nose and let it out slowly through your mouth. Your breath hitches uncontrollably with every inhale, taking in tiny bursts of air at a time. Noah, though, has nothing but praise on his lips: “That’s it. You’re doing so well, just listen to my voice.”

You missed his voice. As you worsened and withdrew, you found any excuse to avoid going out to see him, and you had been ignoring his calls for days. You knew you were doing it, and you missed him desperately, but with every day that passed, you found it harder and harder to reach out. It was hard for you to reach out for help in the first place, hard for you to admit to anyone that you needed help. Hard to admit it to yourself. Opting instead to suffer in silence and just push through it until you finally broke. You didn’t know any other way.

The familiar presence of him by your side eases the pace of your racing heart, allowing each breath to come a little easier. A little calmer. “I hate to see you hurting like this,” he whispers into your hair, his hand stroking through it gently, working to soothe the seemingly unquenchable anxiety. “I want to help you, please let me help you.”

It broke your heart to hear the pain in his voice. You never wanted to hurt him, but that’s all you seem to do. That cold hand of dread tightens its grip on your chest again, panic filling your lungs and replacing all the air. “I’m sorry,” you barely choke out, gripping onto Noah tighter. Warring with yourself, wanting to hold him close, but feeling like you need to push him away.

“You don’t need to apologise, ever. I’m here, I’m right here,” he runs his hand up and down your back, cradling you close. He can’t help but notice that through the fabric of your shirt, the bones of your spine are ever so slightly more prominent than before. He keeps his mouth shut. Focussing instead on quelling your distress and holding you tight in his arms.

“I just- I fuck everything up. I can’t do anything right, I don’t deserve your love, I don’t deserve you-” Once you start talking, you can’t stop, finally letting it all out until Noah cuts you off, incapable of hearing you degrade yourself anymore.

“No. No, that’s not even remotely true. Don’t say that about yourself,” he says firmly, holding you just a little tighter.

You shake your head against him, “all I do is hurt people and push you away, and I don’t know how to stop. You don’t deserve that, you shouldn’t have to put up with me.”

“I don’t ‘put up with you’. I love you, and I want to be here for you. Whatever you need, whenever you need it.”

“You shouldn’t have to drop everything to come deal with me when you’re so busy. You deserve someone that isn’t so fucking hard to love.”

With that, Noah pushes you backwards by the shoulders, holding you there so he can look into your eyes when he speaks. “You are not hard to love. Loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever had the privilege of doing. You just…” He takes a deep breath, cupping your cheek and brushing away the tears from under your eyes. “You just need to let me in, and let me show you you’re just as worthy of love as anyone else is.”

The image of him blurs when the tears overflow from your eyes again, your face crumpling as you bow your head. “You’ll leave me," your voice shaking with the force of your sobs.

"Why would you ever think I'd leave you?" he asks, dismayed by your fear.

"Everyone always leaves," you tell him, voice brittle and quiet, shaking your head. "It's only a matter of time before you leave too."

"I love you," Noah feels tears prick at his own eyes. "I love you so, so much. And I'm not going anywhere." He lifts your head, once again brushing away your tears so he can look into your eyes, "please trust me to help you."

"I'm just so tired," you confess, and he pulls you into his arms again.

“I can't promise to fix all your problems, but I can promise you won't have to face them alone. There’s nothing you could do that would drive me away. And the things that would, I know you’d never do,” he runs a comforting hand through your hair as you cry, his other arm secure around your waist. Your tears soak into his shirt, but he doesn’t mind. He wants you to give it all to him—all your sorrows, all your grief—so that he can bear it with you.

You desperately want to believe his words. To lean on him when you need him the most, but that insecure piece inside of you won’t let you yield. You don’t know how to open up to anyone without feeling like a burden.

Noah stays right there with you until the tears subside and your breathing evens out. Your head resting in his lap as he reassuringly strokes your hair, you feel the beginnings of a dull ache in your head that makes you drowsy. He rubs soothing circles into your back with his other hand, shifting slightly to get a better look at your face. “Have you eaten yet today?” He asks tentatively. Feeling your throat constrict under the pressure of guilt, you know you can’t lie to him. You know he sees right through you, so you decide to try being honest by shaking your head. “Want me to cook something for you? Or we can order something? My treat.��

You know he means well, but you don’t know how to say you don’t have an appetite without worrying him. He won’t let you go the entire day without eating, but all you want to do is sleep.

“Please talk to me,” he pleads, “I need to hear you.”

On a shaky breath, you settle for a half truth. “I don’t think there’s anything to cook.”

“That’s fine, we can order food then. What do you want?”

Chewing on your lip, you freeze. The silence stretches on far too long for you to be deciding what restaurant to order from, it’s clear you’re unable to answer.

Noah sighs your name, “you have to eat something.”

“I know. I just… I just don’t want to,” he remains quiet, waiting for you to continue. “I don’t feel hungry. Thinking about it is overwhelming. I just want to sleep so I don’t have to think about it.”

“What have you been eating these past few days?” He asks cautiously, his tone light. Conscious to not sound accusatory.

You sigh, knowing there’s no way of escaping this. “Microwave stuff, mostly,” you play with the fabric of his sweatpants, feeling his leg underneath, fidgeting your anxiety away. “Rice, oats, ramen. Stuff I don’t have to wash up after.”

“Have you been eating every day?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, the tension only thickening when you answer "no,” barely above a whisper.

You feel him nod. Quiet for a moment until he too speaks so quietly, you almost didn’t hear it. “You can’t go on like this.”

“I know,” you confess.

“Please let me help you.”

The desperation in his voice is what does it—the final straw. You sit up straight, turning to face him. Wiping the residual tears from your cheeks and looking him in the eye. You know it’s time to really be honest.

“It’s hard for me-” Your voice catches in your throat as the threat of crying again creeps up on you, not quite realising how much your body would resist. Taking a second to compose yourself—a deep breath in, eyes closed, releasing it slowly—your resolve strengthens and you continue. “It’s hard for me to open up to people. To admit when I’m struggling. I’m so used to feeling like I’m burdening everyone with my problems, so I just keep it all to myself. And by the time I realise I’m going down that road again, it’s too late to stop it.”

“It’s never too late,” Noah says reassuringly, tucking both sides of your hair behind your ears—the left first, then the right. “I mean this in the most loving way possible, but you don’t get to decide whether you’re a burden. You don’t get to take that choice away from me. The choice to help you. Your problems will never be a burden to me, no matter how big or small. You will never be a burden to me. I love you. I choose you. And I’ll never think poorly of you for needing help, ever.”

You don’t know what to say. Your eyes fixed on his. One of your favourite things about him is his big brown eyes. Always so full of comfort. So full of love that even you, with all of your self-doubt, can’t deny it. “I’m sorry. I know you said not to apologise, but I think I need to. I’m sorry for making you worry and for pushing you away. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Noah takes your hands in his. Large palms enveloping your own entirely. “Seeing you hurting is what hurts me the most. I love you so much, all I want is for you to be happy and healthy.”

You squeeze his hands in yours, “I love you, Noah. I’ll try harder, I promise. Feeling so unwanted for so long before I met you, I think I didn’t realise just how lucky I am to have you until now.” Noah raises one of your hands, kissing the back firmly and holding it there, savouring the feel of your skin against his lips. Timidly, you ask, “can we get pizza?”

He breaks out into a smile, “of course we can! But you have to text your friends back first," he bargains, "even if it’s just something short.”

“Deal,” you can’t help but return his smile. “My phone is upstairs, I’m just gonna go get it.”

“Wait!” he calls as you stand, pulling you back to the sofa and into him with a hand on the back of your head, “can I kiss you first?”

Without a word, you lean into him, closing the gap between you and feeling his lips on yours for the first time in weeks. That familiar burn of tears threatening to escape your eyes returns, and when you pull away, those beautiful brown eyes are full of concern.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, laughing awkwardly, “happy tears. I just missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” his smile taking on a more solemn appearance this time. “But I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I love you, please don’t ever forget that.”

“Don’t forget that I love you too. No matter what happens. No matter how stupidly self-destructive I act.”

Noah pulls you in for one final embrace before letting you retrieve your phone. You spend time texting back each of your friends, apologising for your absence and telling them you were okay, that Noah is here, and you’d explain more later. Noah, sitting at your right, creates your pizza order, periodically asking what else you’d like adding.

The two of you spend the night watching trash TV, settling into your usual comfort and hurling insults at the characters for making stupid decisions while you eat your food. Only realising after it arrived just how hungry you really were. And when you’re finished eating, Noah and you head upstairs.

You feel like a new person after you shower, coming out of the bathroom to find Noah relaxed against your headboard. The sheets on your bed changed, and a fresh set of clothes lay waiting for you to change into for bed.

Accepting finally how much lighter everything feels when someone is around to help you. You slide under the clean sheets, comforted by the warmth of Noah’s body beside you for the first time in too long. And just as you fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat and the feeling of his hand stroking your back, you’re determined to never let things get this bad again. Knowing you need to trust him, because trust is the foundation of love, and you love Noah with every fibre of your being. And despite how hard it is sometimes, you need to let him love you back.

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

✉ C:/SYSTEM/APP/TAG

ᯤ 𝗨𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗦 (21) :　 ⌞⬤ 7 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning | @english-fucker @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard | @seven-glass-kids @runadaggerthroughmychest

@lma1986 | @shayzillaaaa

⌞⬤ 5 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒⌝ @madamaaubergine | @thewrstinme | @amourtoken @livingdeceasedgirl | @alwaysfightforwhoyouare

⌞⦵ 5 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖻⌝ @xcllnt | @romanreigns-supreme | @slutforcoffein @deathofpeaceofmindem | @lovesick-evangelist

⌞◯ 4 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ @bluestdai | @fadingangelwisp | @broken0mens @ferduttini

　+[MSG : join the taglist!]

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

#so if noah could come over and drag me out of this pit i'm in that would be great!#noah sebastian #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens #bad omens cult #fluff #angst #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/ONESHOT #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG/ANGST #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG/FLUFF #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG/EMOTIONALHURTCOMFORT

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iwasntstable · 2 months ago

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✧₊⁺ 𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗧𝗜𝗥𝗘𝗗?

| WORD COUNT: 574 | RATING: SFW | CONTENT TAGS: fluff | When you're too tired to do your hair, Noah is more than happy to help.

➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

NOTE: My hair is getting long and it's starting to drive me insane.

Your day was long, and you were tired. Only just managing to shower before collapsing down on the couch next to your boyfriend.

“Tired?” Noah asked.

You hum in response, eyes closed as you towel dry your hair before trying to detangle it. The sound of some celebrity chef cooking show low on the TV in the background.

“Come here, let me help,” he says softly, taking the towel from your hands and patting the couch between his legs. “Sit down here.”

Too tired to even question it, you slip off the edge of the couch to the floor and scoot between his knees. Noah leans forward, gathering your hair gently, hooking the towel underneath, and begins the process of patting your hair dry. Tenderly splitting it into smaller sections to dry it quicker. “Did you want to brush it?” he asks, leaning around to see your face. You sleepily nod, and he gets to work with a smile on his face.

Starting at the ends, carefully teasing the brush through the tangles and kinks until it comes out smooth. Moving up higher and higher with every section until half of your hair was almost dry and tangle-free.

“You’re good at this,” you sigh, leaning back further against the couch.

“My hair was longer than yours, remember?” He chuckles quietly.

You smile at the thought of him detangling his own mane of hair, settling comfortably against his legs as he worked.

The act was surprisingly soothing. You were never one to let people mess with your hair, all throughout your life. Having long hair as a kid and your mother scraping your hair back into a tight ponytail that would leave you with a headache and a sore scalp by the end of the school day. Or the way hairdressers always wash your hair so aggressively, water getting in your eyes and a crick in your neck from the weird angle of the sink that never seemed to be the correct height for you.

But Noah was so gentle, he’d whisper the occasional “sorry,” but you didn’t know what for. You didn’t feel a single tug or pull—no pain. The heaviness of your eyelids gets the best of you, feeling sleep creeping up quickly.

“Want me to braid it for you?” he asked when the brush ran through from top to bottom smoothly. You nod against his leg. He chuckles again, holding your head up in his hands. “Sit up just a sec.” He runs the brush across your head, gathering all of your hair smoothly at the back, whispering “okay,” when you could lean on him again.

Your body felt heavier and heavier as his fingers deftly worked to tame your hair. Again, as gentle as a summer breeze, you could barely feel him. Leaning against his leg felt like the comfiest thing in the world, and as he secured the end with a hair tie, declaring his work “done,” you were already fast asleep.

He pulls the towel away, leaving it in a pile next to him on the couch. He'll hang it up to dry after he gets you to bed, but for now, he just wants to watch your peaceful face as you sleep between his legs. Leaning down to lay a soft kiss to the crown of your head, feeling like the luckiest man in the world to be able to share these moments of simple domesticity with you.

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

✉ C:/SYSTEM/APP/TAG

ᯤ 𝗨𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗦 (24) :　 ⌞⬤ 10 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ › @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning › @runadaggerthroughmychest › @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard › @seven-glass-kids › @english-fucker

› @lma1986 › @shayzillaaaa › @madamaaubergine › @thewrstinme › @amourtoken

⌞⬤ 5 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒⌝ › @livingdeceasedgirl › @alwaysfightforwhoyouare › @thecoyotescry › @romanreigns-supreme › @slutforcoffein

⌞⦵ 5 𝖽𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗎𝗋𝖻⌝ › @deathofpeaceofmindem › @bluestdai › @fadingangelwisp › @broken0mens › @ferduttini

⌞◯ 4 𝗈𝖿𝖿𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ › @lovesick-evangelist › @fadingintothegrey › @missduffsblog › @anything-more-than-human

　+[MSG : join the taglist!]

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

#that banner image fucking SUCKS don't look at it #anyway goodnight (its 8am)#noah sebastian #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian x reader #bad omens #bad omens cult #noah sebastian fluff #fluff #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/BLURB #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG/FLUFF

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iwasntstable · 5 days ago

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𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢 (ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ)

Series Summary: You knew the decision to follow your father into the so-called 'most dangerous Ward' was a dangerous one, but you had to do anything and everything possible to keep him alive. He's the only family you have left. Growing evermore reckless after the death of your mother and blinded by his lust for retribution, this decision is one that will alter the course of your life forever. And the life of a half-ghoul half-human who never thought he'd find himself entangled with the daughter of a former CCG Investigator.

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

Chapter Content Tags: Graphic depictions of gore including: treatment of wounds, administration of stitches, blood, mentions of bruising, mentions of an attack. Depictions of anxiety.

Word Count: 6k.

Note: please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. it will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.] ⓘ [GLOSSARY]

➔read on AO3➔➔ PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

CREDIT › image — 'Tokyo Ghoul:re - Chapter 54' - 石田スイ (Sui Ishida). › number divider — @saradika-graphics. › image edit — @iwasntstable (me). › star divider — @saradika-graphics. › short grey divider — @saradika-graphics. › Tokyo Ghoul — created by 石田スイ (Sui Ishida).

“We just keep running into each other,” he smiles that same smile that made your heart skip a beat in the café, but instead of giving you butterflies, this time it fills you with dread.

You say nothing, words failing you entirely. All you can do is stare. His wide brown eyes inspect you back just as closely. How could it be him? The kind man from the bookstore café that encouraged you and asked your name—the same man who was now stained with blood and tried to kill your father twice. Noah.

His eyes flit to your arm, then back to your face. “You’re injured,” he states calmly. The reminder of the wound causing it to sting and throb under your clothes. You press your hand to it defensively, a weak spot you wanted to defend. “Let me help?” He offers, hands raised with palms facing you.

“Why would you do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Once again, you’re lost for words. The answer to that question was so glaringly obvious, you almost couldn’t believe he asked it. “Look, I’ll call a friend here who’s better at stitching wounds than I am, and then you can leave. But in exchange, I’d like you to answer some of my questions.”

“Leave? You’re not… keeping me here?”

Confusion crosses his features. “What? No. I’m not kidnapping you or anything. You can leave whenever you want,” his expression softens. “You’re injured. I wasn’t just going to leave you bleeding in the street. I want to help, and I want to talk.”

You mull over your options in your mind. There’s no way you could run, not with your current injuries, and fighting your way out without a weapon is out of the question too. He said you could leave, but you’re not sure if you believe that. What could a ghoul possibly stand to gain from letting a human live?

Noah notices your hesitation, opens the front door, and steps aside. “Go. This isn’t a trick. I’m not going to chase you down. I only want to help and ask you my questions. I’m sure you must have questions for me too.”

He was right. A million questions raced in your mind—so many you didn’t even know which to prioritise. And you didn’t know how much longer you could stay on your feet before your legs buckled again. “Okay,” you concede.

Noah nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m going to text my friend, okay? He’ll be able to take a look at your arm. His name is Nick.” He pulls his phone from his pocket, no idea how it survived the skirmish in the alley. You eye it cautiously, that uneasy feeling in your bruised stomach telling you this was still some kind of trap. “Just one person,” Noah reassures. “Nobody else.”

You nod, though you have no way of knowing you could trust him, and he types out a message, slipping his phone away again once he’d hit send. He closes the front door again, leaving it unlocked, then crosses the room towards the couch with wide strides, pulling the plastic sheet from the furniture and screwing it into a ball to toss it into the corner. “Sit, if you’d like.”

You didn’t trust him, but you had to take your weight off your feet. You allow yourself to hold onto the back of the couch for support as you move around the couch, lowering yourself carefully, every fibre of your body protesting every miniscule movement. With the strain finally off your body, you feel immediate relief, but though you were sitting, your breath still felt laboured. Fatigue moved in like a dense fog.

“There’s no food here, but can I get you some water?” Noah asks, standing several paces away from you. You nod, too tired to speak and knowing refusing his offer would only serve to worsen your condition.

He moves to the kitchen, shedding his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, those tattooed arms you’d noticed in the café on full display in his t-shirt. He opens a couple of cupboards before finally finding one with a glass inside. The kitchen was just as empty as the front room, a basic wooden table with two chairs, and a couple of appliances on the counters. He rinses the glass in the sink, then brings it full of water over to you, handing it over carefully. You try to stifle the tremor in your hand when you reach out to take it.

“Do you mind if I sit too?” He asked as you took a large mouthful.

His politeness confused you. Why was a creature so violent and dangerous being so courteous and respectful? You didn’t understand his motivations; what could he possibly stand to gain? Despite your doubts, you nod again, gesturing to the space beside you.

He takes the spot next to you, angled to face you. “Can I see your arm?” He asks.

With nothing to lose—except probably your life—you take another sip of the water, place the glass on the ground, and pop the buttons of your jacket with your good hand, shrugging the garment off and cautiously pulling it down your injured arm. As the fabric descends, it reveals your entire arm is stained red with blood right down to your fingertips. You’d assumed that was from the wounds on your hands.

The cut itself was long; you couldn’t see exactly how long from the angle, but it appeared to be around four inches in length, starting towards the front of your bicep and twisting downwards around the side towards your elbow. The deepest part was definitely at the centre of the wound; your arm did nothing to block the path of the ukaku ghouls’s shards as it sliced right through you like a hot knife to butter.

“It’s quite deep,” Noah said as he peered closer without touching. “I’d say I’m surprised you’re not more injured, but I’ve seen you fight,” he said, looking up, and his eyes met yours, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” You ask, dumbfounded.

“Something like that,” he chuckled to himself, lowering his head. When he looks back up, his gaze lingers on your neck. “I’m sorry I let that guy grab you. I didn’t think he had anything left in him. That was my mistake.” He reaches out like he’s going to brush your hair away from your shoulder and get a closer look, but hesitates before he can touch you, pulling his hand back to his lap.

He seemed almost shy. A far cry from the monster that tore a man’s throat out with his teeth right in front of your eyes. You couldn’t deny the urge to trust him was growing. His tousled brown hair and respectful demeanour brought you right back to when you served him in the café, his soft laugh when you thanked him for ordering an easy coffee—the kind of person you’d be happy spending time with, someone you wanted to get to know better. But that image in your mind was swiftly replaced by the figure from your nightmare. His silhouette looming over you before he chooses whether you live or die. Despite his mask, he was still covered in blood.

A rapid knock on the door breaks your train of thought. Turning to look over your shoulder, a man with long, wavy, dark hair carrying a duffle bag steps into the apartment. Noah stands, approaching the man and patting him on the shoulder in a half embrace. “This is Nick. You have both met before,” Noah introduces his friend, stepping behind him to close the door.

“I don’t think I could forget,” he laughed. “You really carved me up on the bridge. I was limping all the way back.” The bikaku ghoul.

You followed him with your eyes as he walked further into the room, rounding the couch to sit next to you in the place Noah was, resting the bag between his feet. “That looks nasty... Ukaku, yeah?” he remarks as he gets a look at the laceration. You nod while he inspects the area. “Deep too. Any other injuries?” He asks as he leans down to unzip the bag.

“No,” you say quietly as he rummages, pulling out a pristine white case and several packages of gauze pads, resting them on his knees.

“I can stitch this for you. Luckily, it’s a clean cut. It should heal well if you look after it,” he says, meeting your intense gaze with softness, offering a smile. You couldn’t understand how this was the same man that struck you in the middle and sent you skidding across the bridge.

“Why would you help me?” you ask, unable to contain the disbelief.

“Because you need it. Or, can you stitch this yourself?” He smirks with a joking tone. You laugh at the absurdity of the situation. Two ghouls that want to help you and not kill you. With a shake of your head, you hold your arm out for Nick to work on. “Okay,” he pats the objects on his lap. “I’ll wash my hands, sterilise the area, then get started. I have some pain relief medication that might make it easier.” You shake your head ‘no’, still not trusting the pair and definitely not trusting any medication they claim would help.

“Consider it,” Noah says from the kitchen, where he was crouched down rummaging through the cupboards. “You did get pretty beat up last night too.”

“Sorry about that, by the way,” Nick says, pushing his hair out of his face as he stands and heads for the sink. “What are you looking for?” He asks Noah, scraping his hair all the way back and securing it into a bun.

“I swear we had coffee in this place. Did Folio take it again?”

“It’s right there by the microwave,” Nick nods in the direction from the sink, and Noah takes the tin, grasping it firmly in hand with a wide smile on his face.

“What would I do without you?” He claps Nick on the shoulder as he passes him in the small space to retrieve a saucepan, filling it with water after Nick steps away from the sink to come back to you. Through the tear in the bottom of Noah’s shirt made by his kagune, you notice a hint of ink on his lower back too.

“That packet there, can you tear it open?” he asks, nodding again towards his bag, hands dripping water on his knees. The package was a sterile towel. You rip the plastic, careful not to touch the cloth with your bloodied and dirtied hands, and hold it out for Nick to take and dry his hands with. Once dry, he reaches into the bag and pulls out a pair of blue latex gloves, snapping them on securely. “Alright, I’ll clean the area a little first. It’s gonna sting,” he warns, the conversation ringing eerily similar to the one you had with your father when he crashed in through the front door two nights ago. He unscrews the cap on the bottle and soaks a gauze pad with the brown liquid. “Let us know if you change your mind about the meds,” he says before dabbing the pad lightly onto the wound.

He was right; the sting was bad. Gritting your teeth against the burn, you try not to move or flinch away from the pain. As a welcome distraction, the warm aroma of coffee fills the air. You look over to Noah in the kitchen, pouring the water boiled from the stove into three mugs. He brings them over carefully and sets them down on the empty floor, sitting cross-legged opposite the couch.

“So, what are your questions?” You ask him, anxious to get this over with.

His eyes move from where Nick is working on your wound to your face. He takes one of the mugs, leaning forward to place it by Nick’s feet, then takes the third and holds it out, the handle facing you. You hesitate for a moment, but decide against your better judgement. The fatigue was worsening, and you needed to try to stay as alert as possible.

“Why is the CCG moving in on this area?” He asks when he settles back down, taking his own cup and resting it in his lap.

You blink rapidly in confusion, “I didn’t know they were.”

“You’ve been assigned to this area, though?”

“No,” you clarify. “I don’t work for the CCG, and neither does my dad. Not anymore at least.” You take a sip of the black coffee, relishing in the way the liquid warms your aching insides. The flavourful bitterness is a welcome taste on your tongue.

“How do you have quinque weapons if you’re not Investigators?” A crease was prominent in his brow.

“My dad stole them. One is his, the other was my mother’s.”

The sting intensified in your arm as Nick cleaned the deepest part of the wound. You shifted uncomfortably in an attempt to distract yourself.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Almost done with this part.”

“What was the medication you had?” You ask as you scrunch your face up in pain. Maybe it would be a good idea to accept pain relief. Maybe it would work to soothe the rest of your body too.

“It’s just standard over-the-counter stuff from the pharmacy, right?” Noah asks Nick, kneeling forward to rummage through the bag.

“Yeah. Front pocket,” he replies without looking up.

Fishing through the material, Noah retrieves a familiar branded package of painkillers. He holds it up and nods towards you, asking silently if you wanted to take it. You nod and place the mug of coffee momentarily between your knees as Noah pulls a blister strip from the box. He pops two from the packaging and hands them over into your open palm.

“Your hands got fucked up too,” he mentions while you throw the pills into your mouth. Chasing them down with a sip of coffee.

“That happened yesterday,” you say, holding out your palm in front of you to inspect the damage. The reopened small abrasions were visible under a layer of dirt and blood.

“I can clean those up for you too after this,” Nick says, putting a gauze pad aside to click open the white case. He takes out a sterile needle from its packaging and threads it with the suture wire with ease. Nothing like your shaky hands. “Okay. Ready?” He asks. You nod, taking another mouthful of coffee, really wishing it were laced with a shot of something stronger.

The pull of the needle through your skin wasn’t as bad as you expected it to be. A slight scratchy-burning sensation as he weaved the needle in and out of your flesh, looping the thread around itself and pulling firmly to secure the two sides of the wound closed.

“How did your dad steal three quinques from the CCG?” Noah continued his line of questioning. You had to be honest; it was a welcome distraction. Even if the subject matter wasn’t exactly pleasant.

“He worked there for a decade. When my mother died and they forced him into retirement, he took a bunch of files along with the quinques. I think everyone respected him too much to argue with a grieving man.”

Noah nodded, deep in thought. He sipped his coffee before continuing. “Why are you here?”

“My father is looking for someone,” you bite the inside of your cheek.

“Who?”

“A ghoul.”

“Who?” Noah persists. You sigh, closing your eyes. How much information was too much information? “Look, you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. We, my friends and I, keep track of all the ghouls in the 13th Ward and all the Doves. "When two doves move in, we want to know why, for the safety of everyone here.”

“Why?” Was your turn to ask. Was this guy some kind of mafia boss? You don’t miss the glance Nick takes from your arm towards Noah.

He takes another sip of coffee. “Innocents get hurt when the wrong people, or the wrong ghouls, are in charge.”

“And you’re the right people? Or, the right ghouls?” You question.

“I’d like to think we are.”

You nod thoughtfully, bringing your mug to your lips.

“Answer me this, at least,” he poses, “are we the ghouls your father is after?”

You shake your head; that face reappears in your mind. “No.”

The room falls silent, a surprisingly comfortable silence as Nick works diligently at your wound. He was almost halfway done now.

“So, what is this place anyway?” You ask, looking around the almost empty room.

“One of our safehouses. We have a lot spread out over the Ward,” Noah clarifies simply.

“One of? How many do you have?” Maybe this guy was a mafia boss after all...

He chuckles under his breath and fiddles with the mug in his hands. “A few. We let ghouls that have nowhere else to go live in them mostly. Or use them ourselves.”

“So, you’re housing the homeless when you’re not ripping people’s throats out with your teeth?” You question sarcastically.

“Did you really do that, dude?” Nick’s hands pause, and he looks up at Noah, amused disgust on his face.

“What was I supposed to do?” He gestures with one hand, eyebrows raised in defence, “just let that ghoul eat you? He wasn’t even supposed to be in this area, anyway.”

Nick shakes his head, a small piece of hair falling free from his bun by the side of his head, and continues stitching your arm. “Who was it?”

“The guy we caught like, four months ago, I think. Shame he didn’t take us up on our offer,” he sighs, sipping his coffee again.

“What offer?” You look between the two.

“We explained we’d be more than happy to get him the food he needs to survive, but in exchange, he couldn’t hunt around here anymore. He wasn’t a fan,” Noah explains.

“Yeah, flipped our table and smashed a window on the way out. Fuck that guy.”

“So housing and feeding the homeless, you’re real philanthropists,” you laugh, sipping from your mug. Until the realisation hits you exactly what kind of food these guys were talking about. This wasn’t a group of good samaritans cooking extra meals in their kitchens to hand out on the streets to those in need. They were feeding ghouls. They were ghouls. You had to remember where you were; remember not to get lulled into a false sense of security, no matter how easy and casual the conversation may be.

“So,” Noah breaks your train of thought, “if you don’t mind me asking, if it’s your father that’s looking for a ghoul here, why did you come too?”

You lower your eyes to your lap and pick at the rim of the ceramic mug. That’s a question you've been asking yourself a lot these past few days. “He’s my dad,” you say quietly with a shrug, regretting it when the cut in your arm stings. “I can’t just leave him alone. He’s all I have.”

Noah nods. “I understand that.”

“Last three, then this is done.” You look down at your arm, and in place of the gaping wound was a neat line of stitches, way neater than anything you’d ever done on your father and definitely neater than what you could’ve done on yourself.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “I really appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick smiles up at you as he ties off the final stitch. “Noah, can you get out some more gauze pads so I can fix her hands?"

He wordlessly places his mug down and kneels in front of the bag, rummaging through to find what Nick needs. “These ones?” He asks, holding up some packages.

“Yeah, and can you get- Can I see your hands for a sec?” He asks as he takes a pair of scissors from the white case and snips the suture. You turn your hands over and get a good look at the state of your palms. Nick takes them gently and angles them this way and that. "Yeah, it’s just scrapes, not too bad. We can just clean and bandage them. Can you get the roll of white gauze, the bigger brown roll, and the tape? Oh, and a large plaster.”

Noah rummages for the items, tearing open the packages and setting them in the white case within arms reach for Nick. "Thanks, dude,” he says, reaching down for his mug of coffee that must be lukewarm by now. Regardless, he takes three big gulps, then sets it back on the floor. First, he applies the plaster over the freshly stitched wound, then he rips open a gauze pad, soaks it with antiseptic, and meets your eyes. “Ready?”

“Go for it,” you reply. He’ll probably do a better job cleaning the scrapes than you did in the shower earlier. The sting of the antiseptic makes your eyes water, but you grit your teeth and bear it.

Noah hadn’t moved from where he shuffled closer. Watching attentively as the dirt and blood are cleaned away. You can’t help but look at his tattoos now that he was so close. A red and black, Japanese traditional-style sleeve on one arm, waves and something that appeared to be a fish, and black and grey work on the other. From this angle, you could see a bird with arrows through it and leaves, all part of another larger sleeve that you couldn’t see because of his shirt. Then there were the ones you saw when you first met him—the intricate patterns on his hands and the snake on his neck. You realise the piece on his throat is a scene from Genesis. A hand reaching for the apple with the serpent coiled around. They were all beautiful, you thought, and they suited him well.

“How many of you are there?” You ask almost absentmindedly.

His eyes locked onto yours for a moment, his gaze making your heart race, and you desperately wished it would stop. He was a ghoul; he could probably hear it. “Four of us, mainly. There are others, but most of the work is us four.”

You nod at his answer—the four of them on the bridge. It made sense. You wondered if the others were just as friendly as these two. Or, if this was all still an act.

“You were limping before. Is your leg injured?” Noah asked, something that appeared to be genuine concern etched onto his features.

“Oh,” you say, looking down at the hip in question. “That happened last night too. It’s just bruised. It’s fine.” His concern was almost endearing, despite his group being responsible for the injuries. “Wait,” you frown, looking up at him. “When did you see me limping?”

“Followed you,” he says plainly, throwing back the last of his coffee. You stare at him with wide eyes, Nick continuing to clean up your hands. Apparently you’re the only one in the room that finds being followed weird. “What?” He says, equally shocked. “I thought you were a CCG Investigator on a mission to kill us all! Can you blame me?”

You shake your head in disbelief. You can’t blame him, really. If your dad could get out of bed, he’d probably be following some random ghouls around the Ward right now.

Nick tossed the gauze pad off to the side and wiped off his hands on the towel, then took a fresh pad and pressed it against your palm, tore off pieces of tape, and pressed them on securely to hold it tight to the wounded area. He takes the roll of white gauze and wraps it securely around the gauze pad, up your wrist and down towards your fingers, then does the same with the thicker brown dressing, wrapping it tight to protect the whole thing from the outside and keep it sterile. You flex your fingers when he’s done, finding your range of movement fine.

“Ready for the next one?” He asks. You simply nod and twist towards him in your seat to hold your other palm out.

“How is your father? If you don’t mind me asking,” Noah says softly.

“He’s alive,” you study his face, and he seems to genuinely care. “He’s pretty beat up, but I think he’ll be fine. If he gives himself time to heal, which I’m not sure he will.”

“He’s a hell of a fighter,” Nick comments.

“He’s retired. He should be on a beach somewhere drinking too much liquor.”

Noah chuckles under his breath and collects his cup, then looks at yours. “Do you want another?”

“No, I’m good, thank you,” you hold out the mug for him to take. He stands from the floor with ease and heads off into the kitchen to rinse them out in the sink. You can’t stop staring. A ghoul doing the washing up.

“We really are just trying to protect what we have here, you know,” Nick says as he wraps your hand. “We don’t usually go around picking fights.”

You turn your face to look at him. A ghoul tending to the wounds of a human. “Unlike my father,” you sigh. A moment of silence fills the room, filled only by the sound of running water and the occasional clinking of ceramic. “I’m sorry that he’s causing so much trouble. I keep trying to tell him, but he doesn’t listen. It’s like I can’t get through to him.”

“He’ll listen,” Nick reassures, taping down the last of the bandage. “You’re his daughter.”

You pull your hand back to your lap when he’s finished as he snaps off the latex gloves, flexing both hands and finding they immediately feel better.

Noah comes back into the front room, wiping his hands on his legs to dry them. “Are you sure you don’t have any other injuries? Anything else we can do to help?”

“No. No, I'm sure. I need to go back anyway. Check on my dad.”

“Of course. I’ll walk you there,” Noah says.

You stand on still shaky legs from the couch. “No, you don’t need to do that-”

“It’s late,” he interjects. “I know you might not believe it, but there are worse things out there than us.”

“Don’t forget this,” Nick says, standing to cross the room, opening the door, and picking up a plastic bag from the other side.

“Is that- my groceries?” You ask. Nick just smiles and hands the bag to Noah, who holds it out to you with an outstretched arm. Your hand twitches by your sides, but the movement hesitates; ever present in the back of your mind is the true nature of these men.

"Look, I know I look scary, but I wouldn't hurt a fly. You don't have to worry," Noah reassures.

Nick leans over with a whisper, "you literally killed a man like, an hour ago."

"I didn't say anything about hurting men. I said I wouldn't hurt a fly... That much is true."

“You almost killed me on the bridge,” you counter.

“But I didn’t,” he says with a cheeky smile. You couldn’t wrap your head around how this casual conversation was happening right now.

Nick looks between you and Noah and claps his hands. “Well, I’m gonna go! It was nice meeting you properly. You know, not trying to kill each other.” He collects the trash in a plastic bag, ties it off, and throws it into the duffle, along with the white case full of first aid supplies. Slinging it over his shoulder, he pats Noah on the shoulder and says, “See you later, dude.”

“Yeah, see you.”

“Thank you again,” you say quickly. “And it was nice to properly meet you too.”

He smiles, and with a wave, he was gone through the front door. Noah was right; it wasn’t a trap. They really did want to help. You take your jacket from the couch and cautiously slip it on, careful not to twist your arm in a way that would pull the fresh stitches.

“I’ll carry this for you,” Noah says, holding up the bag. “So you don’t mess up your hands.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, trying to hide the heat you could feel creeping up on your cheeks.

The air was significantly colder when you stepped outside. Wrapping your arms tight around you, you couldn’t help but glance around at your surroundings. The streets were just as empty as earlier, and you could feel the anxiety creeping up on you again at the idea of being completely alone with a ghoul.

“You ready?” Noah asks, standing a couple of paces ahead of you. You nod silently and catch up to him. You fall into step beside him as you walk; the only sound was the wind whistling through the streets and the grocery bag rustling by Noah’s side.

Your mind wouldn’t stop racing; one question that you didn’t ask him was bouncing around in your brain until you just had to speak. “You let us live. On the bridge.”

“I did.”

“Why?” You ask.

“We don’t kill innocent people.”

“But you kill humans.”

“Out of necessity. And only people that deserve it. There’s no shortage of bad types here.”

“Who are you to decide that?” Your words echo those of the ghoul’s from earlier in the night.

“So the man who was following you home with a knife in his pocket should’ve lived?”

“The- What?”

Noah stops in his tracks and takes a deep breath. “I recognised you at the bookstore cafe. I saw you move in and recognised your father’s scent on you from when he trespassed into our territory. So, I waited for you to leave after your shift. I intended on following you home that night to gather information on your father,” he speaks clearly and plainly. “Like I said before, I keep track of all the Doves in the Ward, and I wanted to know his intentions. Turns out someone else had the same idea. You didn’t even see him behind you, but he pulled a knife out of his pocket and picked up his pace when you reached the outskirts of town. And I stopped him.”

The crash down the alley. You thought it was cats. “You killed him.”

“I did.”

“You saved me.”

“I did.”

“Why would you save me?” The wind whipped around you both, causing you to shiver and wrap your arms around yourself tighter. You realised that Noah never put his own coat back on but showed no signs of being bothered by the cold. “If you recognised me then, you knew I had connections to a CCG Investigator, why would you save me?”

He’s quiet for a moment, deep in thought, before answering, “I don’t know,” then continuing to walk.

You’re both quiet for a while. The silence is comfortable despite the heavy subject matter. “Thank you,” you say quietly. He looks down at you expectantly. “Thank you for saving me. And thank you for letting us live on the bridge.”

Noah nods in understanding.

He’s helped you so far, hasn’t judged you or belittled you. Maybe you really could trust him. “My father, he’s… tracking the ghoul that killed my mother. He thinks he’s here, in the 13th.” You’re silent for a moment as you continue to walk. “I don’t know if he’s right.” You run a hand over your face. “I don’t know if it even matters to him. He’s hellbent on killing every ghoul he can get his weapon on.”

“What do you want?” Noah asks.

“I want my dad back,” you sigh.

You continue to walk. Passing quickly by the alleyway that you almost died in mere hours ago, the only evidence of the fight was the pool of blood left in the street and the mangled dumpster in the mouth of the alley.

“What does he have so far? On the ghoul that killed your mother,” Noah breaks the silence.

“A physical description. He was there, he watched it happen. He has sketches all over his fucking wall,” you spit with a bitter laugh.

“Can you get one for me?” He asks. You cock your head to the side, wondering why he would want an image of the ghoul your father was tracking. “I keep track of every ghoul in the Ward, remember? If he’s local, I’ll know him.”

“What, do you- do you want to help?”

“Maybe if we can find the right guy, let your father get his revenge, he’ll come to his senses again?”

“I don’t know,” you say with a weary sigh. “I don’t know if it’ll be enough for him.” The apartment building was in view, and from the street, you could see no lights were on on your floor. “I’ll get you a sketch. Wait here,” you say as you approach the front door.

Noah nods, hands over the plastic grocery bag, and waits several paces away from the front door.

When you shove the door open and get inside, the first thing you see in the darkness were the covers you’d given your father from your bed to keep him warm enough in the night, left in a heap on the end of the couch. Immediately you’re irritated. He couldn’t even put them back in your room, the room next door to his.

You squeeze past the couch, leave the groceries on the couch, and crack open his bedroom door, finding him, still breathing, asleep on his side with his back to the door. An empty tin of soup sat on his bedside table. Most likely eaten unheated and straight out of the tin. You close your eyes and sigh deeply, shaking your head and closing the door on the way out.

Stopping off in his office, you stare at his investigation board. Articles and scrawled notes connected with red string pulled straight from the mind of a madman. You find a sketch of that face tacked off to the side and hope he won’t notice its absence. Squeezing past the couch on the way out and pulling the door closed again on its wonky hinges.

Noah is exactly where you left him, though he was standing with his back to the apartment entrance, looking out into the dimly lit empty streets.

“You’ve had dealings with him before, I think. I read a news report on my dad’s desk. Something about him trespassing into your area,” you take one last look at the grotesque face before handing the sketch over to Noah. “This is what he looks like.”

His brown eyes scan the paper before speaking, his tone laced with disdain. “Yeah. We know this guy.”

“Is he here then?”

“Yeah,” Noah nods. “We’ve had some leads on where he’s operating out of. We were going there tomorrow actually, to scope the place out,” he scans the page one more time before looking back at you. “Come with us.”

“Wait, You- Why would you want me there?”

“If you see him for yourself, you’ll know we aren’t lying,” he says sincerely. You hesitate, mulling over the idea of spending more time with this man- this ghoul. “We’ll just be watching from a distance. Besides, the sooner we track him down and deal with him, the sooner you can take your dad back home, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose,” you concede.

“You don’t have to come, but think about it. I’ll come by tomorrow around 10pm, and we can talk more then.”

“Okay,” you nod. Maybe you could get these ghouls to kill Malice; maybe then your father would decide to go back to the 2nd Ward.

Noah nods and turns, hands in his pockets, calling, “See you tomorrow,” over his shoulder.

“Noah!” You call after him as he walks away. “Do you really think you can kill this guy?”

“It doesn’t matter if your father kills him or I do. The ghoul that killed your mother is going to die.”

PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

Ending Notes: I realised my taglist link was wrong so you might wanna check you've liked the correct post (linked at the top) if you want to be updated! 🖤 A glossary has also been added explaining terms if you need it!

➤ 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 (34) :

⌞1𝗌𝗍 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖨𝖸𝖮𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @somebodyels3 ‣ @fadingangelwisp ‣ @english-fucker ‣ @missduffsblog ‣ @amelia-acero

⌞2𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖴𝖮⌝ ‣ @fadingintothegrey ‣ @babygirlchuuya ‣ @bluebird19 ‣ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ‣ @lil-garbitch

⌞3𝗋𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖠𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @thisbicc ‣ @clingylittlebun-blog ‣ @queen-foraday ‣ @astridwesson ‣ @dethroneackerman

⌞4𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖩𝖴𝖪𝖴⌝ ‣ @blairboo ‣ @themorticians-world ‣ @comforting-madness ‣ @savaneafricaine ‣ @tosoundlessdarkistare

⌞5𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖡𝖴𝖭𝖪𝖸𝖮⌝ ‣ @aubrey-melinoe ‣ @badomensls ‣ @theaudraeymarie ‣ @psychomaniacmind ‣ @stardust-and-starlight

⌞6𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖳𝖠𝖨𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @looney-goose ‣ @sadbitchenergy ‣ @friedchildblaze ‣ @touyas-princess ‣ @strltsaiuki

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @lovesick-evangelist ‣ @sanekiii ‣ @dravenskye ‣ @minah2020 ‣ @rumoured-whispers

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖪𝖮𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @1crushed1 ‣ @thewrstinme ‣ @theskyislonely

#noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fanfiction #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG

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iwasntstable · 4 months ago

Text

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

+[MSG : these long-form works in progress are in no particular order, do not yet have a projected release date and are subject to change.]

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NOWHERETOGO

◾title; NOWHERE TO GO. ◾rating; nsfw. ◾type; series. ◾status; in progress. ◾tags; #fluff #angst #smut #hurt/comfort #emotional-hurt/comfort #fantasy-violence-and-gore #death

[READ] | [AO3] | [TAGLIST]

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

◾note; Please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. It will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. Specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/SWORNPROTECTOR

◾title; SWORN PROTECTOR. ◾rating; nsfw. ◾type; series. ◾status; planning. ◾tags; #fluff #angst #smut #hurt/comfort #emotional-hurt/comfort #fantasy-violence-and-gore #death #arranged-marriage

[COMING SOON] | [AO3] | [TAGLIST]

Series Summary: Sworn Protector is a multi-chapter story set in the Game of Thrones / A Song of Ice and Fire universe, centring around Noblewoman!Reader who has been betrothed to an impudent Lord to secure political ties, and Knight!Noah, charged with the duty of escorting her across The Seven Kingdoms. Her sworn protector. Hers and hers alone. This series will be written in third person perspective to imitate the style of George R.R. Martin's writing from the ASOIAF novels.

◾note; Please be aware this story is set in the universe of A Song of Ice and Fire / Game of Thrones, before the events of the books and show. It will, however, contain references to content found in Fire & Blood. Specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/WHOAREYOU

◾title; WHO ARE YOU? ◾rating; nsfw. ◾type; series. ◾status; planning. ◾tags; #fluff #angst #smut #hurt/comfort #emotional-hurt/comfort

brief summary: [Noah / Singer!Original-Character]

◾note; i've been planning this in my head for months now, but the plans have become so elaborate that this is going to take a while.

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/HITMEHARDANDSOFT

◾title; HIT ME HARD AND SOFT. ◾rating; nsfw. ◾type; series. ◾status; planning. ◾tags; #fluff #angst #smut #hurt/comfort #emotional-hurt/comfort #violence

brief summary: [Fighter!Noah / Reader]

◾note; Fighter Noah. Fighter Noah. Fighter Noah. Fighter Noah. Fighter Noah.

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/EXITWOUNDS

◾title; EXIT WOUNDS. ◾rating; nsfw. ◾type; series. ◾status; planning. ◾tags; #graphic-depictions-of-violence-and-gore #typical-zombie-fiction-violence-and-gore #death #fluff #angst #smut #hurt/comfort #emotional-hurt/comfort

brief summary: zombie apocalypse AU [Noah / Reader]

◾note; who would I be if I (my zombie fiction obsessed ass) didn't write a zombie apocalypse AU.

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/STRICTLYBUSINESS

◾title; STRICTLY BUSINESS. ◾rating; nsfw. ◾type; series. ◾status; planning. ◾tags; #fluff #angst #smut #hurt/comfort #emotional-hurt/comfort

brief summary: [Mafia-Boss!Noah / Reader]

◾note; I LOVE mafia romance let's fucking go.

#C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES #<FILE;TYPE=SYSTEM-NAV/>

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iwasntstable · 4 months ago

Text

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

☰ ⇅ sort by; date | ascending

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/HEADCANNON/CUDDLYNOAH

◾title; cuddly noah ◾rating; sfw. ◾type; head-cannon ◾word count; 330 ◾tags; #fluff

summary: cuddly noah that's it ♡

[READ]

🗀 C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/HEADCANNON/SIZEDIFFFLUFF

◾title; size diff fluff ◾rating; sfw. ◾type; head-cannon ◾word count; 518. ◾tags; #fluff

summary: size difference head-cannons but it's fluff.

[READ]

#C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/HEADCANNONS #<FILE;TYPE=SYSTEM-NAV/>

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iwasntstable · 1 month ago

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𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗡𝗘

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

chapter content tags: mentions of parental death, brief mentions of cannibalism, graphic depictions of violence and gore including: physical injury, treatment of wounds, administering stitches, blood, ghoul on human violence.

word count: 16.3k.

note: please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. it will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.] ⓘ [GLOSSARY]

➔read on AO3➔➔ PREV　/　NEXT

The sound of clattering down the hall wakes you like a morning alarm. Banging and crashing, and the unmistakable voice of your father muttering to himself. You’re not alarmed, and this isn’t a new or unusual thing. He was often unaware of the chaos he caused around him. Rubbing your eyes, still heavy with sleep, and rolling over to feel around on your side table for your phone, you raise it to your eyeline, surprised to see you slept until noon. Stretching out the dull ache in your muscles from the arduous task of moving in from the night before as you get up to use the bathroom, you pass by your father’s office on the way and pause at the door to listen in on the frantic movements inside.

“Sighted at the warehouse with... the bikaku ghoul 3 days ago... They fought with this group of lower-rate ghouls at the bridge before they were driven off. That was the last sighting of both. Whereabouts unknown…” His mutterings were accompanied by the shuffling of papers.

You sigh and shake your head, too tired to get involved just yet, deciding instead to go about your business—showering, brushing your teeth, drying your hair. It all takes around an hour, but despite the passage of time, when you leave the bathroom, he can still be heard through the door.

The kitchen showed no signs of use when you pad in on bare feet for something to eat—no evidence that your father had eaten yet. So as you eat a couple of slices of buttered toast, you decide to make a simple sandwich for him. You had insisted on getting groceries yesterday despite your father’s protests, standing firm on the stance “we can just order food.” He yielded when you asked him if bringing strangers to the front door in an area that was slated to have more ghouls than humans was a good idea.

Ham, cheese, lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise sandwich in hand, you knock on the door but receive no answer, noticing though that the noise had diminished to an almost eerie silence. You decide to just go in rather than wait, bracing yourself for the chaos you’re about to enter into. You find him hunched over at his desk, papers strewn around him, some text documents with sections clearly highlighted and circled, others—images, professionally shot photographs blown up and printed on photo stock paper. The most eye-catching feature of the room was, without a doubt, his investigation board. A cork board with every square inch covered in photos, papers, and hand-scrawled notes, information regarding his suspects and potential locations, all connected with lengths of red string. Part of you hoped he was over this, but that was a foolish, naïve thought.

“Hey, dad,” you say quietly, his head snapping up from his research like he had no idea you’d even entered the room.

“What is it?” he asks curtly, looking back down at his papers without even a greeting.

“I made you something to eat.” You place the plate down in front of him, and he immediately picks it back up and moves it off to the side, off of his papers.

“Thanks, honey,” he doesn’t even look up.

“You know, you need to eat and keep your strength up if you want to be able to kill these ghouls,” you sigh, a desperate attempt to appeal to him to eat, picking at your nails anxiously waiting for his response.

He looks up at you, narrowing his eyes, then looks towards the sandwich like he just realised how hungry he really was. “Suppose you’re right,” he mumbles before picking up a half and taking a bite, a smear of mayonnaise left at the corner of his mouth.

You nod, relaxed, at least by the fact he’s managed to eat. “I’m going out,” you state, and this seems to get his attention more than the food.

“Take the knife,” he says bluntly, chewing on his food, briefly glancing up from his work with a stern authority in his eyes.

“Dad, I don’t think-”

“Take the knife.”

You purse your lips, but you know he won’t budge. “Fine,” you concede. “I’m going to the retail district. I’m going to see if anywhere down there is hiring.”

“Don’t need to do that,” he mumbles through another mouthful of sandwich, his eyes still scanning his documents.

“I want to do it. I don’t want to stay locked in here all day every day.” He only grunts in response. You roll your eyes, giving up on him. Experience has taught you over time how impossible it was to deal with when he was like this. You had no idea how your mother ever managed with him. Casting one final look at his investigation board as you leave, sketches of the same face are scattered across its expanse.

The same face. The same scar. The same eyes. The same ghoul.

As you walk, you’re grateful for the unusually cool weather of the 13th Ward. Carrying your jacket over your arm, you briskly exit the neighbourhood and head into the city. You can’t help but wonder just how many ghouls you’re passing as you walk by. Everywhere maintained the ghoul population of the 13th Ward greatly outnumbered the human population, but if that were the case, why were you able to walk around so freely? Surely you’d be torn to shreds immediately if the food situation were so dire. You shift your coat to sit more comfortably on your arm, the right side weighed down by the knife concealed inside.

Making it into the centre of the city was no problem, but you don’t miss the second looks you get as you pass by. Clearly, the people here were able to notice an unfamiliar face. The first stop you make is the grocery store you stocked up at yesterday. The employee greeted you warmly, but when you asked if they were hiring, they shook their head “no.” You tried a clothing store and an electronics store, but all yielded the same answer. It’s the cashier at the small convenience store on the corner that points you in the direction of the bookstore—Paper Trail—just up the road.

When you go in, you’re greeted by the comforting smell of books and the light chime of the bell above the door. Standing distracted in the doorway, the high ceilings and large windows allowed the natural light to stream in brilliantly, warming the room as it did so. Seeing stairs leading up to a second floor, you notice then the sign at the foot of the stairs pointing the way to a café.

“Can I help you find anything?” a sweet voice draws your attention. The woman standing behind the counter. She was short; that was the first thing you noticed. She had long, wavy brown hair flowing loosely over her shoulders, and pretty brown eyes that reminded you of Haru. Making a mental note to call your friends when you get back home like you promised you would.

“Yes, actually. I was wondering if you’re hiring here. The man at the corner store pointed me in your direction,” you ask, pointing a thumb behind you towards the direction you came from.

“We are, actually! What kind of work are you looking for? How many hours?”

“As much as you can give, honestly,” you laugh and scratch the back of your neck, walking into the store a little further. “I just moved here.”

“I was thinking I hadn’t seen your face before,” she smiled wide, and her eyes creased a little at the edges. “Do you have much retail experience?”

“Oh, I worked at a sandwich shop for a few years, and I ran the book club in my high school. I love reading, actually. This place would be perfect for me.”

“I’m sure we can find a place to fit you in,” she says, taking a notepad and pen from under the counter. “Could I take your name and contact information?”

“Yeah, of course,” you step up to the counter and take the pen, writing down your name and number.

“What a nice name,” the girl smiles when she reads the paper. “My name’s Sara. If you don’t mind my asking, where did you live before moving here?”

“The 2nd Ward,” you smile back but don’t miss the slight twitch of her lips as her joyous expression falters.

“Why would you move here?” Her tone is no doubt flatter and laced with disbelief.

“Oh, I moved with my dad... for work.”

“I see,” she forces her chipper attitude back. “Well, I’ll be sure to give you a call after discussing with the owner. How soon can you start?”

“Immediately,” you laugh. “I love my dad, but I need an excuse to get out of the house.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do to help! Please, have a look around before you leave, and let me know if you need help finding anything specific.”

“I will, and thank you,” you smile and turn back to the store, beelining for the nearest wall of books.

As soon as you start scanning the spines, you’re engrossed in your own little world. Occasionally picking one up that catches your eye, reading the blurb, and having a flick through the first few pages. You don’t know how long you spend scouring the shelves, but you realise it must’ve been a while from the orange glow seeping in through the windows, casting a warm hue across the store as the sun set. You look between the two Kafka books in your hands—Letters to Milena and Metamorphosis—both you’d been itching to read for a while but only wanting to purchase one until you could secure a regular salary.

The sounds of the store continue to hum around you as you consider your choices and glance at the walls of books around you to check for anything you might have missed. The bell rings periodically, sounding the arrival or departure of a customer. Sara’s chipper voice greets the patrons as they enter, bidding them farewell when they leave, and engaging in polite conversation as they check out.

You decide on Metamorphosis, crossing the store to put the other one back on the shelf in the biography section and turning to check out with Sara at the counter just as she calls “see you later!” to a customer ascending the stairs to the café. “Find something you wanted?”

“Yeah! Just this one, please,” you say, placing the book on the counter.

“Oh, good choice! I love this one. It’s one of his most popular pieces for a reason,” her trademark smile beaming across her face as she scans the barcode. “That’ll be 5.99.”

“I’ve been meaning to read it for a while,” you fish for the right amount in your wallet, handing over a note.

“Like I said before, I’ll speak with the owner and call you,” Sara speaks with ease as she calculates your change, handing it over neatly into your palm. “Probably in the next day or so.”

“I’d appreciate that a lot, I really like this place! You have a great selection, there are things here I’ve struggled to find in the 2nd Ward.”

“I’m glad to hear it! Thank you so much for stopping by, and get home safe!”

“I will, bye!”

The bell chimes again as you head out into the cool evening air. You pull your jacket around your shoulders before heading home, book tucked under your arm, and the heavy weight of the weapon in your pocket bumping against your leg as you walk.

The journey back was pleasant; the setting sun warmed you as you walked, and the cool air kept the heat from being unpleasant. But when you get there, you find that your dad is gone.

You called out to him to let him know you were home safe. “Dad! I’m back! I stopped by a bunch of stores. None of them were hiring, but the bookstore on the main street is. It’s called Paper Trail. The girl at the counter said she’ll let me know if there’s a vacancy for me.” You shuffle on one foot as you wrangle your boot off. “It’s a really nice place, I think you’d like it. There’s a café upstairs!” You sigh as you free your foot from your shoe, deciding to sit on the floor as you untie the other.

Noticing that the apartment seemed unusually quiet, you glance up at the door to his office, seeing no light streaming from underneath the door, only darkness. “Dad?” You call again. Wrenching your other boot from your foot, you abandon it by the other, standing and dropping your new book on the couch as you pass by towards the office.

You knock on the door, but you know deep down you’re not going to get a response. Willing yourself to believe he’s just fallen asleep at his desk—not an unusual thing—you crack the door open, flicking on the light to find exactly what you expected. Nothing. Nothing but his scattered papers and discarded pieces of string and thumbtacks.

Heaving a deep sigh and closing your eyes, you pinch the bridge of your nose in an effort to quell the stress building inside. Entering the room and going straight for the closet, you open it to see only one silver case sitting at the bottom, where you know there should’ve been two.

You shake your head, the frustration building. “Fucking idiot,” you mumble under your breath, closing the closet door and walking over to his desk, looking for any clue of his location. The first thing you notice is the sandwich you made him this morning, half eaten.

News reports and hand-scribbled notes cover the desk. Files embossed with the CCG logo and stamped with a red CLASSIFIED that you know he definitely should not still have. You pick up the paper on top, a report printed from a local news website detailing a confrontation between a group of ghouls and one lone ghoul that occurred on the bridge over the river.

“Local sources state the individual ghoul trespassing on the group’s territory is what led to the physical altercation between the two. Even though the individual trespasser was outnumbered 4 to 1, witnesses stated the fight was evenly matched.

Physical descriptions of the individual are leading many to believe the ghoul in question is none other than Malice, a ghoul stated to be extremely dangerous by the CCG and is suspected in a number of attacks that have led to the untimely deaths of many innocent civilians and brave CCG Investigators.

Malice has been described as approximately 6 feet tall; he is a koukaku type ghoul, and it has been confirmed by the CCG that he is an SS-rate ghoul. He is easily identified by the many scars across his body, the most prominent of which is a severe facial scar caused by a serious altercation with a couple of CCG agents, one of whom lost their life-”

You drop the paper back to the desk, squeezing your eyes tight against the unwanted memories resurfacing. When you open them, you’re met with that face again, plastered all over the investigation board on the wall. The face staring back at you from multiple places, a face marred with a scar from the left side of his forehead to the right side of his jaw.

You shake your head to rid the image of the man—the monster—that broke your family from your mind. As you turn your back on the room with the half-eaten sandwich in hand, you flip off the light as you go, enshrouding the room in darkness once more.

Trying your best to keep yourself preoccupied throughout the evening, you keep busy by cooking dinner. A basic pasta dish, but you make enough for two and save the extra portion in the fridge for your dad for later. Or, more likely, for yourself.

You sit at the dining table, picking at your food as you skim your new book, the TV humming in the background at a low volume left on a local news channel. One ear listening out for anything that could concern your father. No matter how much you want to put him out of your mind, the seeds of worry are planted deep within, roots embedding themselves into your body and tangled tightly around your bones.

You knew it would happen, but that doesn’t stop the chill that spreads throughout your body when the TV anchor speaks the words “breaking news.”

“Another altercation occurred tonight on the bridge downtown between a gang of ghouls known to the area, and what appeared to be a CCG Investigator due to the Quinque-type weapon they were wielding. No fatalities have been reported, and the CCG has declined to comment on the-”

The door opening makes you whip your head around and drop your fork in fright, clattering against the plate and tearing your attention away from the TV screen. Your father falls in through the front door, collapsing in the entryway, his case clutched tightly in hand, stained with red.

“Dad!” You jump from the dining chair, abandoning your book and meal, dragging him in by one of his arms. You kick the door closed behind you, turning from the bleeding man momentarily to slide the deadbolts into place.

“You- you should’ve-” your father chokes on air as he tries to speak, gasping desperately for breath. “Locked… the door.”

“Are you seriously scolding me for not bolting the door when you’re fucking bleeding in the hallway?!”

“Language!” he splutters, blood spilling from between his lips as he coughs.

“Can you stand? Get in the bathroom,” you heave him up by his arm, using all of your strength. He stumbles to his feet, and together, you half walk and half drag him into the bathroom, letting him slump on the floor, back against the bathtub.

You run back to the kitchen, dragging the bright red first aid case out from under the sink. Falling to your knees before him, the tiles hard and cold against your knees, you pull his coat from his shoulders and see through the slash in his shirt a deep wound in his left shoulder.

“Fuck,” you whisper under your breath, taking a towel from the rack and pressing it firmly to the site of the injury. He hisses through his teeth, groaning deeply at the undoubtably immense pain. “Breathe, dad. I need you to breathe as normally as you can. Don’t pass out on me!”

“I’ve had worse,” he remarked through his gritted teeth.

“Yeah, but you were also treated in a fucking hospital by doctors who specialise in treating injuries caused by ghouls.” Continuing to apply pressure with one hand, you crack open the first aid case with the other, rummaging for the supplies you know you’ll need: needle, suture thread, disinfectant, gauze pads, tape, and a roll of gauze. He feels tense under your hand, and you realise he’s still gripping his case tightly. “Let this go,” you try to pull it away from him, but he maintains his grip. “Dad,” you say, softer this time. “I’ll keep it right here, okay? Still in arms reach.”

He finally lets go, and you stand it upright next to him, the wound bleeding less now that he’s relaxed. You hazard a peek to check the wound; still oozing but definitely slower now. Replacing the towel over the injury to stem the bleeding further, you rip the already torn fabric of his shirt to get better access for what you were about to do next.

“Hold this. Press hard,” you instruct your father, taking his right hand in yours and pressing it against his shoulder, releasing only when you were sure he was doing what you said.

You take the bottle of antiseptic, struggling for a moment to get a grip on the lid because of the blood on your hands before managing to twist the cap off. You take a gauze pad and soak it with the antiseptic. “This is gonna sting,” you warn. He tips his head back against the rim of the bath and nods, taking in a deep breath.

You do too as you remove the towel and press the pad to his skin, blotting carefully so as to not cause more bleeding. Wiping away the surrounding blood, you get a clearer look at the site of the injury. A clean, yet deep slash through the skin and into the surface layers of muscle of the upper chest.

“What did this?” You ask quietly as you clean, swapping periodically to a fresh gauze pad.

“Rinkaku type ghoul. Bastard was probably an S-rate... Maybe even higher. Need to find out more,” his words were becoming slurred, groggy.

“Hey!” You slap his cheek lightly. “Don’t fall asleep on me! Tell me about the ghoul, I’ll make notes for you so you can rest.”

He hummed in agreement, head lolling to the side like it weighed twice as much. “He was tall, covered head to toe, no identifying features... Rinkaku type... fast... ‘nd strong. He was the leader. Others followed him...”

“How many others?” You ask, wiping off your hands on the towel and tearing open the sterile needle package.

“Three of ‘em wore...”

You look between him and the needle, hands trembling as you try to thread it. “Wore what, dad?” finally getting the thread through and tying it tightly.

“Masks,” he muttered. You pinch the area of the wound together with your fingers, taking a sharp breath before going for the first stitch, not allowing yourself the chance to hesitate. Your dad’s face twitches at the uncomfortable sensation of the needle piercing through his skin.

“What kind of masks, what did they look like?”

“Was s… ski-masks… the four… ski-masks,” his voice lowered to a whisper. His skin didn’t look too pale, so you weren’t necessarily concerned about blood loss. Most likely, he overexerted himself. The adrenaline of the fight vanished in an instant and left him running on empty.

“Ski-masks?” You question. “That’s kind of unoriginal.” All he can do is hum in response. You continue your stitches, sacrificing neatness and instead trying your best to make them as secure as possible. “What type were the other ghouls? There was a tall rinkaku, and?”

He takes in a deep breath through gritted teeth, letting it out slowly before speaking again. “One of each. Another tall guy... ukaku type, he was fast. Attacked from far away. The shortest was a koukaku type... strong guy, hung back a little, didn’t fight much, but he had a lot of energy. The bikaku type stuck close to the leader. Acted as a distraction, followed up on attacks by the rinkaku leader,” he’s quiet for a moment, contemplative. “He was so strong. I’ve never seen everything like it."

“You think he’s a cannibal? The leader?”

“Maybe,” his voice quietened again, but his breathing was even—if a little shallow—and stable.

You fell into a tense silence as you worked at his wound, weaving the needle and suture through his skin, pulling tight enough to hold it closed but not tight enough to cause problems or tear. Looking up at his face periodically to check he was still conscious and breathing. You make it to the end of the wound, now no longer bleeding and held firmly closed by the stitches. It was around five or six inches in length and would no doubt take months to heal properly.

Taking another fresh gauze pad, you soak it in antiseptic and clean as much blood from the surrounding area as possible, and as you take another one and a length of tape, you speak quietly. “It’s not too late, you know... It’s not too late to go home.”

He raises his head, squinting against the brightness of the bathroom light overhead. “Your mother asked me to avenge her... with her dying breath,” he takes in a deep, shuddering breath of his own as he speaks, his expression stern.

Clearly he wasn’t about to entertain this conversation; you nod solemnly and drop it. “Okay. You’re done. You need to get to bed.”

He doesn’t protest as you help him to his feet, stumbling down the hall and through his bedroom door, dropping him as carefully as you can onto the mattress. His whole body relaxes, and it’s clear he almost instantaneously drifts off to sleep. You watch him for a second. Sleeping in his bloody clothes, his skin pale and dark circles beneath his eyes. He looks nothing like the father you once knew. The man who would take you to the park and carry you on his shoulders. Who would buy you ice cream even after your mother said no. The man who would take you to the bookstore if you begged him enough.

Swallowing the lump in your throat and blinking away the tears in your eyes, you turn your back on him, closing the door softly behind you as you leave, even though you know he won’t wake up from the sound.

You go back to the bathroom, surveying the carnage left behind. Blood smeared all over the tile, the pile of soiled gauze, and the bloodstained towels. You glance up to see your own reflection; blood is soaked into your clothes and stains your hands all the way up your arms. Smears were even on your face, making your hair stick down to your skin in places. You wash your hands in the sink as best you can, letting your father’s blood run down the drain. Wiping the mess from your face and neck.

You go back out to the kitchen to get the best cleaning supplies, seeing the time on the TV read 12:43am and your food now cold sitting where you left it on the table. You try to distract yourself from your racing thoughts by focusing on cleaning the mess until it’s spotless, allowing the repetitive, muscle-aching act of scrubbing the red stains from the tile to lull you into a sense of calm.

Once the bathroom and hallway were free of bloodstains, you reorganised the first-aid kit, leaving it in the sink just in case your father wakes up before you and wants to redress his wounds, hopefully after showering off the blood.

Next, you clean off the silver case. Wiping it down with disinfectant and creeping back into his room to place it next to his bed where you know he’ll want it for his peace of mind. You check his pulse and temperature while you’re there, finding his heart rate to be a little slow and his temperature slightly cooler than normal, but nothing that warranted a hospital visit.

And after everything else was taken care of, you finally shower. A quick, scalding shower in an attempt to wash away the tension and grief carried in your muscles. It's there, under the water, when you break down. The tears are indistinguishable from the water that runs over your body, all disappearing down the same drain.

It wasn’t fair. Your life was far from perfect, but it was yours. Your little corner of the world with your parents so cruelly torn away by the actions of one single man—one ghoul. It didn’t matter how often they were away, or how much of their time they devoted to work; they always tried to make up for it by spending time with you. Buying you little treats and using their days off to go on trips. Your parents became who they were because of the work they did, and you wished nothing had ever changed, but you can’t help but think of the life you would’ve had with them if they weren’t investigators for the CCG. If the three of you lived a simple life. Office jobs and a regular routine instead of combat training at the age of eleven, long nights being educated on the physiology of ghouls and how to exploit their weaknesses depending on their type.

The air in the bathroom became thick with steam, so before you passed out, you wiped your face free of tears and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around yourself before stopping by your room to change into something clean and comfy to sleep in.

With tired eyes, clean skin, and soft clothes, you go into your father’s office, sitting at his desk with your hair damp against your shoulders. You find one of his notebooks, and after flipping through barely legible notes and sketches of the same face that haunts your nightmares, you find a blank page where you write down everything he told you about the four ghouls.

Group of 4 ghouls - one of each type

Ukaku type: Tall, fast, ranged attacks. Koukaku type: Strong but didn’t engage much in combat, high energy. Bikaku type: Worked in tandem with the leader, utilising openings to attack and acting as a distraction. Rinkaku type: The leader, fast, unusually strong, tall, no identifiable marks. The other three follow this ghoul.

All wearing ski-masks.

You check in on your father one final time, finding his condition the same as when you last checked, before hearing birds beginning to sing outside your window when you at last collapse face down into the comfort of your bed. Your whole body feels heavy, but just as you start falling asleep, you hear your phone go off, remembering you never got the chance to call your friends like you wanted to.

[UNKNOWN NUMBER]

— Hey! It’s Sara! — Would you be able to come in for a short trial shift today?

Struggling to keep your eyes open, you type out a reply. Reading it three times over before hitting send, confirming you’d be able to work and asking what time she needed you by. Sara responds almost immediately, asking if 2pm was okay. You respond, letting her know you’ll be there. You set an alarm for noon and finally let the heavy hand of sleep drag you under.

The familiar sounds of your father careering around his office wake you again, and for the second day in a row, your body protests against you as you stretch. Panic shoots through you when you realise you weren’t awoken by your alarm, but your heart slows just as quickly as it started racing, and the panic is replaced with relief when your phone screen tells you it’s just past 11am.

You don’t bother to stop by your father’s office today. Bypassing it to shower again, still feeling unclean from the night before, and wanting a clear mind to focus on the menial tasks at the bookstore. The water cascading across your skin soothes you, and as you dry your hair, you’re grateful to look upon your face in the steamed-up mirror and find it not caked in blood. Your skilful cleaning left no evidence of the chaos, almost making the whole thing seem like a bad dream. Except for the first aid kit still sitting in the sink. Opening it, you see the contents clearly rummaged through and several gauze pads and a roll of tape missing. You return to your room to dress, choosing plain jeans and a long sleeve shirt, tying your hair back away from your face. Once dressed in work-appropriate attire, you take a deep breath before heading to your father’s office.

As usual, he doesn’t answer when you knock, and when you crack open the door, you find him hunched over his desk in the dark. A dim lamp that definitely needed a new bulb scarcely illuminates the desk as he sketches furiously. You’re pleased at least to see that he’s changed out of his ruined clothes and even appears to have showered.

“I have a trial shift at the bookstore in town,” you say matter-of-factly. He doesn’t even look up from his notebook. “I should be back by six,” earned you a simple grunt in response. You sigh in frustration, turning to leave before stopping with the door handle gripped in your hand. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. Please eat something,” you don’t even give him the chance to answer, leaving the room and closing the door firmly behind you.

Before you leave the apartment for your first trial shift, you enter quietly into your father’s room, taking the silver case from the side of the bed. You look around the apartment, evaluating the best place to hide the weapon where he wouldn’t be able to find it. It was too thick to slide under the couch and too wide to fit inside a kitchen cabinet.

Glancing back into his room, you see a stack of unpacked boxes on top of the free-standing closet. You climb carefully onto the dresser beside it, using the extra height to quietly slip the case on top of the closet, artfully arranging the boxes to disguise its presence. You climb back down as carefully as possible, stepping back, feeling satisfied when the case can’t be seen from ground level. You were ashamed to treat him like a child, like you were hiding a toy he couldn’t be trusted with from his reach, but you didn’t know what else to do to remove the temptation of going out again.

You decide against making food to take with you, choosing instead to buy something from the convenience store on the corner. You sit on the floor as you tie your boots, watching the shadows move under the door to your father’s office. Him pacing back and forth.

As you go to take your keys off the hook, you see his set sitting right next to yours. Taking both and locking the door behind you—locking your father inside—you head out into the daylight for the brisk walk to the centre of the city.

The air seemed to feel cooler and cooler with every passing day. Cool enough to wear your jacket on the walk. Once again, you were grateful for the crisp weather waking you up and keeping you alert after your more than rough night. Just as you’re about to enter the bustling noise of the city centre, your eyes linger on the road that leads to the industrial district and the bridge that lies beyond. The location of so much conflict in the area and the location of your father’s altercation with the group of four masked ghouls last night. There’s nothing outwardly suspicious about the area. It doesn’t look particularly safe, but it’s not crawling with ghouls tearing humans limb from limb either.

A biting gust of wind pulls you from your thoughts, causing you to tug your jacket tighter around you against the chill as you continue into the city. The convenience store offered a little respite from the cold when you stopped off for food before your trial shift. Eating a premade onigiri on the short walk up to the bookstore, you tried your best to ignore the second looks and passive-aggressive glares from the locals. It would probably take a while for people to get used to your face here, and you couldn’t help but miss the familiarity of the 2nd ward.

Wiping your mouth on your sleeve, not wanting to give a poor first impression, you discard the plastic wrapper in the recycling and sigh with relief when you push open the door. Grateful to step into the warm embrace of the bookstore.

As soon as you walk in, Sara calls your name in that bright and chipper voice you’d quickly come to associate with her. “Over here!” She beckoned. You shrug off your coat, hooking it over your arm as you approach her. Besides her stood an older man not too much taller than her, glasses perched on his nose while he flipped through papers clipped to a clipboard. “Mr. Takahashi, this is our trial staff member,” she looked at the man then back at you, but he didn’t look up from his papers once. The figure before you is hauntingly familiar to that of your father.

“Hm,” he grunted, crouching down to rummage under the counter. Sara grinned awkwardly, her eyes apologetic as she swayed side to side, waiting for the man to provide you with a modicum of attention. “Do a stock intake of the ‘new in’ section and rearrange the biographies. They haven’t been selling as well,” he turned away from the counter, his nose still buried in his paperwork as he began to walk away. You looked questioningly at Sara before he halts abruptly, turning on his heel to look directly towards you and say, “get her a shirt from the back,” then continued off into the back of the store.

You stepped closer to Sara, watching the man tap the spines of a section of books with his pen, note something down on the paper, then move along to a different section of the store to do the same. “Is he-”

“Always like that?” She finished for you, eyes closed and nodding resolutely, “yes. He stays out of our way mostly. Well, unless he comes out to bark orders at us. At least he doesn’t mince words.” Her signature beaming smile graces her face once more as she takes a sign from under the counter, placing it by the register. "Back in a sec!” it read in beautiful yet still clear, swirly cursive. “Come with me. We’ll get you a staff shirt, and you can leave your coat in the back with mine,” she waved you over as she rounded the counter, following obediently.

Sara pushed open a heavy wooden door that led into a cosy area akin to a staff room. Three plush, dark green couches filled the room, with a small area to prepare hot drinks on the right next to a tall fridge. The smell of fresh coffee filled the room, making you crave a cup. “This room is where we hang out on our breaks mostly. Or hide from customers when it gets busy,” she looks over her shoulder and puts her finger to her lips in a shush motion before crouching down to rummage through a cardboard box by one of the couches. “What size shirt would you wear? I’m seeing a lot of larges."

“Large is fine! Can I wear it over this one?” You ask, picking nervously at the sleeves of your shirt as Sara searches.

“Yeah, of course!” She stands and turns back to you, shaking out the polo shirt before handing it to you. She leaves her hand outstretched for your jacket, which you hand to her. “I’ll put this here,” she says, hooking it onto a coat stand alongside three others. The pale pink parka you suspect was hers.

The staff shirt was a similar dark green to the couches and had the store logo embroidered on the front-left side, Paper Trail, in pretty writing similar to that on the sign. You slip it on over your long sleeve shirt, gathering the material and tucking the front into your jeans in an attempt to look a little more put together.

“I’ll show you how to work the register first, I think. Then you can do something easygoing, maybe rearranging the biography section, if that’s alright with you?” Sara crosses the room to pour herself a cup of coffee, gesturing towards you with the pot in a silent offer for a drink.

You nod, accepting the coffee. “That’s fine with me. I used to work the register in the sandwich shop I worked at for a while. I’m not sure if it’s the same, but, you know,” you shrug, sipping your coffee from the paper cup.

“It’s not difficult to learn, and you’ll pick it up quick, I’m sure,” she leads you back out onto the shop floor, seeing a customer hovering by the register. “Hi! Sorry to keep you waiting, can I help you?” She calls, jogging light on her feet over to the register, placing her cup on the counter, and putting the sign away.

“Just this, please,” the customer, a young woman, hands over a paperback to Sara.

You follow and hover slightly behind her, watching over her shoulder as she scans the barcode. “Perfect, great choice!” She looks over her shoulder towards you, and you step closer to see the screen of the register. “So the items appear here when scanned. You have the option to add a bag to the charge. Would you like a bag, madam?”

“No, no. I’m okay, thank you,” she smiles politely, waving her hand.

“Okay, so we press ‘no bag’, then- Do you have a rewards card?”

“Oh! I actually do, just a second.”

“So, you scan the card with the scanner, and it’ll show how many rewards points the customer has. If they have a rewards balance on the card, you can ask if they’d like to use it. Thank you, madam,” she scans the card, and the screen updates. “Looks like you have a rewards balance of 9.99. Would you like to use that today?”

“Yes, please.”

“Okay, so you tap ‘use balance’, and it’ll apply the discount to the transaction. That takes your total today to zero!” Sara flashes her trademark warm smile as she hands the book back to the customer, who takes it with both hands.

“Thank you so much! You two have a great day!” The woman grins back.

“You too, thank you for coming,” Sara waves.

“Bye!” You call as she leaves, the bell signalling her exit. “Seems simple enough.”

“Told you! If they don’t have a rewards card, you ask them ‘card or cash’, then select whichever option on the screen they choose. If it’s card, tell them to follow the instructions on the machine,” she points to the card reader on the other side of the counter. You nod along in understanding. “If they’re paying with cash, you can use this calculator here to calculate the change. I can do it in my head because I’ve been here so long,” she laughs. “You type on the screen how much the customer paid and how much change you gave back. Once you tap ‘cash’ the register automatically pops open.”

You nod again; the process was similar to what you’d experienced before, and the register itself seemed simple to use. “How long have you worked here?” You ask, leaning back against the counter, sipping your coffee. Thankful for the warm beverage warming your hands.

“Oh, since I graduated high school. I had no idea what I wanted to do, but I knew I loved books, and here I am!”

“That’s nice. You must like it here if you’ve worked here for so long.”

“I do, it’s pretty quiet most days. We’re in a safe area here too. This is one of the lowest crime areas in the ward,” she reaches for her own coffee from the end of the desk, taking a large mouthful, closing her eyes as she swallows.

“Do you want me to get started on the biography section?” You ask. As nice as Sara was, you were eager to start on some mindless tasks to pass the time.

“Yes! Just rearrange them however you see fit, by author or title, or something. Mr. Takahashi thinks if we move things around, people will suddenly want to buy something they’ve seen a million times.”

“I can see how that would work,” you laugh, drinking the last of your coffee and throwing the cup in the trash under the counter.

“Let me know if you need a break!” Sara calls as you head for the biography section. You hold up an OK sign over your shoulder and get to work.

The biography section was currently organised alphabetically by author surname. You see a lot of familiar popular titles, a few lesser known, and some you’d never heard of before. Deciding it best to have the most popular ones at eye level, you intersperse them with similar-sounding books that people may also be interested in. Ones that follow a similar theme and authors that are commonly read together. Starting the whole process by taking everything from the shelves and creating a new order on the ground. After you were happy enough with your new layout, you began re-shelving the books. Swapping things out here and there when stock didn’t fit or if certain titles looked odd next to each other.

Sliding the last stock of books onto the bottom shelf, it didn’t feel like too much time had passed before you were done, happy and satisfied with your work. Remembering your favourite bookstore back in the 2nd ward, you turn to look over your shoulder at Sara, where she was bidding goodbye to a customer. “Sara!” You call from where you kneel on the ground after the customer leaves, “do we have any little cards I can write on?”

“Uh, let me check!” She calls back, disappearing beneath the counter briefly, popping up with a stack of flashcard-sized paper in hand. “Like this?”

“Yeah, perfect!”

She jogs over to you, cards and pen in hand. “Nice, I like it,” she praises, admiring your work. “What did you want with these?” She asks, handing the items over to you.

“Well, at this other bookstore I used to go to, they had little summaries for some books taped to the shelf. I’ve read most of these, so I thought I could write a little thing for a few of them. Maybe that’ll encourage people to check these out more.”

“Good idea. I’ll find something you can stick them to the shelf with,” she pats your shoulder and heads back to the counter to rummage around again.

The compliment left you warm inside with a smile on your face. Part of you was expecting the worst: that the staff would hate you, you’d mess everything up, and you’d be banned from the premises, nevermind continuing as a member of staff. But everything was going well.

You write out a couple of summary cards for some of the books you’d read.

“A tragic masterpiece of the inexorable unravelling of a man, set in a close-knit Italian-American community in 1950s New York.”

“... a powerful feminist writing, justifying the need for women to possess intellectual freedom and financial independence.”

Just as you were writing the third card, footsteps approached you from behind, followed by a familiar gruff “hm.” Over your shoulder stood Mr. Takahashi. “I need you to go upstairs. Run the café for an hour,” he stated flatly.

“I- Are you sure? I’ve never worked in a café before, I don’t know if I could-”

“Sara is needed down here. Our regular barista has had to leave on a personal matter. It won’t be busy at this time,” he was unwavering in his instructions.

“Okay, I’ll try,” you stand, leaving the written cards by the books they were meant for and heading back to the counter to give the others back to Sara.

“You’ll be fine. He’s right, the café is usually quiet at this time. I’ll stick those to the shelf for you,” she smiles, warm and reassuring and helping to ease your anxieties just a little.

You nod in thanks to her and head for the stairs, but halt when you hear Mr. Takahashi calling your name. He’s facing the shelf you just spent the past hour or so working on. He turns to face you, nodding at the summary cards you left. “Good work,” he nods and heads back into the store. You immediately look at Sara, who’s giving you a double thumbs up and a grin so wide, you can’t help but smile back.

Jogging up the stairs, with a sense of satisfaction lightening your step, you push open the door and set eyes on the café for the first time. The familiar chime of a bell ringing above you as you look around and notice first the complete lack of customers. You breathe a sigh of relief, the emptiness welcome as you get familiar with your surroundings. The space was significantly smaller than the square footage of the bookstore downstairs, but nothing about it was cramped or uncomfortable. The wooden tables filled the space well, square tables with two to four chairs tucked neatly underneath, and a few larger rectangular tables towards the edge for larger groups. All the chairs were wooden too, with forest green cushioning that looked remarkably clean—not a single coffee stain in sight. The walls and flooring were dark stained wood, the walls being panelled with tasteful artwork dotted around. Not the usual café-coffee-themed pieces you were used to, but detailed classical-style paintings giving the room a refined aura. Landscapes and beautiful forests, serene lakes. But by far, the prettiest feature had to be the floor-to-ceiling-length wall of windows opposite the serving counter, offering a breathtaking view of the sprawling city below.

You walk over, taking a moment to admire the view. The flow of people moving in the streets like water down a stream and the sun beginning to set on the horizon. The building was in the perfect place to look out across the city and into the surrounding districts, the industrial district eye-catchingly grey and devoid of life out in the distance. Even your apartment building was visible from here. You hoped your dad wasn’t going stir-crazy alone at home. Regretting for a moment the fact that you’d essentially made him a prisoner, but that feeling passed quickly. He couldn’t be trusted not to go out chasing ghouls, and in his current state, that would be a death sentence.

Taking a deep breath and pushing the thought of him from your mind, you head towards the counter, the floor creaking slightly underfoot. A sign hung high up on the wall behind the serving counter above the menus, reading Paper Trail Café. On the side of the counter out of view of the customers was a large, laminated recipe book containing instructions on how to make every beverage on the menu. You closed your eyes in silent thanks before flipping through a couple of pages. Green tabs, you quickly realised, marked the drinks currently available for order. Freshly ground coffee sat beside the espresso machine with the portafilters clean and ready for use. You find the fridge under the counter, stocked with different types of milk and someone’s sandwich. Probably forgotten from lunch.

Pastries, cakes, and cookies sit behind a glass display counter, and towards the far left behind the counter was a door. Peeking inside, you’re not surprised to find a modest kitchen. By the door stands a coat rack similar to the one in the break room downstairs, with several aprons hanging ready for use. You take one and slip it on, knowing your luck you’d spill something on your new shirt, and even though there was a box full of them downstairs, you weren’t thrilled at the idea of having to confront Mr. Takahashi with a ruined shirt.

While the café was empty, you decided to make a test coffee to get the hang of the machinery. Filling the portafilter with ground coffee, flattening it down just enough to make an even surface, then slotting it into the espresso maker, clicking it into place. You take a pristine white espresso cup from the rack and set it beneath the filter, crouching down, adjusting it slightly to the left to directly catch the coffee. Making a silent prayer that the numbered buttons underneath the head you were using were the ones that made the machine run, you pressed the first one, appropriately labelled one, and the machine buzzed to life. It takes a second for the water to reach the coffee grounds, but when it does, the mouth-wateringly warm scent of freshly brewed coffee swiftly fills the room as it flows into the cup below.

Just when you think the cup is about to overflow, the machine stops. “Okay,” you sigh in relief, hands frozen in the air as you think of what to do next. Iced Americano, you know how to do that. You take a disposable plastic cup from the stack in the corner and find the ice box by the sink, using the scoop inside to add an appropriate amount of ice to the cup, then fill it almost to the top with cold water, finally adding your espresso shot. You press on a lid and take a straw from the pack next to the ice box, poking it through the lid, then stirring the drink to mix it all together. When you take a sip, it’s exactly right. The rich and bold flavour of the brewed coffee is better than any you’d ever had before. Even from your favourite coffee shop back in the 2nd Ward.

While you’re sipping on your drink, searching for the type of delicious coffee bean stocked here so you can buy some for yourself when the ding of the bell makes your blood run cold. A customer. You scramble to stand behind the counter when the customer rounds the corner and approaches. A tall man, seemingly covered head to toe in tattoos, the head of a snake, and green foliage just visible underneath his collar. He offers a small smile as you brush your stray hairs behind your ears. “Hi. Uh, what can I get you?” You cringe inwardly at how awkward you sounded.

“Just a black Americano, please.”

You smile back at the customer, beyond grateful that he chose the one drink you definitely knew how to make. “What size would you like?” You ask, flipping through the menu on the register touch screen.

“Medium,” the man replies, fishing his wallet from his pocket.

“Americano, medium,” you say to yourself as you select the options. “Hot or iced?”

“Hot, please.”

“And is that to drink in or to go?” following the options diligently on the screen.

“Uh, I’ll stay in,” the man nods.

“Okay,” you freeze for a second when the screen asks for a rewards card. “Do you have a, uh, a rewards card?”

“Yeah, I do,” he holds out the card, and you almost take it from him when you remember the scanner. “Sorry. Sorry, it’s my first day. I’ve kind of been thrown in at the deep end,” you laugh awkwardly as you scan his card and hope he won’t be frustrated at your ineptitude.

“Don’t worry, you’re doing great,” he reassures.

The screen shows no rewards balance, so you proceed to the payment screen. “That’ll be 3.30, card or cash?”

“Card,” he says, holding up his bank card. You gesture to the machine, and as he goes to input his pin with patterned fingers, you turn to fill the other portafilter with coffee grounds with your own shaking hands. Carefully tampering out the surface while trying not to spill coffee everywhere, slotting it into the machine just like you did before. You place an espresso cup underneath and press the same button as you did earlier, once again bringing the machine to life. You take a medium mug from the rack, place it underneath the spout that reads hot water, and press the button that indicates a medium-sized mug, letting the machine fill it as steam rises to cloud your vision. Turning back to the man at the register, finding him watching you.

“You seem to know your way around pretty well considering it’s your first day,” he smiles, hands in his pockets.

“I had a play with the machine while nobody was here. You ordered the one thing I know how to make,” you pick up the coffee you made earlier, taking a sip to quench your suddenly dry throat. How is it you were stitching your father’s wounds in the early hours of the morning but suddenly become a nervous wreck at the prospect of making someone a cup of coffee? “Thank you for placing an easy order,” you smile as you tap ‘complete transaction’ on the register screen.

The man laughs, quiet and soft, “you’re welcome.” The heat from the espresso machine warms your cheeks, or was it because of the way his laugh made your heart beat just a little faster? “Are you new in town? I was thinking I’ve never seen you around here before, though you do look familiar.”

“Oh, yeah. I just moved here with my dad. I’ve never been here before now, you must’ve seen someone else,” the machine beeped, drawing your attention. You pour the espresso shot into the mug of hot water, taking it in hand and carefully placing it down on the counter in front of the customer, “your coffee.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he smiles down at the cup before picking it up. “Thank you,” he turns to head towards a table when he stops in the middle of the room and looks back at you to ask, “What’s your name?”

You blink in surprise and tell him, “why? You’re not going to complain about that shitty coffee, are you?” Nodding to the cup in his hands.

“No,” he laughs. “I just wanted to know your name if I’m going to be seeing you around. I’m Noah,” he says, smiling warmly.

“Nice meeting you, Noah. I promise I’ll make you a better coffee next time I see you.”

He takes a sip, not even blowing on the drink to cool it down first, closing his eyes as he enjoys the flavour. “Tastes perfect to me,” he says, going all the way to the opposite end of the café to sit by the large window. He takes a notebook from his coat pocket, opens it to a page marked with a scrap of paper, and begins jotting something down, stopping to type something on his phone, then going back to his notebook. Periodically sipping his coffee.

You can’t help but watch him over the espresso machine as you clean it. Throwing out the used coffee grounds in the trash underneath the counter and rinsing the portafilters using the steam nozzle. He was handsome, no doubt. He shrugged off his coat, leaving it hanging over the back of his chair as he wrote, flipping back and forth between pages. You weren’t surprised to see his arms were just as extensively tattooed as you thought. Though you weren’t able to see exactly what the artwork was that adorned his skin from this distance, you thought it suited him well. His face was serious as he worked, brows drawn inward in a slight frown, but despite his intimidating appearance, you felt comfortable in the empty room with him.

With the espresso machine clean and the used cups in the sink, the bell signalled the arrival of another customer. “Hi,” you greeted politely when they approached the counter. “What can I get for you guys?”

“Hi, can I get a flat white, please? And, what do you want?” The young lady looked to her friend.

“Can I get a black Americano, hot?” The other lady replied.

“A flat white and a black Americano, both hot to drink inside, please.”

“Of course, bear with me a second,” you stall as you tap the options on the screen. “What milk would you like in the flat white?”

“Um, what do you have?”

“I’ll check,” you stoop to open the little fridge. “Looks like we have oat, almond, whole milk, semi-skimmed, skimmed.”

“I’ll have oat milk, please,” the lady smiled politely as you nodded.

“And what sizes would you like?”

“Both medium, please.”

“Okay,” you focus on the screen. Flat white, medium, hot, oat milk, staying in. Americano, medium, hot, staying in. “Do you have a rewards card?” you look between the two women.

They both shake their heads. “No,” one of them replies.

“Alright. That’ll be 6.70, please. Cash or card?”

“Card,” the first lady steps forward to pay for both drinks as she scours her bag for her wallet.

“Just follow the instructions on the reader when you’re ready,” you turn to the machine, following the process for an Americano that was quickly becoming second nature. Flipping through the laminated recipe book though, for the exact instructions for a flat white. “Espresso shot in the cup first, steam the milk, add to espresso,” you mumbled quietly to yourself. Setting up another espresso shot to process on the other side of the machine, you take the milk from the fridge as the women chat by the counter.

“But yeah, that thing on the news this morning. The fight between The Omens and a CCG Investigator? What was he thinking?” A chill runs up your spine despite the hot steam swirling around you. “Why would they send a single investigator to fight four ghouls? And The Omens. Of all the ghouls you’d go after, why the most dangerous group in the Ward?”

“Right? They don’t even do anything wrong, they’re the ones keeping the peace around here.”

You swallow roughly as you pour the milk into the steel jug, the espresso machine humming by your side. The most dangerous group in the Ward. That’s who your father fought last night. The steamer hissed to life, almost drowning out the conversation between the women as it heated and frothed the milk in the jug.

“But I heard the CCG declined to comment on the situation. They usually give a fucking essay-length report on the operation, why they did it, what they achieved.”

“Yeah, it’s weird.”

You add the espresso shot to a mug, pouring in the hot milk the rest of the way, doing the same for the Americano with hot water. Placing the drinks in front of the women one by one, you offer your best smile. "Sorry that there’s no fancy pattern. I’m new here, they haven’t taught me that yet.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, it looks great. Thank you so much.”

“Thank you,” the women pick up their respective drinks and get comfortable at a small table by the edge of the room. Their conversation continues on, but from this distance you can’t pick up what they’re saying.

Taking a deep breath, you busy your hands by cleaning the machine again, but your mind continues to race. He was lucky to escape with his life, and you’re grateful that he survived, but you can’t help but grit your teeth in anger over the actions of your father. Fighting the most dangerous gang of ghouls in the area completely alone, chasing his own selfish ends. Why couldn’t he just let it go? He wasn’t lying when he said your mother asked him to kill the ghoul that took her life; her final words were immortalised in the field report for the incident between your parents and that ghoul—Malice. You had found your father passed out drunk on the couch one night at your old home in the weeks following her death, the report laying open on his lap. Reading those words did fundamentally change you, but they didn’t make you lust for revenge. They brought you immeasurable grief. Your mother should have known better than to ask such a thing of your father. She should’ve asked him to look after you, for both of you to live on and carry her with you as you continue to live in her name. She had to have known her request would consume him.

The hot water running over your hands from the tap was a welcome distraction as you scrubbed the cups clean in the sink, but all you want to do is go back to the apartment. To keep an eye on your father, make sure his condition didn’t worsen during the day while you were away.

“Hey, you’re the new girl, right?” A voice close behind you snapped you from your thoughts. A tall man stood behind the counter, his uniform matching yours with a puffy black coat clasped in his hands.

“Y-yeah, hi.”

“Takahashi said you can go back downstairs now. Sorry he sent you up here on such short notice, but you look like you’re handling yourself well,” he smiled down at you as he ran his hand through his dark hair. He was tall, not as tall as the tattooed customer from earlier, but still stood several inches above you. “I’m Roy, by the way. I work up here full time.”

“Oh, nice to meet you. I only had three customers, luckily,” you laugh off your stress and tell Roy your name.

“Yeah, it’s usually quiet up here at this time.” He hangs his coat on the rack and slips on an apron over his uniform, tying the strings around his middle. “Thanks for holding down the fort though,” he claps a hand against your shoulder with a wide smile.

Laughing along with him, you untie your own apron, placing it in Roy’s open hand for him to hang up. Rounding the counter and heading straight for the door, but just as you pull it open, bell chiming overhead, Roy calls your name.

“Anytime you wanna join me for a shift, just let old man Takahashi know!”

“I will,” you call over your shoulder. “See you!”

As you turn back to the door, you catch the eye of the tall tattooed man who smiles warmly, waving with one hand. You return his smile, looking away quickly and heading through the door to the stairs. You get halfway down when you pause to catch your breath. So much was happening. The switch from saving your father’s life to playing retail and meeting so many new people, playing barista with absolutely zero training. The warm smile of a tall stranger.

Raking your hands through your hair and yanking out the hair tie, you shake it out and take a deep breath, continuing down the stairs to see a couple of customers milling around the store and Sara, bright as ever at the counter.

She smiles wide at you, unable to speak for serving the customer, but when you point to the break room, she nods in understanding. Once in the solitude of the break room, you flop down on the nearest couch. The fatigue finally caught up with you, your legs tingling from being on your feet for so long. The clock on the wall read 5pm. Only 30 more minutes, and you could go back to the apartment. 30 more minutes, then you could rest.

“Hey! How’d it go upstairs?” Sara poked her head around the door, not a single sign of fatigue on her face.

“Made three coffees,” you say drowsily, holding up three fingers. “Didn’t fuck them up.”

“That’s great! You can go around the store and straighten things out for the last few minutes. Put books back in the right sections, make everything look nice. Come back out when you’re ready,” she smiles when you give her a thumbs up and closes the door softly as she leaves.

Your stomach grumbles, and you remember all you’d eaten today was the onigiri from the convenience store. And your dinner last night was interrupted, half eaten. Standing with a groan, you go for the coffee pot, pleased to find it freshly brewed, filling a paper cup halfway. Hoping the drink will tide you over for half an hour until you get the chance to stop off at the convenience store again on the way back. The break room fridge stands tall on your right, you crack it open, the glow illuminating your face as you peek inside. Empty. Everyone else probably already ate their lunch earlier. Chugging the coffee down and throwing the cup in the trash, you take another deep breath, then head back out into the store.

You check the biography display you made earlier first, smiling when you notice the summaries you wrote stuck to the shelves and several books missing, hopefully purchased. You straighten out the display a little and move to the classics section next to it, doing the same.

As the sun sets, casting the store in a comforting orange glow just as it did yesterday, the warmth only increases your drowsiness. Your footsteps begin to drag while you patrol the store. The shelves were in relatively good condition considering the store had been open since 9am. You wondered if Sara or another member of staff, Mr. Takahashi perhaps, would periodically come through and straighten things out.

You move a thriller back to the ‘new in’ display table and put a stray copy of The Phantom of the Opera back in the Gothic Literature section. You’re straightening out a stack of science-fiction books when the tall, tattooed man jogs down the stairs. “See you again!” Sara calls as he heads for the door. He waves over his shoulder to her, not seeing you standing behind a display as he goes, the bell signalling his departure into the evening.

You go over to Sara, leaning on the counter as she presses discount stickers to a stack of books. “Does he come in here often?” You ask.

“Who? Noah? Yeah, he’s been a regular almost as long as I’ve been here,” she smiles as she works, glancing at you out of the corner of her eye. “Why?” she asks, her tone teasing.

“No, I was just wondering. I served him upstairs. He was nice,” trying your best to keep your tone as casual and nonchalant as possible. You left out the part where you thought he was handsome.

“Yeah, he keeps to himself mostly. Always polite, though. You can head out now if you’d like. There are only 5 minutes left, it’s not likely we’ll get any more customers at this point.”

“Oh, thank you. Did I do okay today?” You ask nervously, fiddling with a piece of scrap paper.

“You did great! I’m sure Mr. Takahashi will ask me to call you with his decision,” she puts the stickers down and turns to face you. “Did you like it? Would you want to come back?”

“Yeah, I would. Maybe even do a couple of shifts in the café, with a little more training,” you laugh and push off the counter. “I’ll go get my jacket.”

She nods, returning to her stickers. “Oh! You can keep the shirt for now!” She calls after you.

“Okay!” You call back. Stopping off in the break room just long enough to take your jacket from the rack and slip it on before you’re back out the door and almost bumping into someone. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Takahashi. I didn’t expect you to be there.”

He says nothing. Instead, he holds out a sheet of folded paper.

“What’s this?” you ask as you take it from him, opening it to see a hand-drawn grid, the days of the week penned at the top and various times listed underneath.

“Your schedule for the month,” he replied curtly, turning and walking off with his hands clasped behind his back.

“You’re- you’re hiring me?” You watch him as he goes.

“Hm” is the only response he gives before he’s gone around the corner.

You look over to Sara, who pumps her fists in the air, grinning ear to ear. “I told you! Welcome to the family!” She jogs over and pulls you in for a bone-crushing hug, which you return gladly. “Go! Go home and tell your dad. I’m sure he’ll be so proud of you. You can give me your bank details for your wages next time you’re in. Or maybe just text me.”

“Okay,” you say with a shocked sigh, staring in disbelief at the schedule in your hands. You check the paper, seeing your next shift is Saturday, 12pm to 5:30pm. “I’ll see you at the weekend,” you smile at Sara. She squeals in delight, gripping your shoulders before releasing you to let you leave.

As the bell chimes above your head and the cold air whips past your face, your smile doesn’t falter. Despite the tumultuous night and the abrupt nature of today, you felt good. Like things could really work out here.

After the short walk down the street, you greet the cashier in the convenience store enthusiastically as you enter and scan the refrigerators for an evening snack to tide you over until you cook dinner. Choosing an egg salad sandwich and a red bean dorayaki for a sweet treat. Adding an iced tea to your selection to get the meal discount. You check out and begin the walk out of the city, plastic bag in hand, back to the apartment.

You hoped your father wouldn’t be furious with you for locking him in all day. That he’d spent the day relaxing and would welcome you home with a smile on his face and open arms to congratulate you on the new job.

The sun was setting earlier and earlier as the winter approached, you noticed, the last light of the day casting long shadows across the roads. As you walked, the number of lit buildings dwindled to almost none, the streetlights sparsely lighting the way. The increasing darkness made a sense of unease settle in your chest, replacing the lightness from earlier.

It’s when you’re almost halfway to the apartment that you hear a crash down an alleyway, jumping away instinctively, hand clasped over your heart. You freeze. Staring into the darkness, expecting something to jump out from behind the bins at any second. A piercing cry reaches your ears, something animalistic, followed by scratching and scrambling, then silence. It must be animals. Cats or raccoons or something.

Nevertheless, you pick up the pace. Exiting the city, passing by the industrial district, the apartment building in sight as your legs begin to ache. You sprint up the stairs, key in hand, and when you thrust the key into the lock, anxious for the warmth of the apartment to surround you, the door begins to fall out of the frame.

“What the fuck!” You exclaim, grasping the edges of the wood in both hands, the plastic bag of food thudding loudly against the door. You edge around the door, laying it back into place as best you could, and when you’re on the other side, you see the scratch marks around the hinges and the hinges themselves laying on the side table with a screwdriver next to them. “What the fuck,” you repeat, firmer this time. Anger unrestrained in your voice.

Once you’re certain the door isn't going to collapse, you remove your hands from it, turning and throwing the grocery bag onto the couch. Not even removing your shoes before you stride through the apartment to your father’s office to find it expectantly empty. One look in his bedroom reveals the same, and the mess of boxes and personal effects scattered across the ground tells you he found your hiding place for his quinque. You drop your head into your hands, groaning in frustration. Dragging your hands down your face, you go back to the front room, taking the grocery bag from the couch and shoving the whole thing into the fridge. Clearly, no afternoon snack for you.

You go back to your father’s office, the desk illuminated by the lamp and a familiar sight of assorted papers scattered across the surface. But there was something there that wasn’t present yesterday. A map of the local area with the bridge in the industrial district, the place mentioned on the news yesterday and the site of so much conflict in the Ward, circled in red. The bridge he fought The Omens on.

“He’s gone back,” you whisper into the silence of the room. “He’s fucking gone back.”

When your dad first told you that he’d tracked the ghoul that killed your mother to the 13th Ward and had decided to pursue him there, you did your own research on the area. The industrial district used to be a bustling area, teeming with transport vehicles delivering goods from place to place. Warehouses and factories, all abandoned now due to declines in industry profits and the increase of ghoul activity in the area. It became too unsafe for people to operate there. Nobody wanted to work the night shift when you could be preyed upon at any moment.

He’s going to die. He’s injured, delusional, and reckless. He barely made it out with his life last time, and he’s going to pay for his ego with his life this time. That can’t happen. You can’t let that happen. You’re not going to allow that to happen.

You push off his desk, going into your room. Beelining towards your closet to find the most appropriate clothes possible. Not jeans, too restrictive. Dress pants aren’t protective enough, neither are leggings. You pull a heavy pair of cargos from the rail, something your mother used to wear on shift at the CCG, and throw them on the bed. Flipping through your shirts until you find your long sleeve compression shirt you used to wear on runs around your old neighbourhood. You didn’t want to risk going for a run in this Ward.

Sitting on the edge of your bed with your clothes, you unlace your boots and tug your jeans off, replacing them with the cargos. Shrugging off your jacket and swapping your long sleeve and work shirt for the black compression shirt, tucking it into the cargos. You scrape your hair back again, securing it in a tight bun at the back of your head, making sure no stray pieces could block your vision. You sit back down to tie your boots back onto your aching feet. All you wanted to do was rest. Celebrate your achievements with your father and go to bed at a reasonable time.

You take a jacket from the hanger, the same as the one you wore today, but in black. It was lightweight but practical, with two breast pockets and two at hand height. It had cords at the waist, which you tightened after you popped the buttons closed, cinching it in at the waist to make it fit snug against your body in a more streamlined fashion. Then, you take the knife from your other jacket and slip it into a pocket by your hip on your cargo pants, the handle only just peeking out.

Now fully dressed, you go back to your father’s office. When you open the door to the closet, the silver case sits at the bottom, exactly where you saw it last time. Your mother’s. You take it by the handle; the weight of it is surprisingly comfortable in your hand.

You set it down by the entryway to haphazardly screw the hinges back onto the door, then attaching them back to the frame. The door had to be jolted to close properly, but it’ll do for now. You take the case again, tugging the door closed after you, not even bothering to lock it. Jogging down the stairs quickly, you push the entryway door open into the cold night air.

The wind bites at the areas of exposed skin on your neck and hands, sending a chill down your spine. You pull your coat tightly around you, readjusting your grip on the handle, and set off for the industrial district.

You get there quickly. The dark warehouses towering over you, completely devoid of life. Gravel crunches underfoot as you take in your surroundings. Nobody could be seen. Broken glass littered the ground from the shattered windows, and the wind howled between the buildings.

Keeping alert, your eyes dart to any source of sound, wary of any potential threats. The river shimmers under the moonlight to your right; the area could be beautiful, you think, if it weren’t for the history. The evidence of activity was clear. Despite the derelict nature of the area, there was no trash lining the streets and very little signs of animal activity. Even in the 2nd Ward, a place you’d describe as clean, had the occasional rat, racoon, or fox. But there was nothing here. No shredded trash bags or rustling in the dumpsters. Did ghouls eat animals when the food supply was running short? The reports of cannibalism that came out of the 13th would indicate no. Someone was caring for this area, though. Someone spent enough time here to want to keep it tidy.

You look behind you, seeing how deep into the district you’d come, the lights by the main road reduced to tiny faint glows. The bridge wasn’t too much further now, the silhouette of the metal framework visible in the distance stretching over the widest part of the river. As you pass by another grey, concrete building, you catch a glimpse of light inside, the sliding metal door left wide open. You stand with your back to the wall, peeking in but not seeing anyone inside. It was eerily quiet too, but a shout in the distance answers the question as to where the people might be, and you don’t hesitate to break into a sprint towards the source. The bridge.

The cold air burns in your lungs with your sharp intakes of breath, feet slipping off the gravel as they pound against the ground. Almost as hard as your heart in your chest. As the bridge grows closer and closer, the figures once obscured by the metalwork come into focus. Four of them. Four ghouls. All facing one hunched over, very stupid man. You will yourself to run faster, desperate to get there before it’s too late.

A tall man towards the back of the group unleashes his kagune—the ukaku type ghoul—blood red tipped with bright orange shapes emerging from his back, almost like wings of fire, raised into the air and poised directly towards your father. You growl in frustration as you run. Glints in the moonlight catch your eye, a torrent of blades from the ukaku ghoul’s kagune soar through the air, sending up clouds of dust when they impact the ground, and pull cries of pain from your father as they pierce his skin.

Almost too quick for the eye to catch, the bikaku type ghoul rushes forward when your father drops down to one knee. The flash of his quinque barely deflects the attack as the force sends him skidding on his back across the bridge. The koukaku quinque gripped firmly in his right hand, bending like a whip before solidifying and scraping across the ground, slowing him down to a stop.

“Dad!” You cry, feet skidding on the gravel as you round the railing and at last step foot on the bridge. He turns from his position on the ground, meeting your panicked eyes with nothing but emptiness. You dash towards him at the same time as the bikaku ghoul, attempting to follow up on his previous attack. Pressing your fingers to the smooth surface on the handle of the case, the weapon accepts your biometric authentication and releases the weapon inside.

You throw yourself to the ground, skidding across the smooth surface on your left side with the weapon raised in your right hand, the impact of your quinque against the bikaku ghoul’s kagune sending a shock of vibrations up your arm to your shoulder when they connect. He looks from your weapon to your face with his scarlet eyes surrounded by darkness; even under the ski-mask, you could tell his eyebrows were clearly pinched together in frustration. You reach across your body to feel for the knife at your hip, lurching forward when it’s firmly in your grasp and slashing at the ghoul’s lower legs.

He grits his teeth and groans against the pain, the blade glimmering blood red in the moonlight. The ghoul swiftly turns on his heel and, using his kagune, launches himself several feet in the air to land beside the stoic figure of what was undoubtedly the leader of the group. He leans in to say something to the taller ghoul; the muffled sound of an order was audible, and before you knew it, the fourth ghoul was sprinting towards you. Coming out from behind the leader, his own blood-red kagune breaks free of his skin and clothes to wrap around both arms, forming blunt mallet shapes at his hands.

“Stand up, dad,” your own order came through gritted teeth as you got to your feet. A dull ache in your hip is present from where it hit the ground, but you make an effort to not reveal the weakness to your attackers. The grunting and shuffling behind you tells you he’s obeying, but you don’t have time to look. Drawing back your quinque to fend off what would’ve likely been a fatal strike to the head if not for your quick reflexes. You swing the long, polearm-like weapon, blade side down, to strike at the koukaku ghoul, only for him to move at the last second, leaving you to strike the ground instead. Hearing footsteps to your right, you swing the weapon around, striking his covered arm. Withdrawing it just as quickly to swing down, carving a long slash down the front of the ghoul’s chest with the pointed tip.

“Fuck!” The ghoul curses, lashing out with his blunt fists, knocking your quinque downwards, leaving you open and vulnerable to attack, but before he can strike you, the blade of your father’s quinque comes into view. Deflecting the koukaku ghoul’s attack with ease and following up with a quick succession of strikes. Some make contact with the ghoul’s body, but most hit the areas where he’s protected by the hard shell of his kagune.

The two are evenly matched. Their weapons of the same type struck each other with brutal precision, but never hard enough to break the other. Your father attacked at a rapid pace despite his injuries, landing more hits on the ghoul than the ghoul was landing on him. What the ghoul lacked in speed, however, he made up for in strength. You stand behind your father as he fights, tucking the knife back into your pocket so you can grip the handle of your own weapon in both hands.

The sound of footsteps once more hits your ears. Looking left, the bikaku ghoul was running across the railing of the bridge towards the fight. He jumps off high into the air, the kagune wrapped around his leg plummeting towards you with a force you know you wouldn’t be able to deflect. You dodge, your shoulder hitting the ground as you enter into a roll just as the ghoul strikes the ground and cracks the concrete where you were standing. You come to a stop on one knee, your weapon primed for an attack. He bolts towards you, his speed clearly superior to that of his koukaku friend. You preemptively strike upwards, with the handle to the sky first and the blade side of your quinque following in an upwards slicing motion. The blade makes contact with the ghoul’s chest, just as it did his friend before him. The hiss of pain he lets out is sharp, and he stumbles on his feet before you, hands gripping the bleeding wound on his chest.

He spins, his kagune whipping around to strike you in the abdomen before you get the chance to block it. The force throwing you to your back on the ground, quinque knocked from your hand. Just when you expect him to follow up and finish you off, a figure blocks out the moon in the sky above you. One with four tentacle-like appendages sprouting from his lower back. All aimed pointed down towards you. Unable to reach your quinque, you instinctively cover your face with your arms despite knowing it won’t do anything to lessen the damage.

The ground shudders underneath you when the ghoul makes impact. Dust rising into the air and pieces of concrete landing on your clothes and in your hair. You hazard a look from behind your arms, the silhouette of the ghoul standing over you, caging you in with his kagune. He stood wide, feet firmly planted either side of your body, but it’s too dark to see his face. The moon glowing behind him, casting him in an almost ethereal light if he weren’t a monster. He stays there for a moment while the desperate cries of your father sound in the background. He says nothing. He does nothing.

Until he, almost carefully, pulls his kagune from the concrete around you, turns, and walks away. You sit up as you watch him go, dumbfounded for a moment before scrambling for your quinque. As you reach for it, a single blade from the ukaku ghoul pierces the ground, narrowly missing your hand. You whip your head around to see him standing there in the distance at the other end of the bridge, his coat billowing behind him in the wind. That was a warning.

You grit your teeth and snatch up your quinque anyway, rising to your feet with your weapon clasped in both hands. When you look back to your father, the rinkaku ghoul, the leader, had him in his grasp. His tentacle-like kagune wrapped around your father’s bleeding body and hoisted him high in the air, where he dangled almost lifeless. His quinque slipped from his hand and clattered against the ground.

“Stop!” You cry, taking several steps towards the ghouls. “Let him go. Please, let him go. I’ll take him away from here, he’ll never bother you again. You’ll never see us again. Just please, don’t kill him!”

The rinkaku ghoul turns his face towards you. If it weren’t for the distance between you and the shadows obscuring his features, you’d be looking him in the eyes. The air grows thick with tension. One wrong move and he’s dead.

“Look,” you crouch down slowly and place your quinque on the ground, raising your hands in submission. “We’ll go. Just… Just don’t kill my dad.”

The ghouls are statues. It’s clear the others are waiting on the decision of their leader. He nods at you, towards your hip, where the handle of the quinque knife was poking out of your cargo pants. Understanding what he wants, you slowly lower one of your hands, taking the knife from your pocket with the tips of your fingers and lowering it to the ground to sit with the other weapon.

“Please,” you whisper.

The rinkaku ghoul unceremoniously drops your father to the ground and walks towards you, the other two following. Your breath hitches in your throat when he draws near, but he does not attack. Continuing to walk a few paces past you before stopping just behind you as the others continue walking to the opposite end of the bridge.

“This is a kindness we won’t be extending again.”

His footsteps fading away are all you can hear, and when you turn around, The Omens are nowhere to be seen.

You rush to your father’s side, turning him over onto his back; you don't need to remove his coat to see the extent of his injuries. The once light grey fabric is now stained scarlet. He groans when you place his arm around your shoulder and drag him to his feet. Picking up his quinque too and pressing the biometric authenticator to turn the object from a weapon back into a nondescript silver briefcase. “Take this,” you say, handing him his quinque. You’re filled with hope that maybe his condition isn’t as bad as it looks when he takes it firmly in hand.

You take him the few paces to collect your own weapons, hiding the knife in your jacket pocket, and taking your own case in the hand that hangs between you and your father’s exhausted body. You begin the slow process of half walking and half dragging him back to the apartment.

You don’t see a single person or ghoul on the way back, and you can’t help but wonder if that was The Omens doing. You wipe the sweat from your brow as you wrangle your father into the elevator; the stairs are absolutely out of the question in both of your conditions. He slumps back against the metal wall, and you’re grateful to have his weight off you for a moment, stretching out your shoulders and neck and feeling them protest against the strain with stabs of sharp pain. When the elevator dings and the doors open at your floor, you pull him onto you again, wincing with the effort. Stumbling the final stretch to your apartment door.

You swing the door open wide, the hinges groaning against the strain, reminding you that you need to fix that properly sooner rather than later. Leaving the door open, you drop your quinque in the entryway and bring your father straight into the bathroom to once again treat his wounds. The bright red first aid case still sitting in the sink from the night before. He drops to the ground against the bathtub with a thud and a groan, slouching back with ragged breaths.

“I’m going to lock the door, okay? Don’t fucking die,” you warn before going back to the door on long strides. You push it closed, bumping it with your hip to make sure it was shut all the way, then slide the deadbolts into place. Taking your keys off the side to secure the final lock. In a last ditch, paranoia-driven attempt at security, you push the couch across the wooden floor to wedge it firmly against the front door. You can only imagine the noise complaints coming your way from the downstairs neighbours. Hell, probably the upstairs neighbours too.

Now, in the privacy of your own home, you show your signs of weakness. Limping back to the bathroom, trying not to put too much weight on your injured hip, and pressing a hand against the bruising ache in your abdomen. You crack open the first aid case and bring the whole thing to the ground with you. “I need to take your coat and shirt off,” you tell your father quietly. He nods, barely noticeable, but leans forward slightly to make your job easier.

Once the garments were off, the extent of his injuries was made clear. Lacerations and bruising scattered all across his torso, back, abdomen, and arms. All varying in depth and severity, but combined, made for a potentially lethal combination. “How are your legs?” You ask, shuffling backwards to look for signs of actively bleeding wounds underneath his slacks. There are three prominent bloodstains, larger than just accidental blood splatter from other wounds. One on the outside of his left thigh, one on each of his shins. Probably where a ghoul slashed at his legs, just like you did to the bikaku ghoul. With a resigned sigh, you reach for a towel, and just as you did last night, you press firmly against the deepest wounds to stem the bleeding. Rummaging through the kit to find the antiseptic.

It’s dawn when you’re finally finished. The glow of the morning sun greets you warm and bright through the east-facing windows as you close your father’s bedroom door behind you. Pressing your back to the cool wood, you slide down to the ground, stretching out your legs in front of you and resting your head back against the door, closing your eyes just for a second.

Four significantly large and deep lacerations that required sixteen, wide spaced sutures to hold the skin together effectively, and eleven more shallow wounds spread across his body, needing more accurate, precise stitches. You lost count after thirty-eight. The rest of the wounds were surface-level to superficial cuts, needing nothing more than antiseptic and bandaging. Twenty-three total.

“I didn’t know you could use your mother’s quinque,” he had said through bloodstained pale lips.

“Well,” you replied, pulling the stitch tight, “I am my mother’s daughter.”

None of the wounds were organ deep, luckily. Only time will tell if he sustained any internal damage from the blunt force trauma. His pulse was weak and his temperature was too low for your liking, so you tucked him under his covers and even gave him your own from your bed to keep him warm through the night.

Laying back against the door, you couldn’t get the figure of the rinkaku ghoul out of your mind. You barely saw him fight, but your father was right when he said he was unusually fast and strong. Despite that, he didn’t have the characteristic twisted kakuja and lack of control of a cannibal ghoul. The way he caged you in with his kagune, precisely striking everywhere except your body, was nothing but controlled. He could’ve killed you so easily, so why didn’t he? There was definitely something about him that felt odd. There was almost familiarity there, but you’d never fought a ghoul before. Perhaps it was simply the fact that he was a ghoul. Just like the rest of them, he was a monster.

Finally unlacing your boots and slipping them from your sore feet, you stagger as you stand, your body protesting every movement. You go back to your room for your phone and a blanket, setting alarms on your phone every hour to check on your father’s condition. You drop them to the couch pressed up against the door and take your convenience store food from the fridge. Seeing too, the leftover pasta from the night before that your father didn’t eat, you take that as well. Tipping it onto a plate and shoving it in the microwave for five minutes. When it’s cooked, you take your food to the couch and leave it there so you can move your quinque case within arms reach.

You shift the TV to face the couch at a better angle, wrap yourself in the blanket, and settle down on the plush furniture. Turning the TV on to some old western movie to watch mindlessly while you monotonously eat your food.

You’ll shower and treat your own wounds later once you recuperate some strength. For now, the gunslingers kicking up dust in the desert on their horses lull you into a state of relative calm. You realise you still didn’t get the chance to call your friends.

PREV　/　NEXT [coming soon..]

Ending Notes: Okay so a few things. Why is this chapter so long? I really wanted to establish the setting and the characters, but didn't want to post another part with no action or no Noah. I don't know if following chapters will be as long as this one, but who knows! Is the layout of the ward accurate? No, I made it up, don't worry about it. Is a quinque knife a thing? You know what, I thought I made it up but a bunch of characters actually have them. Do I know how to make coffee in a café? No, I had to google the machine and all the part names despite having an espresso machine in my kitchen. Just like a ghoul I only ever drink black coffee lmao. Is this story set in Japan? Yes, technically. Tokyo Ghoul is set in, you'll never guess, Tokyo, but I'm not adhering strictly to Japanese culture and societal rules. Fake Japan. Fanfic Japan.

➤ 𝗣𝗢𝗣𝗨𝗟𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡 (33) :

⌞1𝗌𝗍 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖨𝖸𝖮𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @somebodyels3 ‣ @fadingangelwisp ‣ @english-fucker ‣ @missduffsblog ‣ @amelia-acero

⌞2𝗇𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖢𝖧𝖴𝖮⌝ ‣ @fadingintothegrey ‣ @babygirlchuuya ‣ @bluebird19 ‣ @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard ‣ @lil-garbitch

⌞3𝗋𝖽 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖬𝖨𝖭𝖠𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @thisbicc ‣ @clingylittlebun-blog ‣ @queen-foraday ‣ @astridwesson ‣ @deathofpieceofmindem

⌞4𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖧𝖨𝖭𝖩𝖴𝖪𝖴⌝ ‣ @blairboo ‣ @themorticians-world ‣ @comforting-madness ‣ @savaneafricaine ‣ @tosoundlessdarkistare

⌞5𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖡𝖴𝖭𝖪𝖸𝖮⌝ ‣ @aubrey-melinoe ‣ @badomensls ‣ @theaudraeymarie ‣ @psychomaniacmind ‣ @stardust-and-starlight

⌞6𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖳𝖠𝖨𝖳𝖮⌝ ‣ @looney-goose ‣ @sadbitchenergy ‣ @friedchildblaze ‣ @touyas-princess ‣ @strltsaiuki

⌞7𝗍𝗁 𝖶𝖠𝖱𝖣 - 𝖲𝖴𝖬𝖨𝖣𝖠⌝ ‣ @lovesick-evangelist ‣ @sanekiii ‣ @dravenskye

#noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fanfiction #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG

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iwasntstable · 2 months ago

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𝗡.𝗦. | 𝗡𝗢𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗧𝗢 𝗚𝗢 | 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗨𝗘_𝗢𝗡𝗘

NOWHERE TO GO is a multi-chapter story set in the Tokyo Ghoul universe, centring around Half-Ghoul!Noah and Human!Reader.

Chapter Content Tags: depictions of violence and gore, victims of fire, brief mentions of death.

Word Count: 1k.

Note: Please be aware this story is set in the universe of Tokyo Ghoul, before the events of the manga and anime. It will, however, contain references to content found in the source material. specific content warnings will always be applied at the beginning of each chapter.

✶ [join the NOWHERE TO GO taglist.] ⓘ [GLOSSARY]

➔read on AO3➔➔ ——　/　NEXT

Scenes of violence were not rare in the 13th Ward. Disputes over territories were as commonplace as the fires that consumed whole buildings, occurring almost every night. Outsiders knew better than to move into the chaos, and residents often found it difficult to leave—the reputation of their Ward preceding them. As an area with an exceptionally high ghoul population, the CCG routinely ran operations in attempts to reduce these numbers and regain control. To take back the 13th Ward. To cull entire families and end bloodlines on the utterance of a single order from a single Senior Investigator.

Many knew not to get involved when the screams could be heard. If they were far enough away, it wasn’t worth risking your own life by getting involved. But for those that were nearby, those with friends and loved ones in the flames, it was worth any risk to save them. Charred bodies lined the pavement. Once recognisable faces were reduced to discoloured, anonymous forms, identifiable only by their personal effects.

“That’s my daughter!” Someone cried. “My girl, that’s my girl!”

“No! No, please! Tell me he’s alive!”

“Where is she?! My girlfriend, she went back inside to get her coat. Where is she?!”

“He’s breathing! This one’s still breathing, over here!” A woman waves her arms in a signal for help, soot staining her skin. “Hurry! He’s just a kid!” The flames light the way for the medics, flickering shadows performing a macabre dance across the small body on the concrete.

“Move back, please,” they order. Checking for signs of life; breathing shallow, noisy, and irregular; pulse weak and thready; pupils responsive; extensive burns across the entire body. Weak signs, but signs nonetheless. “We need a parent to provide consent for treatment. Where are his parents?” the medic asks.

The woman kneeling by his side shakes her head solemnly, turning to face the flames.

The first thing he sees is the light, blindingly bright overhead, and the sound of a voice speaking to him softly. He felt no pain, nor did he feel fear.

“Can you hear me?”

He tries to speak, but his voice doesn’t come. Only then does he realise how desperately thirsty he is.

“Here son. Here, drink this,” the kind voice holds a plastic cup to his lips, the cool water soothing the burn in his throat. “Now, how are you feeling?”

“What happened?” The boy rasps, eyes squeezed tight against the light.

“There was a fire. You’re lucky to have survived. It was close for a while, but we pulled it off,” he sounded proud, almost smug. “Can you open your eyes for me, son?”

Through his eyelids, he sees the light overhead disappear, and when he cracks his eyes open, he’s met with the smiling face of a man. A smile that only gets wider as he looks from one eye to the other.

“Oh,” he whispers. “Fascinating… Truly remarkable.” The man pulls a slender, pen-like object from his pocket, clicking the button on the top and holding it over the boy’s face. “Can you look to the right for me, please... and the left...” Following obediently as he shines the light in his eyes, seeing now that he’s looking around the room, a bouquet of flowers sitting on the side table, and the bundled-up form of someone sleeping in a plastic chair.

The man retrieves a notebook from his breast pocket, pulls the pen from the spine, and furiously scribbles some notes. “And you feel- How do you feel?”

“I feel a little tired,” his voice still hoarse. “And hungry.”

“Hungry?” The man’s interest piqued, jotting it down. “Hungry for what, exactly?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Just, really hungry.”

“I’ll ask a nurse to bring you something. We’ll need to monitor your appetite and fluid intake…” He trailed off as he flipped through the pages of his book.

The voice of the boy broke the man from his thoughts, “where are my parents?”

“Oh. Oh, son I’m sorry, but you’re the only one who survived the fire. Forty-nine bodies were recovered. The coroner is still working on identifying everyone-”

“Hey!” A voice from the corner of the room yelled. “Stop it! Get out, leave him alone!”

“Now listen, I am his physician. I’m only trying to help.”

“You’ve done enough.” The boy that was sleeping in the chair stands now between the doctor and the boy, his tone venomous.

“Alright,” the man holds his hands up, any trace of that kind smile now gone. Without another word, he flips his notebook closed, pockets his little flashlight, and exits the hospital room.

“Nick? What’s going on?”

“It’s okay. It’s okay, Noah, it’s going to be okay,” he tucks his hair behind his ear to keep it out of his face, taking Noah’s hand in his.

“Is that true?” He was panicking now. "Nick, what did he mean I’m the only one that survived?”

Tears filled Nick’s eyes. This was something he never wanted to have to say to anyone, let alone his best friend. “I’m sorry, Noah. I’m so sorry.”

He can feel the dread rising in his chest, crawling up his throat and threatening to choke him. The green line on the heart rate monitor screen to his left jolted up and down rapidly.

“That’s not all,” his friend’s voice is quiet, face downcast.

“What do you mean?” Noah’s voice hitches when he asks, wondering how much worse things could get. All Nick does is hand him a mirror.

He swallows down the lump in his throat, hands shaking as they take it. He’s expecting the worst. To look upon his reflection and see a charred monster staring back at him, but as he raises it to his face, everything seems normal. His skin is still smooth and intact, if a little pale. But when he meets his own eyes, he feels like he’s lost the ability to breathe. Because the reflection staring back at him has one perfectly normal, brown eye but the other, pitch black, surrounding a blazing red iris.

One eye of a human. The other eye of a ghoul.

　——　/　NEXT

#im scared #noah sebastian #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens #bad omens cult #C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/SERIES/NTG

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iwasntstable · 2 months ago

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[CREDIT] : gifs by @silent-stories — original source.

He's such a cuddler. You can't change my mind. I know he'd come up behind you and wrap his long arms around your waist, nose buried in your shoulder and neck, leaning into you, and squeezing you against him tightly. Whispering into your skin how much he missed you and how much he loves you.

You, snaking your arms around his waist and burying your face in his chest while he rests his cheek against your head. His arms instinctively encircling your shoulders, hands stroking your back affectionately as all your stresses and worries melt away and are instead replaced with his love.

Him leaning down to wrap his arms around your waist, with yours automatically finding their place around his neck. Your hand, brushing comfortingly, softly through his hair. He rests his forehead against your shoulder and squeezes you so tight against him as he nuzzles in closer. You can barely feel where you end, and he begins. With his large palms caressing up and down your spine, you sway slightly, side to side in each other’s arms, reluctant to let go.

Him, always having a hand on your hip or waist when he passes you by, stroking or patting you fondly. Holding you in place with one arm around your middle while he reaches for something across the table or on a high shelf. Pulling you selfishly close. Trailing his arm, his hand, and finally, his fingertips off your body as he leaves, trying to maintain contact for as long as possible.

Not seeing each other much all day, so when you get a second alone before you both have to dash off again, you lean into him just to feel his warmth and hear his heart beating through his chest. He rubs your back in the embrace. Neither of you need to say “I love you,” because you can feel it in the way you’re instinctively drawn to each other. Always ending up in each other’s arms.

☰ 𝗡𝗔𝗩𝗜𝗚𝗔𝗧𝗜𝗢𝗡

#C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/HCS #off to the psych ward with me I think #noah sebastian #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fluff #fluff #bad omens #bad omens cult #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/FLUFF

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iwasntstable · 3 months ago

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n.s. | stay 'til morning

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➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

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summary: noah never stays until morning, lest the guilt from lying about the depth of his feelings for you destroys him. but the lies both of you tell yourselves are beginning to crumble under the weight of your yearning for more of each other. what will happen when, for the first time, noah stays past the sunrise?

content tags: best friend!noah, fluff, smut aftermath but no actual smut, idiots being stupid, they have a tiny argument

word count: 3.8k.

note: second part to my previous work never just friends (linked above) can be read as a standalone piece. he stayed 'til morning :')

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✉ C:/SYSTEM/APP/TAG

ᯤ 𝗨𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗦 :　 ⌞⬤ 5 𝗈𝗇𝗅𝗂𝗇𝖾⌝ @broken0mens | @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @ultimatekarma | @dixoncider-x @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard

⌞⬤ 4 𝖺𝗐𝖺𝗒⌝ @seven-glass-kids | @english-fucker | @lma1986 @shayzillaaaa

+[MSG : join the taglist!]

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The sun wakes you. Warm beams of light seep through your open blinds, raising the temperature in irregular stripes across your skin. You curse yourself for forgetting to close them. Well, not that you had the chance to, what with the activities you and Noah engaged in the night prior. Heaving a deep sigh, you feel that familiar pang in your chest. You don’t want to do it today. You don’t want to have to get out of bed and face the world like you’re expected to when the burden of your love for him is weighing you down. You don’t want to have to meet up with him and your friends and treat them the same as each other. He’s not the same as them, he’s so much more.

Tears begin to burn behind your eyes. Maybe you should cut him off, stop all of this. You love him, but you can’t keep giving yourself to a man who doesn’t even care about you enough to stay past the sunrise. Devoting yourself to someone who doesn’t see you the same way is no way to live a life, but then again, what is life without him? A single hot tear slips free and rolls down your cheek, you try to blink the others away only to be stunned by the sharp sunlight. You squeeze your eyes tighter against the light, the rays annoying you out of your sleep but not annoying you enough to get out of bed and do anything about it. The sounds of birds outside your window mix in a jovial chorus with the distant sound of children’s laughter. Too upbeat for your sour mood.

Sighing again you try to turn your back on the light, only to find a weight across your body. A familiar tattooed arm slung across your waist. You could’ve sworn you felt your heart stop in your chest. Noah is still here. It wasn’t the sunlight warming your skin, it was him.

His grip tightens on you, pulling you closer, groaning deep from within when he has your back situated flush against his chest. You don’t know what to do, your hand hovering above his. For years you’ve hoped and literally dreamed about waking up to him just once and now he’s here, you don’t know what to say. You lower your hand to his, resting it on top gently. He laces his fingers through yours, squeezing you tightly and burying his face in your neck.

“Good morning,” his morning voice husky and low.

“Morning,” you whisper back.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know, we left our phones out there.”

He shifts and hums against your skin, “mine’s probably dead.” You feel a soft kiss on your shoulder blade.

“The sun’s pretty high though. Might be like, 9, 10 o'clock?”

You feel him move behind you, peeking from behind your shoulder and immediately shying away once the light hits him. “Fuck, that’s bright.”

“Hmm, woke me up,” you grumble.

“C’mere,” he leans back, pulling you with him so you lay flat, and then rolling over all the way to face him. The rays of the sun warm the skin of your bare back. “Hi,” he whispers, a sweet smile on his lips.

“Hi,” you can’t help but reciprocate.

His brows furrow suddenly, his hand moving to your face to swipe at your cheek, feeling the wetness of the stray tear between his fingers. “Were you crying?”

You shake your head maybe a little too fast, “no. The sun’s just so fucking bright.” You feign a laugh and wipe at your eyes trying to erase any leftover evidence of your emotions.

“Are you sure?” he asks, tucking your hair behind your ear and stroking your cheek with his thumb, “you’re not hurting are you?” His eyes flit down your body.

There’s that pang in your chest again. “No, Noah. I’m okay, I promise.”

“Are you sure? You need to let me help you if you are. You can trust me, it’s me. You can tell me if I was too rough.”

“Noah,” you sigh, taking his hand in yours and pressing your lips to the back, holding it there a few moments. “I’m okay. I’m not in any pain, you didn’t hurt me. I told you last night you didn’t do anything wrong and I’m telling you again. I liked it.”

“Then why were you crying?”

You groan and squeeze your eyes closed, biting the inside of your cheek. He laces his fingers through yours again.

“Why did you stay?” you ask impulsively.

Confusion crosses Noah’s features, “wha- You asked me to?”

“Yeah but you’re still here. You’re always gone when I wake up,” pulling your bottom lip between your teeth, you can’t help but notice it feels tender.

Noah stutters over his words, “I- Sorry. Do you want me to go? I just thought-”

“No! No stay,” you insist. Guilt claws its way up your throat and threatens to choke you. You didn’t mean to make him feel bad. “I just- Every time I wake up, you’re gone. Why are you still here this time, what changed?”

He rolls onto his back, his pretty eyes following invisible patterns on your ceiling as he thinks, the prominent crease in his forehead telling you he’s conflicted over something. “I don’t know,” he says with a resigned sigh.

Silence fills the air. The only thing to break it being the birds outside the window.

“I’m glad you did,” your voice barely above a whisper, “I’m glad you stayed.”

“Me too,” he smiles, turning his head back to you. It’s a small and sweet smile, and you don’t miss the way his eyes dart down to your lips, watching as you worry at your bottom lip. Trying to avoid the weight of his gaze you stare idly forward, eyes locked on the patterns adorning his shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”

You shake your head, fighting back the urge to lay all of your feelings out bare for him. You can’t do it.

“You had that look in your eye last night too. I know something’s bothering you and don’t say it’s nothing.”

Rolling flat on your back again and running your hands down your face, you consider escaping to the bathroom the only option to avoid this conversation. You sit upright, holding the bedsheet to your chest and rubbing the last remnants of sleep from your eyes.

“Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom, Noah. Is that allowed?” You snap a little harsher than intended, regretting it immediately.

“No, actually. It’s not,” he sits up too and shuffles closer, giving you no choice but to look at him. “You’re going to tell me exactly what is going on with you because if you think I don’t know when something is bothering my best friend, then you’re wrong.”

You feel your heart fluttering in your chest and a cold chill creeping down your spine despite the warmth of the day. Telltale signs of the anxiety threatening to consume you alive at the prospect of having this conversation with Noah. You weren’t ready. You weren’t ready to lose him. “Noah please, just drop it. I don-”

“No,” he cuts you off, “I don’t know what’s gotten into you but you are not leaving until you tell me, and I’m not going anywhere either. Let me help you.”

“I don’t think this problem can be fixed,” you say quietly with a shake of your head.

“How do you know that if you don’t let me in? What happened to us telling each other everything?”

“Oh my God, Noah,” you cover your face with your hands and groan, breathing deep.

“Oh my God what?” he says your name firmly, in a way that makes your heart seize mid beat, “I can’t help you fix the problem if you don’t tell me what’s wrong!”

You scrape your hair back between your fingers, sucking in a sharp breath, “what’s wrong is I can’t keep giving myself to you like this when you don’t feel the same way about me,” his eyes are wide, mirroring yours, “I can’t keep pretending like we don’t end up in each other’s beds every chance we get! I can’t stop thinking about the way you kiss me and hold me and make me feel special, only to immediately go back to treating me like you do all our other friends. I can’t stop the jealousy inside me when I think of you doing what you do to me to someone else. I thought this was enough, to have you like this, to do what we do but I can’t lie to myself anymore. I can’t keep pretending I don’t love you!”

You didn’t even notice you’d started crying until Noah was kneeling before you, smoothing the tears away with his thumbs and holding your face in his hands.

His voice was meek, barely audible, “say that again”

Your eyes flit between his. So wide and beautiful and full of you. Warm, brown eyes brimming with tears, pleading with you from the bottom of his heart to say those words again.

“I love you,” you yield.

For just a moment, neither of you move. Noah almost can’t believe what he just heard and he’s half tempted to ask you to say it again. But the twist in his heart tells him he heard correctly. Unable to resist, he crashes your lips together in a needy, yet desperately slow kiss. The salty taste on his lips you realise, is not the result of your tears, but his own. He tangles his hands in your hair tightly and pulls you closer to him, almost all the way out of the bedsheets and onto his lap where you sit with your thighs on either side of his. The white cotton sheet being the only barrier between your lower bodies.

He sighs into the kiss, chasing your lips with his and holding you tight against him. Like he was scared you’d vanish in a split second. The way he moulds his lips against yours was deliberate, as though he had all the time in the world to indulge in the feeling of you against him. The sounds beyond your window and the harsh light of the morning fade to a distant hum and a warm glow, leaving just the two of you entangled together like branches caught in a flood.

The anxiety dissipates just enough to let you savour the moment. Enough to be happy in this instant of delusion where maybe, just maybe, he won’t say no. Just enough to cling to him like a lifeline and pretend everything will be okay while he kisses you so deeply you can’t quite feel where you end and he begins. Noah has never kissed you like this before. He might not have turned you away, but that dark little voice in the back of your mind can’t help but think this is a goodbye.

“Can you say it again?” Noah whispers against your lips, “please.”

You peck his soft, reddened lips a few times, unwilling to pull away. Running your fingers through his hair and down his neck, caressing his jaw with your thumbs, needing him to feel it and not just hear it. “I love you, Noah.”

He holds you tightly around the waist, enveloping you in his long limbs and burying his face in your shoulder, nipping and biting at the skin and pressing sweet kisses over the bruises he left last night. “I feel like I’ve been waiting forever to hear you say that.”

Your breath hitches, willing him to continue.

“I’ve wanted you,” his voice soft as he speaks through the kisses he leaves across your skin, “to myself for so long. But I could never do it, I couldn’t risk losing you. Couldn’t risk you not wanting me the way I want you. I thought we could just have sex sometimes and that would be enough to satisfy me, but it’s not about the sex. It’s you. I want you. I want all of you all of the time, you have no idea. The thought of lying to your face hurts me more than I can bear to think about, so I leave before you wake up.”

“I don’t like waking up alone,” you whisper into his hair.

“I’m sorry,” he drags his lips across your collarbones, down, pressing them there to the centre of your chest where he can feel your heartbeat. “I’m sorry I was so stupid. I should’ve just told you, we should’ve spoken sooner. I never meant to hurt you or make you feel unwanted, it’s the opposite of what I want. I should’ve told you sooner,” Noah raises his head to meet your eyes, running his palms up and down your sides. “I should’ve told you that I love you long before now.”

You try desperately to keep from breaking down, but your resolve cracks like glass. Your eyes sting as you blink rapidly, regardless of your efforts, the tears welled anyway. The image of him blurring until your eyes overflowed, tears streaming down your face in a steady, inevitable stream.

Noah breathes your name, brushing the hot tears from the curve of your jaw, “I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you.”

“I’m sorry,” you sob, shaking your head and trying to catch your breath, “it’s just as much my fault, I- fuck-,” unable to get your words out.

“Shh, don’t think about that now. Come here,” Noah pulls your body into his arms and holds you securely against his chest. “I’m here,” he smooths a hand up and down your back, trailing his fingers lightly across your flushed skin, “I’m not going anywhere.”

The promise whispered into your hair and sealed with a kiss to the crown of your head. You sink into his embrace, finally free from the burden of doubt and insecurity that has plagued you so terribly for so long. Feeling his own muscles ease too, shoulders curling in on you, helping to envelop you entirely. The comforting pressure of his arms and the regular beating of his heart help to ground you and soothe your nerves. Focusing on the sound, the tears gradually reduce to a stop and the peace of the moment washes over you both.

“Promise me something?”

Noah pulls away, needing to see your face, “anything.”

“Promise me I’ll never wake up alone again,” your heart hammers in your chest, and as though he can sense it, he rests a hand there, on your sternum.

“I promise,” leaning in so close your noses brush, “as much as I can. And even when I’m not here, I’ll make sure you know I’m always with you.”

One thing you can say for certain about Noah, in all the years you’ve known him, he’s never broken a promise. Whether it be to pick up a snack for you from the store on the way over, or to be the shoulder for you to cry on when your date breaks your heart, he always stuck to his word, big or small. You know your heart is safe with him.

Noah fixes your hair, straightening it out and tucking it behind your ear. “I hate to let you go, but I think we need to check our phones just in case anybody needs us.”

You nod in agreement, leaning your forehead against his shoulder but make no moves to let him go. Neither does he. You cling to each other for a while longer, even after your legs begin to ache and your unclothed skin catches a chill.

Eventually, you lean back. Sighing, you run your hands up his arms, “okay,” sliding off his lap. You run your hands over your face and wipe away the remnants of the tears for hopefully the last time today. Swinging your legs off the side of the bed you look around the room, realising quickly the only clothes on the floor from last night were your’s and Noah’s trousers and underwear, Your shirts abandoned—along with your phones—in the front room.

“Wait,” Noah calls before you stand, sliding across your bed to perch next to you, pulling your face close with a hand on your cheek. His eyes fixated on your red and puffy kiss-stained lips, meeting them with his own in a gentle caress. “Okay,” the smile on his face is contagious.

“I’m going to put some clothes on and go to the bathroom real quick. That is if I’m allowed now?” You cock an eyebrow at him teasingly.

“I think I can permit that,” he chuckles, “I’ll get our phones from out there.”

“You still have clean clothes in the top few drawers over there, remember?” The dresser in the right hand corner naturally became home to more and more of his clothes over the years and nights he spent at yours. A similar feature could be found inside his dresser at his place too.

“Thank you, love,” he pecks your shoulder before standing and heading over to his designated section in your room, missing how your skin flushed at the endearing nickname that felt like it held a whole new meaning now.

You stand quickly, scooping up your sweats from the floor, grabbing clean underwear from a drawer and yanking a random t-shirt off its hanger before slipping into the bathroom and pressing your back against the cold door.

Dropping your clothes on the ground and heaving a quiet sigh, the gravity of the situation felt overwhelming. In a good way this time. The weight lifted from your shoulders left you feeling dizzy with excitement at the prospect of being with Noah. Really being with Noah. You told him you loved him and the world didn’t collapse around you. You told him you loved him and he told you he loved you back. Shaking your head to clear your mind, you splash your face with cold water in the sink, turning around to feel for the towel by the mirror, gazing upon your reflection once your face is dry.

“Oh my God…” you whisper, making eye contact with yourself. Littered all over your body were deep purple marks left courtesy of Noah. Covering your throat and down your neck, across your collarbones and dusted across your breasts. Remembering the beginning of the night you look down at your legs and sure enough, matching plum-coloured bruises mark a pathway up the inside of your thighs, leading to your centre. Your cheeks burn at the memories, praying to anyone who’ll listen that you’re not needed in person for anything for the next few weeks.

You finish using the bathroom and dress, coming out to see Noah, fully clothed now in a hoodie and his own sweatpants, sitting cross-legged on your bed, phone in one hand, steaming mug in the other. He smiles sweetly when he sees you, nodding to your bedside table, “made you coffee.”

“Thanks,” you flop face down on your bed, landing him a playful smack on the thigh.

“Ow! What the fuck was that for?!” he exclaims, eyes wide with shock.

“Covering me in fucking marks again! No make-up on the planet can cover all of these,” your tone lighthearted, voice laced with amusement as you pull down your shirt collar for dramatic effect.

“Oh,” he cracks a smile and sips his drink, “I mean you said you didn’t mind, you insisted, matter of fact.”

Groaning and resting your head on your arms you mumble a “fuck you,” that makes him laugh beside you. You’re glad things didn’t change for the worse. Being able to laugh and joke with him like you normally would being a precious, invaluable treasure.

“Get up and drink your coffee before it gets cold,” he teases, smacking his phone on your butt.

Turning to cast a glare at him, you sit up and reach for the mug, seeing your phone on charge sitting next to it, “thank you.” You tap the screen and cradle the mug in your hands. The time reading 11:47AM, and your notifications rammed with messages. “Fuck, what did we miss?”

“Oh, the guys wanted to play games with us but when neither of us responded they correctly assumed we were together.”

“Ah,” your ears burning at the idea of all your friends seeing right through you both and your flimsy deceptions. “We weren’t very subtle, were we?”

Noah shook his head, tossing his phone to the bed, “nope. Well, to everyone except each other, I guess.”

“Fooled the wrong people,” you joke and sip your coffee—made exactly the way you like it.

“I was thinking,” he started, “do you want to- I mean. I think- I- Fuck,” he shakes his head, hiding behind the red patterned mug he chose.

You can’t suppress the giggle that escapes you, “try again?”

“I just- Okay,” he steels himself and focuses on you, “I would like to take you out. On a date.”

“Noah,” Grinning from ear to ear, you put your cup down as carefully as possible, sliding closer to him on the bed and taking his free hand in yours, “I’d love to.”

He puts his own mug down, taking your other hand and lacing your fingers together in one of your favourite affectionate gestures. “I should’ve done this years ago, I’ve thought about it so many times. I think I have a lot of time to catch up on and I intend to make every single second of it count.”

There he goes, tugging on your heartstrings again. You raise his hand to your lips, kissing the back of it squarely on the flower tattoo that adorns it. “You don’t have to make up for anything. And I’d love to go on a date with you, no matter what it is.”

“I was thinking dinner and a movie tonight? I was just looking at some good restaurants nearby and there’s the new A24 movie still in theatres that we haven’t seen yet, there are still tickets available.”

“That sounds perfect. They don’t need us though, do they?” you ask, nodding to his phone meaning the group chat with all of your friends.

Noah shakes his head, “already told them we’re busy today.”

“Good,” you grin. Coming up on your knees you shuffle closer, letting go of his hands to tangle yours through his hair instead. His hands coming to rest on your hips. You capture his lips in a tender, sweet kiss, stroking your thumb across his cheekbone as you both sink into it. You can taste the residue of his green tea on his lips.

Pulling back just far enough to speak but still close enough for your breath to ghost softly across his face, you whisper “I love you,” against his lips, instinctively smiling when you feel him smile too.

“I love you,” he whispers back. “I have for a long time, and I know you have too. And I’m going to tell you, and show you every day. Forever.”

“I’m so glad you stayed until morning.”

#C:/PROJECTS/MYWORK/ONESHOT #stayed awake til 7am to finish this you're welcome #noah sebastian #best friend!noah #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian x reader #bad omens #bad omens cult #fluff #emotional hurt/comfort #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG/FLUFF #C:/PROJECTS/SEARCH/TAG/EMOTIONALHURTCOMFORT

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iwasntstable · 3 months ago

Text

n.s. | never just friends

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➔𝐢𝐰𝐚𝐬𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞➔➔　𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘈𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘷𝘦!+　　[𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝐀𝐎𝟯]

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summary: your best friend had a bad day, you know how to help fix that. but are these hook-ups too much for your heart to bear when you desperately want more? content tags: best friend!noah, descriptive smut, he edges her like once, multiple orgasms, praise, body worship, aftercare word count: 5.6k. note: gonna write a sfw part 2 (that can be read as a standalone) where these two IDIOTS talk about their feelings :)

+[MSG : second part available now - stay 'til morning.]

+[WARNING : this work is 18+. minors do not interact. NSFW content below cut.]

Your friendship with Noah had to be one of the strongest and longest-standing friendships you ever had. It was a given that you’d be with each other all hours of every day, that he’d come with you wherever you were invited, and that you’d go with him on the wildest outings and music video shoots. Joined at the hip, you two were a package deal.

It got to the point where people stopped asking you if you were dating, or if something was going on between the two of you. The insistent ‘No!’’s every time just made people more confused when they’d then see you pressed against each other in the corner, or thinking you were being subtle teasing each other in public or sleeping wrapped up in each other in the same bed.

You had no idea what you would label your relationship with Noah. He was your best friend, but calling it friends with benefits didn’t feel right. It was something different when you’d get tangled on the sofa, it was different when he’d fuck you better than any of your past boyfriends had, it was different when you’d suck his dick so good his legs would shake and he’d see stars. It was special between you two, but it wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.

It wasn’t love but you’d stopped dating people just after the hookups started. It wasn’t love but he insisted he wasn’t ready for a relationship with how busy he was with work. It wasn’t love but he comes straight to your house every time he has a bad day.

And that’s where he is now, coming in through your door at just past 6pm after storming out of the studio in a huff. He takes off his shoes and leaves them next to yours by the door. Shedding his coat and bag, tossing them over the back of the sofa and finding you in the kitchen after just finishing unloading the dishwasher.

“What’s up?” you ask, instinctively knowing by his demeanour that something was wrong.

He comes straight to you, seeking comfort. Long arms wrap around your waist with his face nuzzled into your neck. You automatically loop your arms around his shoulders, running your fingers through his hair in an easy and natural motion, reflective of just how many times you’d done it before.

“Nothing’s going right,” he mumbled into your neck, words muffled, “Jolly’s pissing me off ‘nd I can’t get my vocal takes right. Support band pulled out of the fuckin’ tour,” he sighs out his frustrations, caressing your waist with his thumbs.

You can tell what he wants—what he needs—but you want to hear him say it.

“What can I do to help?”

“I’m just so worked up. Honestly, I just want to fuck you,” he sighs again, hands sliding under your shirt. “I need to get this energy out and I can’t stop thinking about making you come on my cock over and over again.”

You feel your heart rate accelerate as he begins to brush his lips against the skin of your shoulder and neck. “Okay,” you whisper.

He pulls back, standing up to his full height and looking down into your eyes, “are you serious?”

You search his eyes for any signs he was joking and find none, you nod, “yeah, I’m serious.” You scratch your nails against the back of his neck, feeling his hair—which had grown longer over the past few months—between your fingers as you pull him in. “I wanna help you feel better.”

Noah can feel your breath against his lips as you speak and he can resist no longer, pulling your hips flush against his and crashing your lips together. He pushes you back against the wall and wastes no time taking your shirt off, your bra following immediately after, allowing him to grope at the flesh roughly while his lips work against yours.

You can't help but breathe out a sigh against him, allowing him to deepen the kiss further, slipping his tongue into your mouth and biting at your plush lower lip. You kiss him back with just as much energy, pulling him hard against your body by his shirt, lifting it and indicating to him you want it off.

He breaks away for just long enough to rid himself of the garment and you instinctively move your hands to the next piece of clothing. Making light work of his belt and the buttons on his jeans, you slip your hand inside and slide your palm over his already sold erection.

It was his turn to moan into the kiss now as you pushed his jeans and boxers down, allowing just enough access to let you pump him with your hand. He, in turn, slips his hand past the waistband of your sweats and underwear, immediately running his long fingers through your folds. Noah breaks the kiss to rest his forehead against yours as you both pant.

"So wet for me already," he teased, "have you been thinking about me?" Your breath catches in your throat as he begins to circle your clit precisely where you like it with two fingers. "Hm? You been thinking about how good I can make you come?"

You already feel the heat building between your legs, squeezing your thighs together and trapping his hand, trying desperately to grind down harder on his fingers.

"Does that feel good, baby?" he brushes your hair back behind your ear and cups the side of your face, tilting it up to meet his. You feel his hot breath against your lips when he speaks, "Are you gonna come for me already?"

You can only whine and nod, the hand that was gripping him slowed to broken movements. Noah pecks your lips lightly again, and again as he continues rubbing your clit.

Until he jerks his hand free from inside your pants, denying you the release you were so close to achieving.

"A-ah, fuck! Noah," you whine.

"Shh, it's okay baby," he pulls your face to his and kisses you deeply, "I want you to come on my tongue first." He picks you up with ease, and instinctively you wrap your legs around his hips as he carries you to your bedroom. He barely even needs to look where he’s going to navigate his way through your home, thinking you need to start charging him rent with how much time he spends here.

He nips and bites at your bare shoulder before lowering you to the bed, climbing over you and moulding your lips together once more. You can't help but run your hands through his soft hair, scratching at his scalp and down the back of his neck again.

You’ve been in this position with Noah more times than you can count. You told each other it didn’t have to happen again after the first time, hurriedly dressing and anxious to get back to life as usual. But then you couldn’t stop thinking about him, and you ended up back in his bed, then he ended up in yours. Unbeknownst to you, he couldn’t stop thinking about you either. You both should’ve known that the agreement wouldn’t last. He longed more than anything to feel you that close to him again. To feel your breath against his lips, to touch your skin and hold you, to make you feel good in ways he prayed nobody else could. He was determined to ruin other men for you, and if he’d ask, you’d tell him he was successful.

He told you he was too busy with work for a relationship, that’s why there were no new girlfriends introduced to the group, but that was a lie. He didn’t want to go out on dates and get to know any new people when the only person he wanted to devote himself to and dedicate all the love in his heart to, was you. But he couldn’t pursue it. You were his best friend. He couldn’t bear the risk of losing you, so he resigned himself to only having part of you. It was enough. It had to be enough, he had no other choice.

Noah groans into the kiss, his desire to have you reaching a critical peak. He peppers kisses across your cheek, then down to your jaw, your throat, all the way down your neck and across your collarbones, down your chest where he stops to tease your nipples with his teeth, kissing firmer, harder, until he’s sucking at the skin hard enough leave dark marks all over the tender flesh of your breasts. He peppers kisses down your stomach and across your hip bones, to where he pulls your sweats down the length of your legs, your underwear along with them.

“So beautiful,” he whispers so quietly into your skin. You barely heard it over the sound of your heavy breathing. He kisses your calves and across your knees, he kisses over your thighs and around, into the sensitive skin on the inside, up towards your burning core where you need him the most.

"Spread your legs for me. That's it, good girl," he praises, resting your thighs on his shoulders, a place they've been many times before as he kneels before you at the edge of the bed. Ready to worship you like an idol.

Teasingly, he kisses everywhere except where you need him most, and you're just about to complain when you feel his lips press to your clit. Your hands instinctively go to their place in his hair, running through the dark strands as he intensifies his motions. Working his lips harder against the little bundle of nerves before teasing you slightly with the tip of his tongue.

The sensation makes your hips jerk, but they can't move far. Noah has his arms wrapped around your thighs, palms spread over your hips, pinning them down and holding you so tightly you can feel the muscles of his biceps flex beneath you. You feel him smile, before sucking harshly and unexpectedly on your clit.

"Fuck, Noah!" you cry, your hands tightening in his hair, already highly worked up and close to the edge from earlier.

But he doesn't relent. He continues sucking and expertly running his tongue over the bundle of nerves, repeatedly, rhythmically, until your breathing is laboured and you feel a sweat break out across your skin.

"Oh, fuck. Fuck Noah, don't stop." You move one of your hands to where one of his rests on your hip, entwining your fingers together.

Desperately you try to rock your hips against his face to no success as the heat burns and builds rapidly, hotter and hotter. More intense with every passing second.

"Fuck, Noah! I'm getting clos- I- Ah, fuck!"

He doesn't relent even when your words become incoherent cries. You tighten your grip on his hand and he squeezes back, knowing you’re about to fall apart. Just the last few swipes of his tongue across your clit and that's it. You can't stop your hips from jolting and shaking when you come, the pleasure washing over your entire body like a cool breeze on a hot day. Noah holds you there as you ride it out, slowing his movements gradually until he pulls away, peppering wet kisses to your inner thighs.

He busies himself as you catch your breath, sucking deep red marks into your skin. Ones that'll turn an intense plum purple by morning, but that's alright. The only person who would ever see them is him. You feel your heart rate slow, and your breathing returns to a more even pace. Your hand still holds onto Noah's at your hip.

Satisfied with the marks he’s made on your inner thighs, Noah trails more kisses higher up, back towards your core.

Just now you realise exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into tonight.

He wastes no time diving right back in, licking a stripe from your drenched entrance all the way up to your swollen and red clit. Automatically you flinch when his tongue makes contact again. Noah however, is not deterred. He goes right back in, lapping at your entrance and teasing you with the tip of his tongue.

You grip the sheets by your head this time, circling your hips against his face as he probes inside deeper and deeper. With your heart pounding again, high-pitched cries slip past your lips and your breath catches every time his nose brushes your sensitive clit.

He pulls back to leave open-mouthed kisses against your entrance, "I've missed this," the sounds he’s making obscene, "missed the way you taste." He drags you down closer towards him, gripping one of your thighs and pushing your legs wider to give himself more space.

"Oh fuck! Noah!" you cry when you feel his tongue enter you, the hot muscle teasing your walls in ways only he knows. You grip the sheets tighter, pulling on them and grinding your hips down, trying so desperately to make his tongue reach deeper.

Noah’s breath is hot between your legs, and a sweat breaks out over your skin once again. You pant desperately as he builds your second climax, tongue rhythmically stroking your walls, and his nose—the perfect shape—bumping and rubbing against your clit. His hand holds onto your thigh in a grip you were sure would bruise, and you could hear him moaning against you as he worked.

He was so hard but he resolved to get you off at least once more before making you fall apart with him inside.

“Oh, Noah… Fuck, don’t stop. Please I’m so close again, I’m so-” You gasp and can’t speak anymore, the heat becoming too intense. You feel your muscles tensing again, twitching uncontrollably against Noah’s face as your climax takes over your body. He loves hearing you cry out his name while you’re at the mercy of his control.

“Come for me,” he moves so fast you barely feel the absence of him against your body.

Everything tightens and tightens, reaching an apex until there’s nowhere left to go, and then you finally snap. You cry out his name as your orgasm wracks your body, thighs trembling, Noah holding you through it. His hand, still holding yours tightly.

He helps you ride out your orgasm again, tongue easing in and out, lapping up your arousal unabashedly while you catch your breath a second time. Noah eases your thigh down, smoothing his inked hand up and down the soft skin, rising from his place on the floor to join you on the bed, covering your hips in sweet, affectionate kisses.

“Good girl,” he praises between pecks, “you did so well for me. So good. My beautiful girl.” He kisses his way up your body until he reaches your lips, pecking them gently before deepening the kiss and allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. He kisses down your jaw again to your neck, biting and sucking marks that match those on your breasts and thighs. Knowing he wasn’t yet done.

You card your hand through his hair, enjoying the feeling of being so close to him. His lips on you, feeling the solid muscle of his bicep flex under your hand and his soft hair between your fingers. You want to feel this all the time, you think. You want to kiss him every day and have the privilege of touching him like this whenever you want.

But that's not what best friends do.

This isn't what best friends do.

Unwillingly, you think of him doing this with someone else, and your heart seizes at the intensely bitter envy you feel. Someone else running their hands across his skin like you do, someone else being marked by him, someone else coming undone under his touch, someone else folding at the feel of his lips.

You can't bear it.

But then, really, you were never just friends.

"Hey," he says softly, leaning over you, "what're you thinking about?"

You shake your head as though to shake away the picture of him with someone else, "nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

He chuckles and kisses your chest, "you can't be completely brainless already, I haven't even fucked you yet."

"Why don't you fix that?" smirking and raising your eyebrows teasingly. A grin spreads across his face, his bad day at the studio already long forgotten.

Noah kneels up in front of you and wraps your legs around his hips, his length resting against your abdomen. You can see just how far inside you he'll reach like this, and the thought makes you clench in anticipation. He leans down and captures your lips again, taking his length in hand and guiding himself through your slick folds, you gasp into his mouth every time the head of his cock bumps your now oversensitive clit.

He poises his head at your entrance and pushes in slowly, teasingly, inch by inch until he bottoms out and holds his hips still, pressed against yours.

"Fuck," he groans, his head tipped low, face shrouded by his hair. You notice his breathing has become laboured already. "You always feel so fucking good around me," he leans on one hand by your head, holding your hip with the other and pulls out achingly slow. Pushing back in, and pulling out again. You can feel every ridge and vein against your walls, your mouth falling open in a silent cry, gripping onto his forearm to ground yourself. Despite the numerous times you two have connected, you feel like you’ll never get used to the stretch as he enters you. Noah pulls out once more, almost all the way, before thrusting back in sharply, with enough force that the sound of his skin connecting with yours resounds throughout the room with a SMACK.

"Ah! Fuck!"

He sets a steady pace, leaning back on his knees and holding you by the hips with both hands. He can’t help but stare at where your bodies connect, watching shamelessly as he penetrates you over and over. Groaning out a string of curses and ‘oh God’’s, and feeling a surge of pride that goes straight to his cock. Already so close from entering you alone, he knows he needs to slow down or he won’t last.

Noah’s eyes trail up your body, becoming fixated on the way your breasts move with his rhythm, realising now just how many marks he’s made across your body. He hopes you don’t mind. He loves to see you covered in the evidence of him, be it love bites left across your skin, or your make-up ruined and running down your face from him fucking your throat. You’ve never complained, never stopped him, but he can’t help but wonder.

“Oh my God, Noah…” you breathe, gasping for another breath sharply and gripping your sheets in your hands.

His eyes flit to your face, twisted in pleasure with your eyes squeezed closed. But Noah is selfish, he knows it. He wants your eyes on him.

He bows his head and leaves hot, open-mouthed kisses in the valley between your breasts, pushing your thighs further apart as he bends to reach deeper inside, the steady rhythm of his hips never faltering. His hands trail up your sides, pausing to caress the plump flesh of your breasts, rubbing his thumbs over your nipples and smiling to himself when you arch into his touch with an unabashed moan. Trailing his kisses higher he meets your lips again, briefly, before leaning down on his forearms over you. Your face is so close he can feel your breath fanning across his as you pant beneath him.

He calls your name, “open your eyes, baby.” You obey instinctively. Trying to smile—as best you can with his dick pumping into you—when you meet his eyes. You tip your chin up towards his face and he reciprocates instantly, crashing your lips together in a series of passionate kisses. You lock eyes again when he pulls away, knowing he likes it when you look at him.

“Good girl. So good for me.”

You loop your arms around his neck, hands gravitating back to his hair. He leans his forehead against yours, eye contact maintained when he pulls out of you slowly, enjoying the tight squeeze of your walls as he goes. He wants to stay here forever, tangled up in you. Noah thrusts back in, fast and harsh, enjoying the way your eyes widen when he hits you deep. He does it over, and over. Your legs jolting and tingling every time the head of his cock impacts your cervix.

You’re struggling to keep your eyes open, desperately wanting to squeeze them closed and tip your head back, to cry out his name and arch back into the bed. But the desire to be with him runs deeper. Your mouths are barely an inch apart as your breath falls against each other. His eyes—the deepest most beautiful brown—concentrated on yours, like he’s seeing the very essence of you. With the heat between your legs intensifying and you writhing back against his hips, you feel a deep pang in your chest, like something was squeezing your heart tightly in its grip.

Noah’s chain sways above you, tapping against the skin of your chest with every stroke of his hips. Rhythmically bumping above your heart. It’s him. Of course, it’s him. The thing that holds your heart in a vice-like grip. It’s always been him.

Needing him closer still, you pull on his hair, and dig your nails into the skin of his shoulders, arching your back into him to chase the high. He bumps his nose against yours, fingers tenderly brushing your hair. “You close again?” his voice low.

You nod quickly, foreheads still pressed together, fingers grasping for any purchase they can find against his body, “kiss me,” you whisper.

And there’s no way he can resist when he sees the pleading look in your eyes. He obliges and immediately closes the gap to crash his lips to yours, tongue automatically exploring your mouth, pressing against your own, teeth nipping at your lips. Your soft cries encourage him further.

“Noah,” you whine desperately into his mouth.

“I know, baby. I can feel you,” Noah groans, “be a good girl and come again for me.”

He grunts as he maintains his pace, the building ache in his thighs and lower back burning tighter than any leg training day in the gym, but he does not stop. Sweat drips from his hair onto yours, droplets rolling down his back, and crawling down his silver chain to drip onto your chest. The coil tightens and tightens inside you, the pleasure building higher and higher as your cries grow louder and louder.

“Come for me, I wanna feel you come.”

Until a jolt shoots through you, and your release washes over you with a cry of his name. Back arching drastically up into his body, your hips rolling and spasming against his.

Noah slips his hands underneath your arched back, holding you to his chest and flips the two of you over. He rests upright, his back against the headboard, gripping your hips and bouncing you ferociously on his cock, giving you no time to come down from your post-orgasm high.

"N-Noah! Ah!" you don't know where to put your hands as he hammers into you; holding your breasts as they bounce with the force of his thrusts, gripping his arms, holding onto his broad, stable shoulders, opting finally to lean backwards and grasp onto his thighs.

"That's it, baby," he grunts, "come for me again, I know you can. Come on beautiful."

You feel your climax building rapidly, following on from the last one like rocks tumbling down a hill in a landslide with nothing to stop them from crashing into the ground. The friction of your clit rubbing against his hips is enough to push you over that edge, with your voice choked back in your throat, your legs shake as this orgasm—your fourth—wracks through your entire body.

"Good girl," Noah's soothing voice a sharp contrast to the relentless nature of his fucking. "Good girl, that's it. So good for me. Feel so good…"

You lean forward and rest your hands against his chest, coming down from the intensity of your double high.

"C'mere," he pulls you into him, looping your arms around his neck and holding you by the waist.

You’re unable to stop yourself from crying out into his shoulder when he holds you up by the strength of his arms and thrusts up into you from below, unrelenting as he chases his own high. "Oh my God, Noah!"

"'m so close baby," his voice muffled into your neck, "I'm so fucking close, just- fuck," he whines and pants into your skin, his hips snapping up relentlessly as though he'd never run out of energy.

The burn between your legs never felt so good. You reach a hand down to circle your clit, knowing you can push yourself over the edge again and wanting to come with him. Just one more time.

Your grip tightens on the back of his neck, your chests pressed together and sticky with sweat. Feeling your peak, your walls begin to uncontrollably clench around him. Noah curses under his breath and grips your waist tighter, hips still snapping up into yours and never once faltering.

Your breath hitches in your throat as you come again. Feeling your walls spasming around his length one more time all the stimulation he needed to push him over the edge. Noah slams you down against his hips once, then again, then pinning you down against him a final time, holding you tight as your hips grind back and forth against his.

With his head thrown back, it's your turn now to mark his neck with deep, dark bruises as he groans while he finishes inside you. You feel him twitching deep, his thighs tensing beneath your own, and his abdomen flexing against yours as he comes. Both of your chests heaving, you continue to rock back and forth against him, helping you both to ride out your highs.

Noah cups the back of your head and brings your lips to his once more, kissing you with a slow intensity. One that said 'Thank you. Thank you for being here. Thank you for looking after me.' You kiss him back with just as much fervour, not ever wanting to separate.

You love him.

You know deep down you've always loved him but now you feel it with such an intensity that you might just tell him. But you can't. You can't ruin the precious friendship you already have so instead, you kiss him.

You try to show him how much you love him through the kiss in the hopes that he'll realise it too and tell you he loves you back. He wraps his arms around you, gently caressing the soft expanse of your back and pulling you close as your hips maintain their rhythm against his. You can feel he’s still hard inside you.

Noah takes your hips in both of his hands and encourages you to move, grinding up into you. He kisses you deeply, sucking and biting on your lower lip until it’s red and swollen and he’s moaning deeply, breathing heavily, against your lips.

For the sixth time since he walked in through your door tonight, you feel the heat building between your thighs. This time it spreads out gradually, throughout your entire body, spreading out from your core until you feel it tingling in the extremities of your fingers and toes, seeping throughout your chest where your heart hammers inside your ribcage like it’s trying to break through to reach his, and when you come, it feels like falling softly onto a plush, down bed.

Noah buries his face into your neck and thrusts up into you, with stuttering hips and hands holding you firmly, tipping over the edge easily and coming with you for a second time. Finally relaxing all at once after the rush passes.

He kisses your shoulder as you hold his head tight to you, tangling your fingers in his hair which is now soaked through with sweat, "spend the night?" you whisper.

He nods, hugging your waist tightly, arms wrapped entirely around you, holding you as close as he possibly can before you merge into one person.

Your breathing slows, and you feel a chill run down your spine as the sweat evaporates from your hot skin, allowing the cool air of the night to tickle you. You stay there though, in his arms with your eyes closed, running your fingers through his hair and dreading the moment you have to leave the comfort of his embrace.

Noah’s chest heaves against yours, the dopamine surge making him feel lightheaded. He’s glad you asked him to stay the night. He has before, many times, but always sneaks out of your bed before you wake up in the morning. He hates it, he doesn’t want to do it, but the guilt that comes from denying the fact that he loves you when he wakes up tangled in your embrace and yearning to press kisses all over your face eats him alive. He’s finding it harder and harder every time though. Scared these indulgences may have to stop altogether if his soul gets any weaker. Trying to convince himself again that having just a small part of you was enough. It’s enough.

“Noah,” your voice comes hoarse and quiet against the skin of his shoulder, “can we move? This feels nice, but it’s too much,” the overstimulation from being pressed against him crossing the line into uncomfortable territory.

He nods again, trailing his lips across your skin much like he did in the kitchen earlier. Kissing your collarbones he rolls you both over, lowering you gently into the sheets, continuing to press his lips across your skin as he pulls his length from you slowly. Your nails dig into his arms with a groan at the loss of contact, with him sighing deeply.

Through his kisses he murmurs, “I’ll be. Right. Back,” crawling off the bed and taking a moment to stretch out his long limbs, before heading into your bathroom. You hear the tap run briefly, and then he returns with a towel, damp on one side. He kneels back over you, spreading your clammy legs with soothing hands, cleaning the mess from between your thighs with the damp side, then drying the area with the other. He bundles it up and throws it into your laundry basket after wiping his hands, pumping his fists in the air when it lands perfectly in the centre of the basket.

You chuckle lightly, watching as Noah stretches out on his stomach beside you, laying his head on his arms, watching you breathe through heavy eyes. You roll over onto your side to face him directly, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead and caressing his face. He closes his eyes to relish in the touch. It’s moments like these that blur the line between friend and lover for you both, even more so than the sex.

“You feel better?” you ask quietly, trailing your fingers through his hair and down the side of his face again, taking note of how much more visible his freckles had become from the recent sun exposure.

He hummed and nodded, enjoying your affections.

“Good, I’m glad.”

Noah cracks his eyes open, feeling the insatiable urge to be closer to you. The lines can be blurred just for tonight. He rolls over onto his back, shuffling higher on the bed and pulling the sheet out from underneath him. He slides down beneath it, holding it up and patting the bed beside him, “c’mere.”

Eagerly, you crawl closer to him, curling into his side as he pulls you closer, holding you with an arm around your waist. You rest your head against his chest, trailing your fingers up his abdomen to his chest and back down, following the linework of his tattoos.

“Thank you,” he whispers, sighing and pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, “are you okay? Wasn’t too much?”

“Hmm, no. No, it was good,” the fatigue catching up to you quickly now that you were relaxed against him.

“I know it was a lot, and you never complain but I want to make sure you really are okay,” his hand trails up and down your spine.

“I’m okay Noah, really,” you gaze up at him from where you lay, his expression saying something you can’t quite read. “I don’t complain because I like it. I like everything you do. I’d tell you if I didn’t, even if it’s something small.”

He smiles down at you, pulling you close and kissing your hair again. “Okay, I’m glad.” You sigh again, struggling to keep your heavy eyes open. “Sleep. I’ll stay right here,” he whispers into your hair.

You feel that tug on your heart again, knowing he’ll be gone by morning like he usually is, but grateful to have him in your arms tonight. You snuggle closer, trying your best to savour the moment. To file it away in your mind with all the others. It’s all you have. It’s all you’ll ever have of him and that has to be enough. To be the best friend he can turn to for whatever he needs, whenever he needs it. Even if you know deep down, you were never just friends.

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