#bad omens fic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

familiarscars · 3 days ago

Text

drive you insane | noah sebastian | experiment I

adult content | minors do NOT interact.

⋆ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆. noah sebastian X psychiatrist!Reader.

⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. a mysterious new patient arrives at the Grimshade sanatorium and you have been tasked with taking care of his case.

⋆ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆(𝐒). disturbing environment, violence, unconventional treatments, manipulation, questionable relationships.

Grimshade Sanatorium, isolated Blackridge Island in southern Canada.

Surely, the confirmation that my day would start badly came in the form of a notice about a meeting on the director's floor.

I loosened my shirt collar as I walked stiffly through the empty corridors of the sanatorium, unable to ease the tension gripping my muscles. After the chaos of the previous night, the patients were still confined to their dorms until further notice.

Before pushing the door open, I held the handle for a few seconds. I took a deep breath — and jumped at the deep voice that cut through the silence like a dry gunshot:

“Come in.”

It was only then that I realized how tightly I was gripping the metal, as if trying to mold it in place of the thoughts boiling in my head.

As I entered the room, the thick smell of burnt cigar in the enclosed space hit me with enough force to provoke nausea, but I kept my steps steady until I sat down in front of the imposing polished wooden desk of the great Doctor Steven — the director of Grimshade. The only room in that entire building that didn’t reek of mold, urine, and cheap disinfectant.

“Doctor Rune…” he said, extending a cigar with a slight tilt of his chin — an automatic, almost ritualistic offer, which I silently declined.

“Father.”

“You’re six minutes late.”

I cleared my throat, glancing briefly at my watch just to keep up appearances. I avoided dragging out the subject. I crossed my legs and leaned back in the chair with an impassive expression.

“To what do I owe the honor of the invitation? I’m in the middle of my shift. I don’t usually postpone my sessions to waste time with idle talk.”

Steve pulled his chair closer to the desk, maintaining firm, almost challenging eye contact. His graying hair was perfectly combed, except for one stubborn strand he slicked back right after precisely adjusting the cufflinks on his blazer — an obviously expensive piece, likely custom-made.

We definitely didn’t inherit anything from each other. He was… extremely ugly.

“When exactly were you planning on telling me what happened yesterday?”

“The moment there’s something worth reporting. In fact, I was just drafting my report when I was pulled from the north wing to come here.” I smiled wryly, without humor.

“I’m being serious, Julian.”

“Doctor Rune, to you.” I corrected, raising my finger almost cynically.

“Whatever.” He rolled his eyes, dismissive. “I didn’t call you here for coffee, in case you’re deluding yourself. I was informed that someone prone to delusions caused trouble last night, coincidentally on the same day he left my office.”

I’ve always had a repulsion for stubborn fools — and that was exactly my father’s problem. As grotesque as he was on the outside, there was something even more pathetic in the way people respected him only for what he represented. Just try to hold a professional conversation with him for more than five minutes to realize how ignorant he really was.

But of course, if I exist to clean up the shit he leaves behind, why would he care about any minor detail?

“Exactly what I warned you would happen did happen if we didn’t intervene when the first signs of paranoia appeared,” I said, impatient. “The patient entered a catatonic state with a severe psychotic episode. He was convinced something wanted to come out of him, as if his ‘real version’ was trying to tear through the flesh. The neurosis corroded the structure of his psyche, and he completely lost control of himself.”

I crossed my arms before finishing in a dry tone:

“He wrote a suicide letter and slit his own wrists.”

Pause.

“Luckily, we got there in time.”

Steve remained silent for a few seconds, just drumming his fingers on the wood with an irritating, hollow rhythm, as if trying to provoke me with that repetitive sound.

“You are aware that this regression in the case is your fault, aren’t you?” he stated with his usual arrogance. “They found hundreds of capsules of his medication scattered across the garden, the same ones you asked to reduce the dosage of.”

I leaned my body forward, jaw clenched, but held my composure by a thread.

“I acknowledge that the absence of medication may have contributed to the episode,” I admitted firmly. “But you better get it through that thick skull of yours that keeping him doped up 24 hours a day won’t get you the result you expect! That’s not treatment, it’s mass sedation! You, as a doctor, have the obligation to know that.”

He might be a renowned doctor, a specialist in mental rehabilitation, respected by colleagues and fawned over by universities — but nothing, absolutely nothing in his career prepared him for the worst tragedy of all: facing his own son as a patient.

“Look what a bit of respect and authority does to a miserable thing like you…” he retorted, snorting. “More than two years and all I get are reports about your brother’s constant mental decline. You got him to talk? Great. But no one else saw it. Which makes me think you might be going just as insane as he is.”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I shouted, slamming my hand against the table hard. He flinched for a moment, surprised by my reaction. I was panting, chest heaving, eyes burning with fury.

The silence that followed was thick.

“Why haven’t you brought me any results yet?” he insisted, spitting the question as if savoring each drop of resentment.

I closed my eyes for a second, leaned back in the chair, and ran a hand over my head, trying to reorganize my thoughts before facing him again with more control.

“Because it’s long past time you accepted that Noah has identity disorder — and it doesn’t matter how much you try to deny it, how many people you sacrifice, or how many more years you keep me trapped here trying to manufacture a cure that simply doesn’t exist. He’s not special just because he carries the Blackridge name, Father. He’s just as sick as anyone else in this rotten place.”

“Unbelievable.”

Steve just laughed. A loose, mocking laugh, as he shook his head in denial, like someone refusing to see the tragedy right in front of them.

“What was the point of investing in you? Taking you out of the gutter, from being just another miserable beggar with a life expectancy of twenty years or less on this island? I gave you a home, a name you now reject, food, education, privileges — as if you were one of us. And all that so you could grow up arrogant and now refuse to help my son! You’re not doing this out of charity, Julian!”

My fists clenched against my thigh as the heat rose through my body.

It would be strange if a conversation with him didn’t end up turning into a tally of the handouts he threw at me out of guilt, as if he hadn’t already made me pay for every single one by keeping me trapped on this island as a slave to him and his idiot son.

“Sorry for being the healthy bastard, but I already pay that price every day, having to carry him on my back as if he were mine — as if the one who broke his mind wasn’t you!” I fired back, spitting each word like poison.

I loosened the collar of my shirt in an attempt to shake off the nerves once again and stood up from the chair, determined to leave that room.

It was useless — no matter how long my father had worked as a psychiatrist, everything that fell outside his old manuals was treated as fantasy. Rare diseases or those that required clinical sensitivity were dismissed as inventions, and Noah’s dissociative disorder, to him, was nothing more than an excuse for diagnostic incompetence.

He would rather die than admit that a Blackridge could be… defective.

“I’ve been informed there’s a new investigator on the island,” he said, and the gravity in his voice made me freeze mid-step. “He was hired by the Embleys. He’s digging through everything, trying to reopen the case. I need something more convincing than ‘he pretends to be someone else’… If this goes to trial, they’ll kill him.”

For the first time, I noticed a trace of real concern in his voice — almost imperceptible, but it was there.

“Then I’m doing Noah a favor, Father… He’ll be the first Blackridge not to die by your hands.”

“I haven’t finished talking! Julian!” he shouted behind me.

But I had already left the room. And the echo of my footsteps was the only response.

Beside me walked an intern who, out of pure bad luck — or naivety — chose to begin his career precisely at Grimshade. As we crossed the long, stuffy hallways drenched by rain toward the north wing, he poured out the story of his decision as if it were a grand epiphany.

Touching.

Maybe I should’ve told him there are nicer places for a fresh graduate: elegant clinics, cozy offices in expensive neighborhoods, far from this godforsaken island. But to be honest, I have a soft spot for this type of arrogant beginner. They show up hungry for challenges, ready to apply every code of ethics they parroted in university.

They’re the best to observe.

“Is that so?” I murmured, eyes still on the report I was flipping through, while he trotted behind me with the loyalty of an eager mutt.

“What do we have, doctor?” he asked breathlessly, and I only needed to raise a finger to silence him. Crane got the message, relaxed his shoulders, and adjusted his glasses with a restrained gesture.

“They found the patient unconscious in one of the individual therapy rooms. Everything points to a severe psychotic break. There were subtle signs in the past few weeks indicating this might happen.”

Through the glass, we observed the body lying on the stretcher, still unconscious, with some electrodes attached to his chest.

“This was in the room too.” I handed him a paper, and he frowned as he read it.

“A suicide note?”

“Exactly.”

“During the episode, he believed killing himself was the only way out?”

“Seems so, doesn’t it?” I raised an eyebrow, letting slip a crooked smile. “But, like everything around here… it’s not quite what it seems.”

“Before collapsing, he wrote all this?” Crane asked, still analyzing the note with a mix of fascination and discomfort.

“He did. But what’s interesting isn’t what he wrote. It’s who wrote it.” I crossed my arms, leaning against the wall beside the observation window.

Crane looked at me, confused, frowning as if waiting for a trick. I waited. They almost always try to follow the logic.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Identity is a much more fragile structure than they like to admit in college. It’s not born ready, you know? It’s shaped — slowly, layer by layer — out of a series of experiences, traumas, repetitions. Some people learn to create compartments to deal with things they never should’ve lived through. Others… learn to split.”

“You speak with impressive authority…” he remarked, somewhere between admiration and respect. “I watched some of your lectures — that’s why I applied for both the internship and the research. At the university, they used to say you have the gift of opening a mind without needing a scalpel — that’s how they describe your sessions.”

That’s how they usually describe someone born with a purpose. Since early on, I was condemned to carry the burden of having been born, unfortunately, “perfect” — an unforgivable offense when you’re nothing but the bastard of a lineage like the Blackridges. Nothing remotely resembling privilege was allowed to me; that was reserved for the legitimate sons who, ironically, never earned a thing. For me, only the obligation of proving my worth like a trained animal, always waiting for a scrap of recognition. And with every success, I only fueled the resentment of those who hated to admit the most uncomfortable truth of all: no matter how much money they had, they’d never be able to buy sanity for the mediocre children they spawned.

I was tolerated, shoved among them only out of fear of scandal. But there wasn’t a single day I didn’t carry the weight of the penance they decided to assign to me.

The greatest of all?

My lovely brother, six minutes younger.

Noah.

“You’re saying he…” Crane hesitated, trying to find the right word without sounding ignorant.

“I’m saying he’s not just him. Or rather… he is, but not alone.”

I saw in the intern’s eyes the exact moment he understood — or thought he did.

“It’s not about pretending or dramatic escape. These aren’t performances. They’re autonomous, functional compartments, with their own memories, thoughts, and intentions. He built separate worlds inside his own skull — and let them live for him.”

When my ability to expose the cracks in his behavior and unstable mind became impossible to ignore as Noah grew up, it was like signing my own pact with the devil. I tied two souls to the agreement and proposed something simple: I wanted to study, I wanted the right to use my own last name, but above all, I wanted a financial fund that would allow me never to cross the gates of that house again.

I bought my mother’s freedom in exchange for my own sentence.

The Blackridges, of course, accepted the deal without hesitation — not because they trusted me, but because they were desperate for a solution that wouldn’t stain the family name. They didn’t question any of my demands, as long as I met theirs: all my studies had to orbit around my brother. His brain would be my research subject, his existence my script, his future my report. I could achieve anything, as long as I made that research the purpose of my life.

They wanted a cure — urgent, discreet, effective — but one that didn’t require removing the boy from the island.

I walked slowly to the clipboard hanging outside the door, flipping through the patient file with an almost disinterested care, like someone who had already memorized every line.

“We’ve identified, so far, three distinct manifestations within him. Three voices fighting to coexist in the same body. The first emerged in childhood — it has a more vulnerable trait but expresses itself naturally, winning others over with a kind of magnetic, seductive charm. It’s communicative, approachable... and at times, even charming. The second is a clear response to trauma: instinctive, aggressive, driven by the need for control and defense. It doesn’t hesitate. It doesn’t consider consequences. And the third... well, that one is the most recent. It was born in silence, for a specific reason — abandonment.”

Crane seemed paralyzed. The excitement had given way to fear.

Perfect. This was always the phase when idealists decided whether they would last in this place or not.

“And the patient? Does he know about these divisions?”

“Sometimes yes. Sometimes no. It depends on who’s in control.” I ran my fingers along the glass frame, staring at the patient’s inert body. “He’s a house with many rooms and no master key. He may look empty from the outside, but inside... there’s a real civil war going on.”

Silence.

Crane watched the patient as if waiting for him to open his eyes and confirm everything with a gesture. But he remained still, between wires and sensors, while the machines worked to keep his heartbeat steady.

“Sometimes, the only way to keep something standing... is to accept that it’s already been broken too much to ever become whole again.”

I approached the containment capsule where Noah was sedated, his eyes half-closed, breathing with the same slowness of someone who, instead of dreaming, was being devoured from the inside. Around him, the walls of Laboratory F, beneath Grimshade’s psychiatric wing, pulsed with the ancient dampness of a place that should never have been reopened.

“Observations: dissociative identity disorder, diagnosis confirmed after weeks of intensive clinical observation. Subjectively, I note an unusual response to conventional methodology.” I explained, and the intern readied himself to take notes.

“And what was the methodology used on him?”

“Therapy sessions and medication administration under my direct supervision.”

“Shouldn’t the other attending doctors be present to follow this? I can call them, if you…”

His words trailed off into the air when I shot a serious look over my shoulder.

“I am the only one responsible for the case of my…” I choked slightly before finishing, “...of my patient. Everything related to Noah, since his arrival at Grimshade, has gone exclusively through my hands. I’m the one who prescribes the medication, conducts the sessions, and signs off on every evolution recorded in the file.”

“Understood.” He smiled. “I imagine there isn’t another professional with this specialty around here.”

I took a deep breath and looked away, ending the subject with silence.

While adjusting the levels of the containment serum, I raised my eyes toward the camera.

“This will be the first alternative protocol applied since his arrival. We’re not just looking for diagnostic confirmation, but structural understanding. How does one divide a human being and their personalities without breaking them?” I asked, knowing there would be no answer. “Accessing any remnants of memory he still has… that includes the trauma.”

“I-I’ve never seen this type of approach before…” Crane faltered over his words, his fingers whitening as they crumpled the paper in nervous squeezes.

“I’m sure your next question will be something like: ‘But isn’t this supposed to be forbidden?’”

I gave a faint side-smile, but without any humor.

“...I guess so.”

“We’re in Blackridge. More precisely, in the Grimshade sanatorium.” I tilted my chin slightly. “Here, nothing is really forbidden.”

I paused, locking my eyes on the camera in the corner of the room.

Just… ignored.

The silence was thick like a fluid. And at its center, the metallic sound of connectors overlaid the mechanical whisper of instruments. Noah was fastened to the cranial arc with an almost ceremonial precision. The rusted steel rods slid over his temples as if reading the topography of old pain. Electrodes were connected to the base of the skull with flexible needles, piercing the flesh until they reached the spinal nuclei. Each contact point pulsed with a red, intermittent light. The visual interface rose to eye level.

“Patient positioned. Interface active. Stimulus frequency adjusted to 528Hz — distorted cardiac harmonic. Beginning exposure.” I noted precisely in the report.

The lights began to flicker. First, in white. Then, the images appeared.

A flash of a smiling woman — the tender smile that preceded the collapse.

The image was abruptly replaced by the face of the dead ex-girlfriend, her glassy eyes staring into the lens. Without transition: Noah’s childhood, running through a field, his tiny hand reaching toward someone off-frame.

Then, another overlay: his mother being dragged by the hair down a hallway. The younger sister crying. The father screaming something inaudible, his shirt soaked in blood.

“The dissociative mind organizes itself like a castle with sealed doors. Each trauma seals one, each dissociation invents a guardian to watch over the contents. But there are images... there are memories no guardian can face. When forced in, they tear the architecture from the inside out.”

Noah gritted his teeth. His neck strained against the supports. His eyelids trembled, unable to close. A tear slid down, tinged red. Subconjunctival hemorrhage.

We approached, and I pointed to his pupil.

“The occipital cortex is presenting microconvulsions. Pupils dilating asymmetrically — classic sign of overlay. The primary personality is being challenged. And it… is trying to resist.”

He wrote something down.

“Observe. The blood in his eyes is not injury, it’s a protest. It’s the limbic system trying to expel the intruder. The truth hurts. But it’s at this exact point that the mind can be redesigned.”

The sequence of images restarted, faster, like a sensory whip. This time, voices were added.

“Please, dad… don’t do this…” “Run, Noah!” “You promised you’d help me.” “I never saw anyone besides my own reflection until you showed up.”

Noah arched his body violently. A short, non-clinical seizure. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. The jaw was locked like a rusty gate.

I smiled briefly — more to myself than to anyone else.

“The therapeutic personality tries to react. It absorbed elements of emotional containment. She’s the psychiatrist, trying to calm the chaos. But she doesn’t belong here. That’s why she fragments. That’s why she suffers.”

Crane leaned in, observing Noah’s contorted face.

“Fascinating… Watching someone tear through their own identities as if peeling the skin off their face. And still… still wanting to go on.”

Noah gasped. Each breath seemed to push shards of glass into his lungs. Blood now trickled from his nostrils too, as if the memories were literally bleeding out.

I turned one of the interface dials, increasing the contrast between images — an old technique of sensory overlap to break through subconscious blocks. The screen now alternated dead faces with living ones, voices with distorted screams, like a kaleidoscope of juxtaposed traumas.

His sister’s voice: “Don’t look, Noah. Close your eyes.” The psychiatrist’s: “You don’t have to be afraid of me.” Noah’s own, in a childlike tone: “I’m mommy’s guard.”

Slowly, I pressed a button.

The lights exploded in white.

And then, silence.

Noah’s body went limp for a few seconds, his head tilted, a thin line of blood running down his chin. The heart monitor flickered, then resumed its rhythm.

I wasn’t alarmed in the slightest.

Quite the opposite.

We moved closer, as if contemplating a work of art about to reveal itself.

“The dominant personality is exhausted. The structure sustaining the ‘Self’ has cracked. In this state, he’s fertile ground for the truth. A container ready to absorb, or… to disintegrate completely.”

Crane jotted something down in an old leather notebook, with precise handwriting:

“First structural failure. The psychiatrist won’t withstand the next threshold.”

“Conclusion of Experiment I: Successful stimulus. Somatic reactions confirm active conflict between identity fragments. Signs of acute catharsis. The therapist’s personality is attempting to integrate, but it’s succumbing to wear. It’s likely that… in the next session… she’ll disappear.”

“We’re almost there.”

At least, that’s how it looked. But the pain in my shoulders the result of far too much tension for one body reminded me I wasn’t even close to where I should be. I still didn’t have what my father wanted. I hadn’t yet given him the miracle of a functional son.

“Doctor Rune, may I ask a question?”

Crane — always Crane — slowed my steps in the hallway back to the main wing.

“If I say no, you’ll ask it anyway.”

He laughed, more out of nervousness than anything else. The short, muffled sound echoed between the peeling walls. He adjusted his glasses with his index finger while showing me the notebook as if presenting evidence of a crime.

“From what I noted…” he began, “and also from what I understood… each personality may represent a figure involved in the trauma. But taking into account that the psychiatrist had an obsession with another personality of his… who exactly was she inspired by?”

My eyes narrowed. The question hit like a needle between the ribs. I glanced at him sideways, jaw tight in a smile that never had time to bloom.

“That’s an excellent question, Crane.”

⭑ @bloody-spades ; @iluvmewwwww75 ; @anarchydomainglory ; @foliosgirl ; @lacy1986 ; @chey-h ; @supersquirrel1996 ; @zozaline ; @just-randomm-stuff ; @do-it-jakey-baby ; @flowery-mess ; @youcanreadmy-mind ; @tikosblogg ; @gothic-pumpkin ; @badomensls ; @themorticians-world ; @99png ;

48 notes · View notes

kaliforniahigh · 9 months ago

Text

You usually left Noah to his own devices when it came to recording, writing and producing. You knew he got very focused whenever he was in there with the boys.

But tonight, every single one of them has already left the studio, passing by the living room to bid you a quick goodbye before making their way out of the door. They all looked tired in their own ways, and you wondered how long it would take for your Noah to leave the studio.

You tried to busy yourself watching videos on your phone and scrolling through social media. But as the time passed, you realized it was close to 11PM and you haven't even had dinner yet. Your stomach was rumbling and your eyes were beginning to feel tired. So you made your way to the studio to check on your boyfriend.

Opening the door slowly, you saw him sitting on the chair in front of the computer. You could see the back of his head and his ever growing hair that you loved to grab on to and run your fingers through. He wasn't even moving, just blankly staring at the screen in front of him, and you knew it was time to try to get him out of here.

His broad shoulders were being hugged by his black t-shirt. You loved him in everything he worn, but a basic black t-shirt would always be your favorite.

You lingered by the door for another couple of seconds before you knocked, only loud enough for him to hear and turn around on his chair to finally land his eyes on you.

"Hi, baby", his voice was low and a little raspy, clearly tired after a whole day of singing and screaming into the microphone.

But what caught your attention were his drained eyes. You felt a little guilty for finding the sight before you completely adorable, but you couldn't help it. Besides, you knew he got extremely soft and touchy when he got tired, so that's why you made your way over to him, his arms already extending towards you to rest on your hips.

You got closer to him and ran your hands through his hair, he sighed in pleasure and encircled his arms around you in a hug, resting his head on your tummy. You could feel the ends of his hair prickling your skin through the fabric of your shirt.

"It's already 11PM, baby. You need to eat and go to bed", you told him in a small voice, almost a whisper. The room was quiet and despite the cold lightning, you felt a sense of comfort being here with him.

"Shit, I'm so sorry, honey. I didn't realize it was this late", he murmured into your shirt, but didn't move his head at all.

"I'll get something ready for us to eat, and then I'll be back to get you once it's done, ok?" you asked him, but he made a sound of complaint and you felt his arms tighten around you.

"Want you to stay here. Haven't felt you all day", he nuzzled his head closer as if to get his point across and convince you to stay. He never had to convince you to stay, your favorite place would always be with him.

You moved around a bit in his embrace and settled yourself on his lap, straddling his hip. The position didn't feel sexual at all in this moment. You were both craving some sense of closeness - him more than you - and the feeling of each other's body heat, so you decided to give him what he wanted before you would have to inevitably get up and fix you both something to eat.

You rested your head on his shoulder and he started to move his hands up and down your back.

"How was the studio session today?", you asked him, wanting to know if the reason he was staying here so late was because he was struggling with something, or because it was going so right, he didn't want to stop.

"Started good, but then we hit a brick wall. The guys left to clear their heads and I stayed here to try and sort it out", he mumbled into your neck. You knew that he felt more responsible than the other guys, and you always tried to tell him that this is a team effort, but you knew your boyfriend would always work himself to the bone regardless. And that'd when you would gladly step in.

"How about you also get out of here to clear your head? You can wait for me on the couch while I get dinner done", he knew why you were so adamant on him eating something. Having watched him go to bed without eating one too many times. The thought of you worring about him so much filled his stomach with butterflies. He loved being cared by you.

He finally nodded, realizing he wouldn't get anything done this tired and hungry.

You got up from his lap and he stood up after you, taking your hand in his and leading him out the door. Making your way to the kitchen, you thought he would situate himself on the couch and rest for a bit, even doze off for a while. But he followed you to the kitchen and made a personal home behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his head on your shoulder.

You smiled to yourself, knowing there was nowhere you'd rather be right now. From time to time you gave him a piece of whatever you were cooking - and he gave a hum of appreciation, telling you it was good - and from time to time he gave you a kiss on the neck.

Noah was forever grateful for your presence in his life, knowing that he needed you to bring him back down when his head got too far up in the clouds. He didn't know what he'd do without feeling the heat of your body and your delicate hands on his skin at the end of a rough day.

650 notes · View notes

flowery-mess · 19 days ago

Text

pairing: nerd Noah x female reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI! / shower sex / edging? / unprotected sex / Noah showing signs of dominance I guess? / let me know if there's anything else

words: 2,4k

author's note: well, period hormones make you think of things... and I got a request for nerd Noah smut, so I hope you like it🤭 not proof read sorry lol

nerd Noah masterlist

It all started when Noah suggested you two take a shower together, that he missed you after not spending the whole week together. And who are you to say no to a shower with him.

He lets you stand under the upper shower head, letting the warm water cascade over your curves with your eye closed to avoid the water in your eyes.

His eyes follow a random water drop that lands on your forehead, slides over your face, then down your neck and then over the curve of your breast. You turn around to get a better angle to wet your hair, your ass now facing Noah who’s already making its way to you.

You pull your hair to one side, combing your fingers through it which Noah uses as an opportunity to put his mouth on your shoulder.

You feel the familiar warmth of his lips on your skin, starting with slow kisses on your shoulder and then he slowly makes his way to kiss your neck, your jaw and then your ear.

He stops there and whispers “Open your legs for me.” and then his arms make their way around you, changing the water stream to flow out of the manually used shower head and you feel one of his knees helping you spread your legs to give him more access.

“I missed you.” he whispers again, setting the flow of the water to the strongest level and putting it against your nipple.

You gasp at the feeling, not expecting it. The warm water relaxes your body immediately. You let your head fall against his shoulder and close your eyes.

He moves the shower head to your other nipple, teasing it just as much. Meanwhile his mouth is kissing at your jaw, switching to soft bites here and there.

You feel his hard dick against your ass and feel overwhelmed in a good way by everything your body can feel now.

“Noah.” your moan almost gets lost behind the sound of running water.

“Mhm?” he hums against your skin, using his free hand to wrap around your middle, already feeling you shifting your weight to him, giving into the pleasure.

“Please.” you know he knows what you’re asking for, but you find out very soon that he decided to be a little tease today.

He lifts the shower head higher and lets the water run over your neck and then down your body. Some droplets find their way between your open legs, running over your clit, which just makes you groan in frustration.

“Please, Noah please.” you grip his hand that’s around your middle, hoping he’ll give in.

“Look at you, begging like that.” you feel his cock twitch behind you and you decide to tease him back by rubbing your ass against him.

His hand leaves your waist and gently, but firmly grabs your hair.

“That’s not how you gonna get what you want baby.” you hear the smirk in his voice even without seeing his face.

“Then do something Noah, please.” he’s making you go crazy, the desperation in your voice makes him even more hard and eager to finally get what he missed the nights you spend apart.

“I got you.” his hand that’s holding the shower hand finally moves lower and his other hand finds its way back around your waist, but not stopping there.

He slides it low enough to use his fingers to spread your fold and angling the shower head in a way that the water runs directly on your exposed clit.

He hears you take a sharp breath in and your fingers wrap around his forearm.

You missed him too, falling asleep every night thinking of his touch on you, but you made it without touching yourself, which only made you more sensitive and horny stupid for him now.

You’re sure the flow of the water alone is enough to make you cum, fearing it won’t take long. But that wouldn’t be Noah if he would let you come easy like that. Soon the shower head is moved back to your nipple, making you groan and turn your head sideways to hide in the crook of his neck.

You hear him chuckle against your forehead before he presses a soft kiss there.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good baby, you just have to wait.”

“Don’t wanna.” you mumble against the skin of his neck.

He lets the water run over your nipple for a few more seconds before he moves his hand back down between your legs.

His decisions are based on the amount of pressure you use to squeeze his forearm, everytime you squeeze harder he moves the shower head away from your core, denying you the orgasm you desperately want, need.

“Noah please. Please, please, please.” if it wouldn’t be for the water running down your face from your dump hair the tears of frustration would be visible on your face.

He felt your legs shaking and saw your chest going up and down quicker each second, deciding to finally have mercy on you.

“Okay baby, you can cum for me now.” spreading your folds apart again, he started making small circles with the shower head, making the water flow circle your clit, teasing it and slowly but surely making you see stars.

After all the teasing it didn’t take long for the knot in your lower tummy to snap, your knees almost failing you and pleasure taking over your whole body.

“That’s it, you’re doing so good.” little praises left Noah’s mouth as he watched you have your first orgasm of the night. He was happy with his work here, he let you push his hand away when the water became too much for you pussy, too sensitive.

He switched the water flow back to the one over your heads and used both of his hands to hold you through the aftershocks.

“That was,” you let out a breath and finally opened your eyes to look at him, “so fucking good.”

He smirked at your flushed face and used his fingers to run them through your hair and then pull you in for a kiss.

You wrapped your arms around his middle and kissed him back.

“You’re okay? Wasn’t that too much?” he knew you would tell him if it was, but he still felt the need to ask, because he knew that at one point you hated him for prolonging your needs.

“I’m okay, more than okay actually. We’re gonna be spending every week apart if this is what I’ll get when we’re together.” you smirked against his lips and he frowned at the idea.

“Absolutely not happening.” he said and pulled you in for another kiss, more passionate this time.

You felt his dick against your tummy, screaming for attention.

Your hands slid down his chest before wrapping around his hard cock. It was his turn to grab your hips to get some stability. He was sensitive in your hand, you felt him twitch after every stroke, you felt the pulsing every time you squeezed him just a little bit more.

He knew he wasn’t gonna last long, so he just leaned his forehead against yours, his mouth open as moans were coming from his throat.

You occasionally slipped your tongue inside of his mouth, his own reacting almost naturally and meeting yours in a fight for dominance.

You saw his abs flex and you knew his orgasm was close.

You felt his warm cum on your hands as you continued to stroke him until he grabbed your wrists and stopped your movements.

While giving him a few seconds to catch his breath you kissed his chest, neck and jaw until you captured his lips with yours.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” he breathed against your mouth and let his hands slide down to squeeze your ass.

“I want you to fuck me Noah.” he groaned at your request and grabbed your chin before pulling in messy and aggressive kiss, a one that promised you that he’s going to do exactly that, fuck you so good.

He helped you out of the shower, neither of you bothering to dry your bodies and making your way straight to your bed.

Noah left zero space for you to have some power, pinning you to the matters and kissing you hungrily.

He supported his body on his left elbow and used his right hand to explore your body.

He started with giving your throat a gentle squeeze, something that he learned made you go crazy.

Then he palmed your breast, rolling your still sensitive nipple over in his fingers a few times before his hand made its way to squeeze your hip.

You opened your legs as much as you could, silently begging him to touch you there while never breaking the passionate making out. He pulled away first so he could see your face when he used his fingers to apply pressure against your clit.

Satisfied with you rolling your eyes and arching your back off the mattress, he leaned down to bite the skin on your shoulder. He knew that having more than one stimulation made your head dizzy.

When he felt you’re wet enough to take him he stood up and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He helped you spread your legs and then took his dick in his hand.

He used his swollen tip to gather your wetness and spread it through your fold, sliding between them a few times, teasing your clit while doing that.

“Noah I need you inside me.” you whined while you watched his dick move between your folds.

He repeated his movements a few more times before he easily slid into you.

Your shared moans filled the bedroom as you both enjoyed the feeling.

“So tight, so wet and warm. So fucking perfect just for me.” he leaned down to his elbow again to whisper those things in your ear.

You held him by the back of his neck there, loving the feeling of having him this close to you while he was moving his hips in and out of you.

“I love you.” you said. Sex with Noah was another level of intimacy you never experienced before.

He was the dominant one, sometimes his actions could seem harsh, but it never felt like that. His touch was gentle, even when he used his long fingers to hold your hands above your head or wrap them around your throat. He always made eye contact with you, looking for the smallest signs of discomfort, scared that he’s hurting you. Everything he did was followed by the softest kisses, wiping away the pain even if it was pleasurable.

He lifted his head from your neck and looked you in your eyes, never stopping the movement of his hips when he said “I love you.” back.

He felt you squeeze around him and it made his heart skip a beat, that you don’t only get turned on by his dirty words, but that he gets a reaction like that even with sharing his love for you.

“I love you baby, but I need you to fuck me harder.” you whispered before pulling him for a kiss.

He kissed you back, giving you a few last seconds of this steady pace.

When he pulled away you could see the saliva connecting your lips until it popped when he was standing straight again.

He pulled you closer to him and held your legs against his chest with one hand, using the other one to rub at your clit.

His pace became faster, harder, giving you what you asked for.

Your left hand gripped the sheets under you while your right hand went to squeeze your breast.

Noah’s eyes were on you, flicking between your boobs bouncing from the movements of his hips and your face.

You tried to hold eye contact, but it was too much.

His dick filling you up, his thumb toying with your clit and your own hands gripping your own skin.

“Let go, make a mess on my dick.” Noah said with a hoarse voice when he saw you struggling to hold it together.

He felt your legs shake against his chest when your orgasm hit you, your eyes rolling to the back of your head and hands gripping anything they could.

Your pussy squeezing him made it impossible to last longer, just a few more thrusts and he was coming inside of you.

He collapsed on your chest and you laid just like that for a few minutes, in silence trying to catch your breaths.

“You okay?” he traced his nose along your jaw, inhaling the mixture of sweat and shampoo from your skin.

“Mhm.” you nodded and ran your fingers through his hair.

“Really?” he lifted his head from your chest and his hair fell down, hiding you both from the real world.

“Yeah.” you replied with a soft voice, running your thumb over his cheek.

He smiled at you, his eyes softening like every time he looked at you.

“I love you bug.” he whispered, as if anyone else could hear him.

“I love you Noah.”

You laid with him inside you for a few more moments, before he noticed the goosebumps on your skin.

“Let’s get cleaned up.” he slowly pulled out of you and started getting up. You mirrored his actions and stood up next to him.

“We need to change the sheets.” you said when you saw the wet silhouette of your body, consequences of not drying up after you got out of the shower.

“Can we get the soft ones? The ones you had last time?” it made you laugh how his behaviour was back to your sweet nerd Noah, asking you for the softest sheets you own with an excited face.

“Of course.”

The intimacy never ends when you leave the bed. Noah made you sit down on the edge of your bath and used your hairbrush to gently comb your hair and then dried them with a hairdryer. He lets you do the same to him, holding you by your hips while you run your fingers through his locks, kissing your tummy over the fabric of his shirt.

Then he makes you get snacks while he changes the bedding, waiting for you under the blanket when you come back, with a satisfied face cuddled into the soft sheets, lifting it only for you to get in and cuddle him some more.

dividers by silent-stories🤍

This story is a work of fiction, with the plot and characters entirely made up. The appearance and name of the main male character are inspired by Noah Sebastian Davis, but the storyline bears no connection to the real person. Please do not steal or repost this work on other platforms without permission.

taglist: @lacy1986 @concretejunglefm @super-btstrash-posts @amelia-acero @justcarrie @koskeepsake @dominuslunae @ami--gami @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @lilcrazy011 @pipidoll @chey-h @xmads-omensx @blade-dressed-in-red @respectfulrebel @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @mrscevans @blvckmvgicwoman @punkprincess1999 @fear-its-beauty @bloody-spades @n0n3xsisting @thenmaybehellaintsobadafterall @athenexe @tashka @badomensls @fadingintothegrey @concrtlimits @whatismylifexox @theanarchymuse95 @renegadebirch @theasowle @darknightstarryeyes @montgomery-929496 @kenjipepsi1

#nerd noah #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fan fiction #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian imagine #noah sebastian blurb #bad omens fan fiction #bad omens fic #x reader

162 notes · View notes

concretenoah · 3 months ago

Note

NOAH LOVES TAKING POLAROIDS EXCUSE ME?? You can't just attack me like this

god i am a firm believer that noah loves physical media. and i think he would love taking photos of you. sure he could just use his phone and he does usually, but every once and awhile he'd whip out the polaroid camera to take lil keep sake photos of you. ones that he could keep in his wallet or put on his desk in the home studio. he puts them wherever he knows will give him a lil pick me up. he even brings a bunch of them whenever he's on tour just so he could feel closer to you.

sometimes it's just you being cute, lil smiles on dates with you or when you're in your pjs on the couch with bed head. there's silly ones of you guys together, ones of you and your cat/dog, there's even a couple of you all cuddled up while wearing his hoodie. he couldn't help but snap a photo of you when you look so soft and sweet. these are the moments he loves to look back on whenever he's missing you or feeling down. they instantly bring a smile to his face.

nsfw 18+ below the cut

but noah also has other needs when he's away. he had gotten off to your nudes before and that's when he got the idea to start taking polaroids of you during sex (consensual ofc). he would pack them in a secret spot in his suitcase so nobody else could see them. they were for his eyes only. he learned pretty quick that nothing gets him off more while he's away than looking back on all of the ways you make him feel good. he had some of his fingers playing in your mouth, or teasing your nipples. some of his hand wrapped around your throat. he had some of you laid out for him with your legs spread, aching to be filled by him. he couldn't help it, he has to be able to see your pretty pussy while he's away. it helps him think about the way you taste, or the way you feel wrapped around his cock. he even took some of you while fucking you from behind with his fingers digging into your hip. his favorites though are the ones of you on your knees looking up at him while sucking him off. those pretty eyes, and that perfect mouth of yours. it instantly brought him right back to that moment and how good you made him feel. sure they're just pictures and his hand is nothing like the real thing, but they bring him back to you, all of you.

(don't get me started on the audios you would send him while touching yourself. the sweet sounds of your wet pussy in his headphones mixed with the pictures of you? yeah. he can't help but fuck himself and send you audios right back. AND don't think he wouldn't let you take polaroids of him too. he knows you're just as needy as he is hehehehe)

#noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian blurb #noah sebastian hc #bad omens smut #bad omens blurb #bad omens hc #noah sebastian fic #bad omens fic #noah sebastian x reader #bad omens x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens fanfic #noah sebastian #jadey writes

185 notes · View notes

concretecultist · 11 months ago

Text

Kingdom Come

summary: you ask Noah, your Dom best friend, for a big favor.

pairing: sub!fem!reader x dom!noah

word count: 7.4k

THIS IS PURE FICTION!!

warnings: 18+!! BDSM, restraints, slapping/impact play, light degradation, pet names, dom/sub dynamics, p in v, oral (f receiving), subspace

A/N: this was purely self indulgent. please reblog and comment if you enjoyed 🥰

~Berry🫐

Life was kicking your ass. Harder than normal and the weight of the world was getting harder the bear.

Your job sucked, your body ached all the time and the one guy who you thought was going to be it for you, ended up ghosting you. All of it was a slap in the face and it was even worse when your landlord calls you to let you know the water would be off for a couple weeks due to maintenance issues. You guess you could tolerate it since he’s reducing rent during the time that the water will be off.

So, once you find out this information, you’re calling your best friend to see if you can crash there for a while. He had no problem with it. He no longer had roommates and often found himself missing having someone around.

So when you arrived and got yourself situated after a steamy shower to wash the day off, you find yourself sitting beside Noah with a question burning a hole in your tongue.

“I know this idea is out there but,” you choke on the words and realize how ridiculous this sounds.

“What?,” he keeps clicking away at his controller as he played his game, not taking his eyes off the screen. When you don’t answer, he takes a peak over at you and can see you biting your lip so hard it looks like it’ll bleed.

“Stop doing that,” he paused his game and used his thumb to gently pull your lip down from between the grip of your teeth, “What’s going on. It’s just me, Y/N,”

You look to him, twiddling your thumbs and decide it’s all or nothing, if he says no you guys can just forget you ever said anything.

“I need to turn my brain off,” you blurt out.

“Okay?,” he shrugs as if there was nothing to it, “I can have Folio bring some weed by,”

“No, I-,” you throw your face in your hands, cheeks burning as you think about it, “You are in the…. the BDSM scene and I want you to help me turn my brain off,”

His mouth drops in an ‘o’ shape as it clicks what exactly you mean. His hesitation has you feeling so silly. You should have just showered, went home and rubbed one out.

“Sugar, I’m not exactly sure you know what you’re asking for,”

You were his little sugar cube. Too sweet to know exactly what his life entailed behind the scenes. You never really seemed interested in it before. But little did he know, you were just nervous to show it.

He could be mean at the request of his subs during sessions and you were requesting it now but you were his best friend and he didn’t want to cross that line unless you were 110% sure.

“N-no, no I do,”

He’s briefly talked about his sessions enough for it to cause a burning of desire in your gut. You’ve never been in the scene but with the way things are going lately, you just need to be taken care of, to be manhandled and you’d rather do that with someone you trust.

“Maybe this was a bad idea,” you mumble, humiliated now that you’d expect your hot, dom, best friend to do that for and to you, “I just made a fool of myself,”

The silence that he was giving after your initial ask was gnawing at your emotions, you just wanted to disappear right now.

“Sugar, it would be an honor but if we do this, there’s no going back because I’m going to want you forever,” his words spilled like the smoothest whiskey on the market. Sure, now this sounds like a typical cliche of friends to lovers but what’s wrong with that? Sometimes things like this are meant to become something more. Maybe that’s why long term relationship never worked for either of you… because you two were it for each other?

“Please,” your voice cracks with need. You had showered while he stayed on the couch playing a video game and yet your body is still tense.

“Follow me,” he stands tall before you, extending a hand in which you take easily. You could already feel some tension relieving from simply holding his hand.

He kept his pace slow, easy for you to keep up with as one of his steps equaled three of yours.

He had a spare bedroom that no one was allowed in, not even you and you guys had been friends for almost a decade now. So when he reached above the door to grab the key, you snatched your hand from his and took a giant step back.

“I can’t go in there,”

“Right, without my consent,” he peaked over his shoulder, “But you have that now and then some,”

You looked at him with wary eyes and he dropped his shoulders with a knowing sigh.

“You’re supposed to be relaxing,” his hands made their way onto your shoulders to deliver a comforting squeeze, “This is the way,”

One of his hands is gently cradling your cheek now and it’s so soothing that you can’t help but lean into it and he notices the way your eyes flutter.

He already knows you’re going to be so good for him tonight.

Noah leans his forehead down to yours and your lips are only a few centimeters a part.

“You trust me… don’t you, Sugar?,”

Immediately weak in the knees, noticing he’s already entering into his persona. You nod feverishly against him.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,”

A gentle peck on your lips has you leaning in for more when he pulls away.

“Take your hands off the wheel and let me drive,” is all he says before turning his back to you to unlock the door.

Time seemed to slow down when he pushed it open, a part of you wanted to close your eyes, still feeling nervous about seeing a space he deemed so private that he kept it locked up. Your hand is in his once more with him pulling you through the threshold as he flicks the light on.

Red fluorescent lights filling your vision.

It smells so good in here and you wonder how, considering what possibly goes down based simply off of what’s in here.

The bed frame looks like one luxurious bird cage, bolted to the floor and a sheer canopy draping over it. There’s bars hanging from the ceiling with cuffs hanging from them.

Open cupboards of different items like floggers, paddles then another filled with masks and gags, one full of toys. There’s a full fridge in here with a clear door and you can see different replenishing beverages and snacks.

This is his sex dungeon

“Something like that,” he spoke aloud.

Realizing your thoughts weren’t kept in your head you avert your gaze to the ground.

“I don’t use it much other than personal uses, any time I have a scene with someone I meet them at theirs. I’ve just been keeping this a secret until I found the one worthy to be in here,”

Your eyes widen as you raise your head to meet his.

“M-me?!,” poking yourself in the chest, “I… you mean me?!,”

His shoulders tremble in soft laughter, shaking his head at your disbelief.

“This entire time, I’ve just been wanting to bring you here but you never expressed any interest in the scene,” he played with your fingers in his grasp, something he always found comfort in doing.

“I didn’t know if you’d take me seriously. I’m not exactly… what comes to mind when someone says they want a submissive,”

“You’re exactly what comes to mind,” he brings you to a plush crimson couch, covered in velvet material. When your ass meets the cushions, he’s reaching to a table beside you to light a candle, bringing it over with him as he lowers himself into his knees before you.

“I’m going to go over a few house rules while I get you relaxed okay?,”

You offer a simple nod and he smirks,

“Rule number one- I always need a verbal answer. I don’t want to leave anything to the imagination and possibly misread body language, got it?,”

Swallowing thickly you nod once more, “I understand,”

“Good girl,” his hands make their way onto your calves, kneading the tight muscles, causing an involuntary moan in which you try to subdue.

“Number two, don’t be shy,” he says plainly, “I know this is new but you know me and I’m here to keep you safe so don’t shy away from me. Be as vocal and as emotional as you need to be,”

“I understand,” you answer once more. Your eyes watch his hands, curious when he picks up the candle, the flame flickering in his eyes.

“Three. Trust that I will never hurt you outside of what you ask for,” he tips the candle and a quiet gasp leaves your lips, quickly turning into a moan when the wax drips onto your tired legs, Noah instantly setting the candle down and massaging it into your skin.

“Pheromone massage candles,” he answered your unasked question.

“Four. I usually go by King during these scenes but since this is new for you I don’t want you to feel detached from me so call me Noah until you feel comfortable, okay?,”

“Y-yes,” your eyes cross slightly while his thumbs work into the sore soles of your feet. This was helping so much and just from this simple interaction, your core is buzzing already.

“Five. If you need to stop or directions are not okay or unclear- speak up. I’m going to need you to pick a safeword for me,”

You squirm on the couch, becoming putty in his hands as they move from your feet to your calves and now your thighs.

“Kingdom,” you answer with ease, if he goes by King might as well make it coordinate right?

“Good one,” he plants a kiss by your knee, “Rule six, no negative self talk or thoughts. I may degrade you but I will always follow it up with praise. You are loved and cared about, you understand me?,”

“I understand,” you nod.

“Seven. Have fun and let go. We are here together so remember I will always catch you,”

With his last rule he spreads your thighs, squeezing them to get a reaction out of you.

“Do you have any rules for me?,” eyes dark yet caring in the red glow.

“Don’t hold back,” an embarrassing whimper escapes, “I know I’m a rookie but I can take it and I know you’ll take care of me just…,”

Your hands grab his, holding them tight so he knows how bad you need this.

“Just don’t hold back. I need it, I know I’m safe so I just need you to hurt me, I need you to help me turn my brain off and surrender myself to you,”

Your words from earlier echoed in Noah’s head and he thought they were a crock of shit.

I’m not exactly what comes to mind when someone says they want a submissive

Bullshit. You were perfect.

He wipes his hands on a towel that he kept on the table with the candle, setting it and the candle back in their original spot when he was finished.

His hands are now sheltering your face because he can see your mind is still running a million miles a minute.

“What do you need from me right now?,”

You were embarrassed to say it.

“What were rules 2 and 7, Sugar?,” his voice pulled you from your own thoughts.

“To not be shy and to let go,”

He nodded in understanding, “So why are you breaking my rules and overthinking?,”

God, he was so good at this. The twinge of disappointment in his tone had your heart aching, you wanted to be good.

“Can.. c-can you smack me?,” your voice was barely a whisper and you knew he wouldn’t let that slide.

“Speak up, baby. Closed mouths don’t get fed,” his thumbs were rubbing such comforting circles on your cheeks, you couldn’t help but oblige.

“I need you to smack me,” it wasn’t a plea, it was a declaration.

Noah just reads your face. Studying your expression to see if there’s any doubt, any hesitation. He stands you up and then he leans in to kiss you with a sort of need that you’ve never been kissed with before. You two are breathing heavily in between and you can barely keep up. Your hands tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, just wanting him to consume you.

He pulls away but before you can protest, you feel the searing heat of his open palm meeting your cheek. A gasp of surprise comes from you and yet again you’re left with no time to react when he does it again.

“Fuck,” you mewl, “More,”

He answers your demand with a little more power behind this one, the pain feeling so good you almost fall to your knees but luckily, he held you upright.

“Turn it off,” he says through clenched teeth, smacking you once more. If you were naked you know for a fact you’d be dripping down your legs, “Turn it off, Sugar. I see you trying,”

Hand on your neck, he’s pushing you backward and each step is another slap until he pins you to the wall, you can feel your eyes burn as the tears of desire being to rise.

You need this so bad.

“I said. Turn,” a harder slap, “It. Off!!,” with one more smack, you’re practically howling at how exceptional it felt, eyes closed as you welcome the sting that lingered on your flesh, feeling the heat running down to your neck and up to your temples.

Your head feels like you’re in limbo and when you open your eyes, he can see the change in yours and you can see the change in his.

You’re both in your designated positions. He has his hands on the wheel now. Your brain was off and the part of you that needed to be taken care of has entered the chat, the stressed version was locked away in a dark cell of your mind and would stay there until it was time to let her out.

“There she goes,” his hand soothed your cheek and you were liquid in his hands

“Thank you,” doe eyes shining up at him, he feels so proud of himself.

“Oh baby, it’s my pleasure,” he cooed, “Can you be good and undress for me?,”

“Can you help?,” your body was feeling fuzzy, like you had a few shots and were floating now. You felt like if you tried to undress yourself you’d topple over.

“Of course,” he felt gratified to be asked.

One article of clothing at a time until you were bare in front of him, pinned against the crimson paint on the wall.

“How are we doing? You okay?,” a kiss planted to your neck, his large hands running up and down your body had you sighing in content.

“On cloud nine,” you answer dreamily. You were in a daze, this room felt like your own amusement park now.

A room you once weren’t allowed in because this is his sanctuary. How many others were close to being brought here? How many others did he put in a hypnotic state?

“Put her away,” his gruff voice echoed in your ears, “She doesn’t get to come back. Lock it away,”

He could tell through your body language that you were starting to overthink again.

“Do we need to stop?,”

“No,” rearing back to look him in his eyes so he can see how bad you truly need and want this, “No. It’s turned off,”

“That’s what I need to hear,”

He brings you back over to the couch you were on a few minutes ago but this time he’s sitting on the cushion and he’s positioning you over his lap.

“Think you can handle a few spanks?,”

“Uh huh!,” excitement coursing through your veins, body jolting when you feel his lips press against the supple flesh that he was soon about to tenderize.

But first, he had to feel you. He has to feel your wetness coat his fingers. So his fingers trace figures on the back of your thighs and you’re jutting your ass up to get him to touch you, he delivers a light smack as a warning.

“Patience,” is all he speaks. Slowly but surely, his middle finger swipes your clit and lightly presses into your entrance.

He pulls a long drawn out moan from you when he fully pushes his finger inside. A quiet growl emits from his chest and your toes are curling.

“Noah pleeeeaaase,” you grip his calves, eyes rolling at his slow movement of removing his finger and reinserting it.

“What do you need, Sugar?,” you could hear the smile in his tone. The way he was speaking to you and touching you just made the anxiety melt away.

“Wanna feel your fingers. Always wanted to feel your fingers,” you couldn’t help but be unapologetically honest. For years you’ve watched his hands and how he talks with them, how he uses them to hold multiple things at once, how he sucks on them when he gets ice cream or ranch on them.

But until now you’ve always buried your desires deep.

“Oh yeah?,” without a warning, he’s stretching you open and you’re bracing yourself against his thighs, spreading your legs as open as possible so you’re not falling off his lap.

“You feel so good, Sugar,” he affirms, “So wet for me, so fucking warm,”

His fingers were reaching so deep it was intoxicating, never having experienced anyone with fingers as long as his has you going cross eyed.

“Thank you, Noah!!!,” your walls pulsing around his middle and ring fingers while his free hand soothed your ass cheeks before taking a big strike against them, the sound of his palm meeting your flesh bouncing off the walls.

“You’re so welcome, baby,” he picks up the pace of his fingers and he can feel the way you’re trying to get friction on your clit.

“Nuh uh,” he spanks you once more, “Be good, take what I give you,”

“Please,” singing a beautiful tune, you just want to let go for him, you want to crumble in his lap, you want him to feel what he does to you.

“Please what?,” another strike on your ass and another curl of his fingers inside you.

“W-wanna cum for you,”

“Is that right?,” there’s that teasing tone again, it makes you feel small but it only tightens the coil in your core. He moves his fingers with expertise inside of you and you think you’re about to orgasm strictly off of penetration which is rare for you. You almost always need clitoral stimulation.

“Please. Please. Wanna be good for you, wanna let go for you,”

You two have only just begun and you’re already a mess. You can hear the squelching, you can hear your heart thumping in your ears, you’re trembling.

You’re a fucking mess in his grasp.

“I think we should make your first one easy enough to earn,” he observed, positioning his knee right under your pelvis, adding the perfect amount of pressure as his fingers stroked the deepest depths of you.

“C‘mon, Sugar. Give it to me. Let it out,”

Your nails are digging into his calf and you’re drooling, rocking back into him but he didn’t mind this time, he’s enjoys seeing how desperate you are to cum, not just for yourself but for him.

You want to offer all you can to him. All of your emotions, all of your whimpers and cries, your mind, body and spirit.

“I’m gonna… can I cum, Noah? Please”

He gives a hum of approval and he can feel it, he watched your body swell with a deep breath and watched it deflate as you let out the most beautiful, guttural moan he’s ever heard.

His fingers halt their movements inside of you and he makes sure to rub your back to bring you back down.

“You’re okay,” a soft murmur leaves his lips while he slowly removes his fingers from your soaked hole, sitting you up and repositioning you in his lap so you’re straddling him.

“Be good and open for me,”

You follow his directions and bask in the glory of his fingers pressing down on your tongue, making you taste yourself. You collect your flavor but before you can close your mouth and swallow it down, he’s pushing his tongue into your mouth to taste you.

Your eyes instantly roll in the back of your head, relishing the taste of his mouth sharing the taste of you.

“Need you,” you pull away, hands cupping his face as if he’s made of glass, “Always needed you,”

His gaze softens for a moment, letting you know that ‘regular’ Noah hears you, that it’s not just his persona hearing those words.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” he purred, “You have me, Sugar. Just as I have you,”

With ease, he lifts you up and walks with you to the cupboards.

“Pick a toy, a gag and a restraint and come to the bed when you’ve made your decision,” a kiss is given to your temple and he walks away, leaving you to make your choices without any pressure. He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and makes his way to the bed.

He has so many trinkets to choose from. He just stock piled all of this stuff until he found the one? He really is a stickler for this kind of thing.

After some careful self-deliberation, you grabbed your chosen items and made your way over to him. Noah sat patiently within the doorway of the cage-like bed.

“I chose these,” you offer them to him and he gave an intrigued ‘hmph’

A rose, a silicone bar gag and wrist-to-thigh cuffs.

“Good choices, baby” standing up and kissing your forehead, he moves out of the way so you can see the bed. Silk red sheets, chains hanging from the bars, and the sheer canopy keeping secrets in with just a glimpse of what was to come.

“Climb up,” he pats your ass and you do just that, at a leisure pace so he can get a good view of you from behind. When you sit flat, you see him entering and closing the door behind him.

This feels much more intimate than just any ole bedroom. The lighting, the enclosed space, all of it made you feel closer to Noah.

“Before we start, take a drink for me,”

“But I’m okay,”

“Did I ask that?,” he tilts his head, eyes squinting as if to tell you ‘watch it.’

“I’m sorry,”

He cracks open the bottle and holds it to your lips, giving you a knowing look as if to say ‘I told you so’ when you drink down half the bottle.

When you’re finish he sets it to the side and hovers over you until you’re laying back on your elbows, eyes not leaving his.

“How are we doing? You still okay?,”

“I’m perfect, Noah,” a tender smirk made its way into your face, “I know I’m safe,” you assure.

“Are you okay? I know this kind of thing takes time, just don’t want you to feel pressured,” you inquire.

“There you go overthinking,” he kisses your neck, “For you, it’s easy to turn on. You never took notice to how I always took control? No matter what we did?,”

He’s got a point. Any time you two went out grocery shopping because you were anxious and didn’t want to go alone, he hooked his arm with yours, took your list and did all the shopping. Any time you two went out to the movies, he’s picking your snacks and drinks and doing all the talking. A hand on the small of your back each time you two were out, always helping you zip up your dresses or fastening your necklaces.

It was subtle, but it was always there.

“I was made for you. I was made to take care of you,” he continues his trail of kisses, planting them wherever he pleases, “And you let me. Which means you were always mine,”

A relaxed sigh is released at his words. He’s right and you know it.

“So, knowing this. I’m more than okay and am filled with joy of knowing that I get to break you and put you back together again, over and over,”

Bucking your hips up wasn’t a good idea, considering he pinned them down and got your restraints ready.

“I need this. Noah, please I need you” a shameful cry bounces off the bars of the enclosure you found yourself in.

“I know,” he growled, fastening your hands into the cuffs and attaching the other bands to each thigh. With your hands tied to your thighs now, you wouldn’t be able to touch him.

“You need me to wreck you. To hurt you so that the stressors of your everyday light aren’t plaguing your brain for once,”

He squeezes your cheeks so your lips are parted and lifts your head up to move your hair out of the way so he can tighten the gag.

You looked so beautiful like this.

“I’m here to give you just that,” he grabs the rose, “I don’t care how many orgasms it takes. I’m going to reduce you to nothing and fill you back up with worth again. I will end you and resuscitate you over and over again until you’ve had enough. Is that understood?,”

“Yeth,” you slur around the gag.

“Good,” on his knees, between your legs, he turns the rose on and the low hum fills the space, he leans forward to spit on your nipples before placing the opening of the toy over your harden buds, your back swiftly arching off the bed with a moan around the silicone.

He’s at this for a while, just teasing your nipples, biting at your jawline, groaning in your ear until you’re leaking onto the silk sheets.

You’re begging around the gag but he just teasingly looks at you as if he can’t understand you. But he knows. He knows where you need him.

“It’s a lot, are you sure you can handle it on your clit?,” he smirks so devilishly it’s almost scary. But the twinge of fear makes you ache.

“Mmhmm mmhm!,” already drooling around the bar, you nod feverishly, just wanting to feel something, no, needing to feel something.

You get what you desire when he sits back up on his heels to spread your legs even wider to get a perfect view of your swollen clit, glistening as your arousal is painted all over your core.

When he finally attaches the toy to your clit, your toes are curling, your eyes are rolling and your back is arching.

Maybe you weren’t ready for this, maybe you should have gotten a wand or something.

“Relax,” he says simply, using his own legs to pin yours down.

“Breathe, Sugar. Just breathe. Look at me,” he sees the way your eyes are swimming with tears and it brings him satisfaction, especially when your chest is trembling from him keeping the buzzing toy on your sensitive bundle.

“It’s a lot, I know but I wouldn’t give you more than you could handle,”

He slowly inhaled with you, guiding you to calm you down but it was just too much, so much that you’re already cumming and groaning behind the gag which causes Noah to darkly chuckle.

But he keeps it there. He keeps the rose there and you’re convulsing under him when he sinks his fingers into your messy core.

“That was pathetic,” he looked into your eyes, “And you didn’t even ask,”

He got so much amusement out of your whimpers, how the hell were you supposed to ask with a gag in your mouth?! But maybe that’s the point? It’s a set up for him to milk you as a form of torture.

It was sadistic but, you were the masochist after all.

“You’re so creamy,” he said in a daze, absolutely obsessed with the way you’re painting his fingers, your walls pulsing around his appendages as if they’re trying to draw them in and keep them there.

“Noaaaaaaahh!!,” your cries muffled, your face so wet from the tears and the spit but Noah finds it beautiful, if he could, he’d paint how you looked right now and frame it, get it tattooed even.

“You can do it. You asked for this, remember?” His eyes rolled at the feeling of his fingers deep inside, drenched in your offering, his tattoos glistening, catching his eye in the ruby lighting. He just wanted to be bottomed out in you already.

You’re calling for him from around the gag, breasts shaking as you’re overcome with yet another blinding climax. Your nails dig into your thighs, just wanting to dig them into Noah’s instead and pull him toward you. You wanted him, you craved him.

“Sshhhh. You’re okay, Sugar. You’re doing so well for me,” he picked himself up off your legs and grabbed a rag to wipe the spit that dribbled down your chin, “I’m gonna turn you over, need you to give me one more before you have me. One more and we can take the cuffs and gag off okay?,”

Sitting you up, his hand supporting the back of your head as he checks over you, making sure you’re okay.

“Do you need anything? A break, water?,” he breaks character for a moment

With a verbal “Nuh uh” behind the bar, you let him position you like a Barbie, letting him move your legs, manually arching your back and propping a pillow under your head so you were comfy and could breathe.

You feel him leave open mouthed kisses on your ass, biting the pillowy skin just to hear you hum in delight.

“Can’t wait to give you what you want,” Noah positions himself under you so he can stare right up at your leaking heat, no matter the angle, it was a mesmerizing sight to see, “But first, I just need to taste you.”

He exasperated in desperation before using his hands to grab your ass, bringing you down and lifting his head to feast.

Your fists are clenching in your restraint and your moans are flowing from your chest like a river. His tongue worked your overstimulated clit, suckling and licking. He ate as if you were the finest delicacy, trying to savor but also consuming you with greed.

Your body just responded to him without a fight, you were his puppet and he pulled the strings but you happily danced for him, giving him what he wanted. Yet again you feel his fingers push into you, you’d never get enough of his fingers, he knew how to use them and he knew how to use you. You were a howling mess against the pillow when you feel your next orgasm approaching. How did he expect you to stay up like this? Your legs felt like jelly and you were falling a part.

“You can do it, baby. I feel it. You’re almost there,” he murmured against your pussy, “One more and you can have what you want but you gotta show me you want it,”

Oh God did you want it, and bad! Your head felt fuzzy, your body was playing tug of war, fighting between it being too much versus you wanting it.

You gave in. Pussy pulsing, chest burning from hyperventilating and muscles aching. Despite it all, you’re cumming for him again, giving into your deep craving to just be his doll.

“You’re such a good fucking girl,” he cheers, drinking you in. He pulls himself away to position you on your back, quickly working to remove your restraints and gag.

“Sit up for me, Sugar,”

Your head lulling to the side, both of you giggling about it. He has you drink some more water and cleans your face with the towel again.

“I’m ready,” it was a simple whisper, “Show me what I’ve been missing. Please, King,”

The title takes Noah by surprise. He thought it would take a few sessions to get you fully under his spell but, you truly were for him. You were ready to bow to him, to fulfill every quest he bestowed upon you.

It kind of pulled at his heart strings. Whenever he was out in the scene he only cared about showing the subs a good time, a time for him and them to release and never see each other again. But this, this was euphoria.

“Lie down for me,” he hums, taking off his lounge wear and boxers so he’s bare just like you are.

He was a beautiful man to begin with but to see him like this in all his glory? It had you feeling like royalty. Others got to see him, yes, but you… only you get to see him.

He makes sure you’re comfortable before he inches forward, the tip nudging your clit and he grabbed your hands when you flinched away at the contact, lacing his fingers between yours.

“Don’t run away from me,” his lips were so plump, glistening with his spit and you just know they still taste like you.

“Call it before I ruin you,” he gave you one more chance.

“Do it” it wasn’t a teasing phrase. You wanted it. You have yearned long enough and now your wish is his command. His pins your clasped hand to the bed and takes your free hand, guiding it to his cock.

“Take it,” he ordered.

He was a perfect mix of girth and length, a mouth water red tip that shines with precum, two prominent veins, yeah- he was going to destroy you.

You couldn’t help but stroke him, watching the way his mouth hung open and his eyes closed gently, this is the face of a King all right. Scooting closer to him, not wanting to leave any space, you slapped his tip against your own clit, the breath of both of you hitching in tandem. The noises that emitted from between the two of you, while you rubbing him against your entrance, were sinful.

“Show me what you’ve been wanting. Show me how bad you need me,” he growls, hiking both of your legs around his waist.

You guide him into you slowly, the eyes of both of you going wide, rejoicing in the way he fit in you like a missing puzzle piece, filling you up to make you whole.

“Fuck!,” choking on your own spit, the heels of your feet pulled him in so he could bottom out. You needed to catch your breath because you know once he gets started, you’ll lose it again. He drew in a shaky breath, bewitched by how good you feel.

“Give it to me,” you squeeze his hand, “Make me yours. I want to be yours. Ple- Oooooh fuck!!,”

His hips drew back and snapped into you, cutting you off as the pleasure drowns you. He kept the stacattoed pace, just taking in your expressions.

But then he saw the way you looked at him, it was a look of complete surrender, a look that says “I love you, I trust you”

It was a look to tell him to let go.

So, he used his free hand to take your thigh and press it back so your knee was almost touching your chest. This wasn’t Noah, the King was here and he was going to show you exactly why he was given that title.

You’re pinned beneath him from all angles and it’s overwhelming. His chain dangling in your face with each thrust, his voice smooth like suede as he talks you through it.

“Just like that, pretty girl. Take what I give you,”

Your moans slipped out like a hot knife to butter, he was fucking you through the mattress, bodies tangled and noises echoing through the room, he was making you melt.

“S-so fucking good!!,” the tears were spilling from your eyes and he just kissed them away without missing a beat.

“I know, Sugar,” he bows his head into your neck to leave a trail of bites, sinking his teeth into your dewy skin, your cries of surprise being music to his ears. You welcomed the pain of his biting, he had beautiful teeth and you always wondered what it would feel like for him to bite you. You don’t care if any marks are left. You’re his, he can leave marks for you to brandish all he wants.

“I’m so proud of you,” he grunted into your ear, “Coming to me all vulnerable, wanting me to take care of you and now you’re taking it like the good little slut you always wanted to be,”

“Please!,” your free hand tangles in his hair, your other makes crescent shaped dents in the back of his hand that held yours, “Please, fuck! Don’t stop!,”

Noah lifts his head to see the spaced out look in your eyes, half lidded and dick drunk. He never thought he’d see you like this.

“Please what? Use your words,” he pulls back from you to watch the look of despair on your face when he slows down.

Your words are caught in your throat, finding it hard to make a coherent sentence.

“Please, what, Sugar? Don’t make me ask again” He lets your leg go to grab the bar of the caged bed above your head, preparing to pick up his pace when you admit what you need.

“W-wanna cum around your cock,” it was a strong wail, one of pure carnal desire.

“You need it that bad?,” he teases.

“King, please. I need it so bad!!,”

The wind is knocked out of you as he sets his pace, rolling his hips, the tip of his cock rubbing against every sensitive spot within you, causing you both to be vocal. A harmony unmatched. His whimpers fueling you to make it to the finish line. He wasn’t ashamed of the noises he made, especially because he saw how they impacted you.

He let go of your hand and smacked you just like he did earlier, eyes rolling once again as the heat only adds to the pleasure.

“More, please, please, please!!,”

“Such a dirty fucking slut. Getting off to her King slapping her around like a rag doll,” he smacked you again, earning another loud cry from you, he could feel just how much you love it, he can feel it when you clench around him each time his hand meets your cheek.

“Yes, yes,” your eyes never left his, not shying away.

“You like it when it hurts?,” another slap delivered, “You like it when it hurts knowing I’ll make it all better?,”

“Fuck!,” the tears just keep spilling but he knows they’re tears of release, of pleasure, they’re tears for him. Another offering to the King.

“I’m gonna make it all better, Sugar. Just keep being good and taking it, okay?,”

“Y-yes,”

He grabs your cheeks, squishing them together again so his tongue can slide in your mouth effortlessly. Teeth clashing, spit being swapped, the energy between you two was potent, a potion that you’d keep coming back for, drinking it down without being asked.

“I wanna cum for you,” biting his bottom lip, you pull back with a fucked out smirk on your face, “I wanna make a mess. I wanna show you that I’m worthy,”

“I already know that you are, baby,” his thumb tracing small circles onto your clit, his other releasing the bar and coming to wrap around your neck, “I know you’re my pretty little slut who will do anything to stay in my good graces,”

When his hand began to squeeze at your neck you were done for. Your moans came out in tremors, you were clutching onto him in anywhere you can. You groan at the loss of contact on your clit until his thumb is replaced with the same toy he wrecked you with earlier.

“You’re gonna take this toy from me. You’re going to be a good girl for your King and make yourself cum on my cock. You hear me?,” his voice was dangerously low now, letting you know there was no negotiation.

With a shaking hand you snake your hand between the two of you, grabbing the bulbous toy from him and holding it against yourself despite your body telling you to pull away.

“You’re doing great, baby,” he assures, a soft kiss placed on your lips, “Just focus on me. I’m right here,”

He was so close now. One hand on your throat and the other holding the back of your head, pressing your foreheads together.

“My King,” you gasp, chest heaving as you feel yourself ready to fall off the edge.

“I’m gonna catch you. I’m always going to catch you, baby,”

Your eyes stared deeply into his and you just sobbed, needing this more than anything and you just cried. Getting fucked within an inch of your life so good you’re crying was not something you expected to happen considering your past endeavors with men who only cared about getting their own rocks off.

“I know. I know,” he’s still driving his hips deep into you and you’re circling the toy lightly on your swollen, cum soaked bud, you were almost there.

“Give it to me, Sugar. Give me what you owe me,”

And that was all she wrote.

With one deep gasp to fill your lungs he delivers a strong thrust, your fingers trembling around the toy so hard you accidentally turned it up to the next level and you were done for.

You practically screamed as Noah siphoned your orgasm out of you. You were shuddering beneath him as he kept thrusting, still talking you through it.

“You’re okay. You did so good for me, I’m right here. Fuck!”

With one last searing kiss, Noah is stilling his movements, emptying himself inside of you, both of you practically giving each other mouth to mouth CPR as you try to catch your breath. His head has fallen in the crook of your neck and your eyes are fighting to stay open.

“You can come back down now. Come back to me,” he mutters.

You slowly regain all your senses back. Taking in your surroundings and what just happened. As everything hits you, your cries echo in the room.

“Hey,” Noah is quick to sit both of you up and set you in his lap, “What’s going on in that head of yours?,”

Swallowing your cries and wiping your eyes you search for him, eyes connecting, the same beautiful brown eyes you could point out in any crowd.

“Thank you,” is all you say, “I needed that. More than you know,”

He smiles in relief, worried that the scene had somehow upset you.

“We got to get you cleaned up. We’ve got some aftercare to do and some things to talk about,”

Once both of you were all bathed, Noah took the time to moisturize your skin, apply soothing lotion to your ass and even being gentle in doing your skincare routine for you.

Once he has you curled up in his bed, he went to go clean the other room and brought back some snacks and water with electrolyte packets.

He takes it upon himself to feed you all while affirming how good you were. That you’re loved and cared for, not wanting to leave any room for doubt to sneak in.

“You okay to talk?,” he questions.

You sit up against the headboard, worried about what this talk can pertain to.

“I see the cogs turning, relax,” he soothes, “If you want this like I want this we need to talk,”

“I want this,” you answer definitively. He can’t help but laugh at your excitement.

“I know it’s a little too late to say that I don’t want to rush into things but, I’d like to rewind a bit and start at square one,”

“And that is?,”

“A date,” he answers simply. Sure you’ve gone on friend dates all the time but this is different, this is serious, “I want to build it from the ground up. I know we’ve been friends for ages and have built trust but this is different and I want to build a stronger foundation because I want this to work,”

You take in his words, listening as he goes over his requests and needs for the relationship. You gave him your own list of demands and found yourselves giddy at the fact that yes, you two are a living cliche.

But who cares?

It was you and Noah against the world now.

Til Kingdom Come.

This idea was burning in my head for ages and I had to write it!!

Please be sure to reblog and comment if you enjoyed, thank you for your support!! 🥹

~Berry 🫐

tags: @lma1986 @thisbicc @theroyaldixon @whatitsdecending

#noah sebastian smut #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian one shot #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian imagine #bad omens smut #bad omens one shot #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fic #bad omens imagine

935 notes · View notes

lonelydragonlady · 29 days ago

Text

My god he’s so 😩🫠. Why does he look so soft and melty? I just want to cuddle him. Among other things…

#noah sebastian #bad omens #bad omens band #noah sebastian smut #bad omens smut #bad omens fic

128 notes · View notes

floodflameschosen · 2 months ago

Text

BURNING OUT.

Summary: During the first week of December, a postcard arrives—no name, no return address, just a drunken confession from a stranger who appears to be as lost and lonely as you are this holiday season. Pairing: Noah Sebastian x F!Reader CW: grief, mental health issues (mainly depression), alcohol consumption, open ending Word Count: 11.4k

The postcard arrives on a Tuesday.

You almost miss it at first, tucked between bills you don't want to open and catalogs addressed to someone who no longer lives there—because no matter how many times you informed the magazine that their client’s address has changed, they keep sending the goddamn catalogs every month.

It's only when you're ready to place the pile upon the kitchen counter, intending to just leave the papers there to cluster the space until you eventually muster the energy to toss it all out—as you've been doing with pretty much everything else lately—does the cheap cardstock fall loose and land face up on the floor.

The words are scrawled in messy, uneven handwriting:

“Hey,

I used to live in your house. I’m drunk in Virginia, and it’s the only address I know.

Happy Holidays.”

You read it once.

Twice.

Then again.

There’s no name. No return address. Just a half-hearted message from a drunk stranger who probably won’t even remember sending it.

You should just throw it away.

You should roll your eyes, crumple it up, and move on. But you don't.

Instead, you stand there at the counter, holding it between your fingers, staring at the ink until the letters blur.

Outside, the streets are alive with Christmas lights and half-melted snow, with couples walking around wrapped in scarves and mittens, and with families cramming into local restaurants for holiday dinners.

The world is vivid and bright, covered in a soft winter glow. But not for you.

For you, the season is nothing but cold. Empty. A reminder of all the things you've lost this year.

You used to love this time of year—both of you did. The decorations, the ugly sweaters, the way laughter filled the air like a song you could hum along to.

But now? Now it’s just another month to survive. Another string of days where you pretend the silence in the house doesn’t feel heavier with each passing hour.

The postcard lingers in your hands much longer than it should.

Because someone out there—some stranger with messy handwriting and a bad habit of sending drunk mail, of all things—felt lonely enough, lost enough, to reach out to a place they don’t belong to anymore, like it was all they had.

And you understand.

God, you understand.

So, instead of tossing it straight in the trash and forgetting all about it, you set it down on the counter, smoothing your thumb over the words one last time before turning around to walk straight back to bed.

You haven't got a clue who the person behind the postcard is. But right now, for some unknown reason, you really wish you did.

You don't leave the house for the rest of the week.

Haven't, really, in days. Not unless you absolutely need to.

You're used to the routine by now: waking up too late, then staring at the ceiling for too long, and forcing yourself out of bed only when you can't stand the thoughts any longer.

Once up, you go down to the kitchen and make coffee that goes cold before you remember to sip it, and you eat standing over the sink, not tasting the food.

It’s been like this for a while.

Today, somewhere, someone is laughing—one of those deep, belly-aching laughs that used to live here too, filling this same house, rattling the walls.

Not anymore. Now, the space is quiet. Still.

Grief is a terrible monster. It doesn’t come the way people say it will. It’s not a sudden, crashing wave that devastates you all at once.

No, grief something quieter. Slower.

Grief is a parasite that settles into your bones, feeding on your memories until they're tarnished and rotten, growing stronger by the day, pressing its weight against your chest until it gets hard to breathe and your limbs feel too heavy to move.

It clings. It whispers. It does not leave.

And the worst part? It makes you still. Frozen. Like you’re the one who’s died, while the rest of the world keeps moving.

You think about that sometimes—how the world doesn’t stop for mourning. How people still go to work, still go to school, still go on dates, still adorn their houses with Halloween and Christmas decorations as if nothing had ever happened.

You think about how someone could have walked past him that day, just another stranger on the sidewalk, not knowing it was the last time he’d ever be anywhere.

It doesn’t seem right.

Neither does the silence left behind.

You used to hate how loud he was sometimes—how he filled rooms like he owned them, always going on about something, drumming on countertops, humming, tapping his fingers against door frames.

Sometimes you thought that he laughed too loudly. Talked too much.

Now, all you have left is the silence he's left behind, and it's unbearable. You'd do anything to hear that obnoxiously loud laugh again.

Most days, you still expect to hear his keys jingling in the lock, his voice calling out something stupid as he kicks the door shut behind him.

You still catch yourself turning toward the couch when you pass it, waiting for him to be there, sprawled out with a controller in his hands, feet on the coffee table, because he never listened when you told him not to.

But he’s not. And he won’t ever be again.

That should be enough incentive to make you leave this place, to get out of this house, to push yourself back into a life that isn’t just waiting for him to walk through the door.

But it isn't, and you don't.

Instead, you stay right where he left you and you exist through your days, which by now are all the same.

You consistently wake up late and spend too long staring at the ceiling. Your coffee still runs cold before you remember to sip it, and everything you eat still tastes bland.

Nothing ever changes.

Except for the one new ritual added to that routine: you, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at that anonymous postcard, every day since you got it.

And you wonder why it won’t let you go.

It’s been days, and you still can’t stop thinking about the damn thing.

Maybe it’s because it came at the right—no, the wrong—time.

When the house felt particularly quiet, when the weight of December and the first holiday season without him was pressing in on you, when you felt more like a ghost haunting your own life than a person still meant to be here.

Or maybe it’s because you just want something to care about again. To keep your mind off of things you wish you could just forget.

Whatever it is, it's enough for you to want to know more, and it starts with looking up the brewery it was sent from.

That’s easy enough to find.

A quick Google search, an address in Charlottesville that isn’t too far from you, a website with pictures of the place, and a list of upcoming events—live music, comedy nights, trivia.

No way to connect it back to whoever sent the postcard whatsoever.

Maybe looking up the place should be enough to satisfy your curiosity, but it isn't. So you decide to check the place out for yourself, in person, and maybe look for some additional clues on who this mysterious sender might be.

You shower for the first time in four days.

The hot water stings against your skin, like it’s scalding away something you haven't had the strength to scrub off before now. You stand under the spray longer than you need to, watching steam curl around you, letting it fog up the mirror before stepping out just so you don't have to see yourself in the bathroom mirror.

Once you're out of the shower, you dress without thinking at first—putting on sweats, an old hoodie, your everyday uniform at this point.

Then you pause.

For the first time in months, you reach for something else. Something nicer. Nothing special, but still. A sweater that isn’t stretched out and worn thin. Jeans that fit. You even brush your hair.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

You take the bus to Charlottesville. Miss your stop. Walk the rest of the way.

The streets downtown are slick from last night’s rain, neon lights reflecting off the pavement. Christmas decorations are everywhere—red bows tied to lampposts, wreaths hanging from shop doors, and fairy lights woven through windowsills.

You keep your head down, ignoring all of it, hands shoved deep into your heavy winter coat pockets.

The brewery is bigger than you expected, warm and crowded, smelling of hops and wood and something fried. People laugh, clink glasses, lean in close to be heard over the music playing from the speakers.

You can't help but think that this is stupid—a dumb idea.

Still, you force yourself forward, inside, toward the bar where a bartender with tired eyes and a half-smile leans in to hear you.

“Hey,” You swallow, glancing at the shelves of liquor behind him like they might guide you on what to do next. “Do you guys, uh—get a lot of people passing through here?”

You wince as you ask the question, knowing how stupid you sound.

The guy behind the bar raises a brow, not expecting that.

“Yeah, I guess.” He says, a little unsure, wiping out a glass. “Why?”

You're not sure how to explain this, so you pull the postcard from your pocket, smoothing out the crease you've made from folding it too many times.

“I got this in the mail, from someone who used to live in my house. I don’t know who they are, but—” You lift it slightly. “I figured maybe they come here?”

The bartender takes it, giving it a quick once-over. His mouth twists like he’s trying to place something, but after a second, he just exhales through his nose and hands it back.

“Doesn’t sound like a regular.” He says as he shakes his head.

You frown.

“No?”

“Nah. This is the kind of thing someone writes when they’re passing through, not when they're planning on sticking around.” He wipes condensation off the bar, nodding toward the postcard. “That whole ‘lonely, final goodbye’ thing? Sounds like they were already gone before they even mailed it.”

Sounds like they were already gone.

You swallow.

“The best I can tell you,” he continues, “is to check the event calendar. Look at the performers who passed through in the last month, maybe? See if anything sticks out.”

You should leave—that’s what any normal person would do. Just thank the bartender for humoring them and walk away.

But instead, you glance past him, toward the framed calendar hanging by the register, packed with names and dates in neat little rows.

You hesitate, then sigh.

You've already come all this way, so might as well.

“Can I see that?” You ask, gesturing for the calendar.

The bartender steps aside, letting you lean over the counter to take a better look.

You squint at the tiny print, scanning through a month worth of events—live music, open mics, stand-up comedy. Some names sound like bands. Some are just initials or one-word stage names.

None of them rings a bell, because of course they don’t.

This is stupid.

Still, you take out your phone and snap a picture of the entire thing. For later—not that later will change anything. After that, you tuck your phone away and thank the bartender, finally leaving before you can embarrass yourself further.

Outside, the cold night air bites at your skin. You exhale, watching your breath cloud in front of your face.

Suddenly, you think that he would probably call you crazy for doing this. You can almost hear him now, laughing, amused, and exasperated all at once.

“Jesus, you’re really doing detective work over some random postcard? You need a hobby.”

You swallow hard, throat closing up, because it sounds so real. Like he’s right there beside you, shoving his hands into his pockets, giving you that look—the one that always meant, I love you, but you’re a little insane.

But he isn’t there, and he never will be again.

Your chest aches.

You need to get your shit together.

If this is how you spend your time now—zooming in on a blurry photo of an event calendar from a random brewery, thinking about googling up strangers just to ask them if they perhaps sent drunken mail to anyone lately—it’s clear you don't have much of a life to begin with.

Maybe you do need a hobby.

Walking back to the bus stop, you think about the bus ride here—how you stared out the window as Richmond faded behind you, the hour-long trip to Charlottesville passing in a blur of trees and highways.

How, for the first time in months, you had to exist outside your usual orbit, existing among people who didn’t know you, who weren’t looking at you with pity or concern or asking stupid questions such as “How are you holding up, dear?”

For a second, you almost feel like a normal, functioning person again. The feeling goes away soon enough, though.

The house is too quiet when you get back.

It’s always quiet now, but after the low hum of voices at the brewery, the music, the clatter of glasses and footsteps, this silence is almost unbearable—it presses down on your shoulders, heavy, suffocating.

You take off your shoes, drop your bag by the door, and exhale as you lean against the wall.

You should feel better after getting out, right? That’s what people always say—shit like fresh air, movement, distraction, they're all supposed to make you feel lighter, right?

But instead, it feels like you've aged a thousand years in just a few hours, like the simple act of leaving and returning has drained you of everything.

Or maybe you feel like this because you're here again. Maybe the house itself is sucking you dry.

You rub a hand over your face, pushing away the exhaustion pooling in your limbs, but it doesn’t help. Nothing ever does.

And then, suddenly, you feel it—something ugly, something sharp and cruel, festering under your ribs before you can stop it, because you're miserable.

You're exhausted. You're lonely. And it feels like this is all his fault.

You hate yourself the second the thought creeps in, because what kind of person even thinks that? What kind of person blames the dead for, well—dying?

You do.

Even if just for a split second, you do.

You blame him for leaving you here in this silence. For turning this house into a tomb. For dying and taking everything with him—every sound, every heartbeat, every warm moment that made this place feel like a home instead of just four walls and a roof.

As the thoughts creep in, you press the heel of your hands against your eyes, tears burning behind closed eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

To yourself. To him. To the empty, hollow space left between you.

But the silence doesn’t answer.

It never does.

You tell yourself you’ll stop at number five.

Five quick searches, then you’re done.

It’s not obsession—it’s just curiosity. And curiosity is harmless.

You sit on the edge of your bed, knees pulled up, laptop glowing against the dark of your room. The picture of the event calendar is open on your phone, the names blurry from where you zoomed in too much.

You pick one name at random and type it into Google.

The first act is a local band. Their website is an abandoned Tumblr page, and their two songs on Spotify sound like they were recorded in someone’s basement with a single, malfunctioning microphone. No mention of a solo traveler sending drunken postcards, of course.

Next.

The second is an indie-folk duo. Their Instagram is filled with aesthetic black and white photos—sunsets, coffee cups, grainy shots of them performing in tiny bars.

You scroll through, looking for anything—posts about being on the road, about traveling alone, about missing home.

Nothing.

Next.

The third is a singer-songwriter with a meticulously curated social media presence. He posts inspirational quotes under every video, smiling like he has never known a bad day in his life.

You click out of his page immediately.

Next.

The fourth is a stand-up comedian.

Big mistake—you watch exactly thirty seconds of a YouTube video before slamming the laptop shut.

He’s the kind of guy who thinks being loud is the same as being funny, the kind who makes jokes about “cancel culture” and “snowflakes” while wearing a t-shirt with a terrible pun on it.

It's so bad you give up before search number five.

Jesus Christ. This is pointless.

You exhale sharply, tossing your phone onto the bed.

The bartender was right.

This person—whoever they are—is probably long gone, leaving behind nothing but a wasted postcard and a stranger wasting their time on it.

So you shove the postcard into your bedside drawer, and that’s the end of it. You're done playing detective.

Days pass.

Or maybe it’s the same endless day, repeating over and over, like a tape stuck on loop.

You wake up. You shower when you manage to conjure up the energy. You eat when you remember to. You sleep when you can.

The cold settles deeper into the city, pressing against the windows, making the streets feel haunted. The nights stretch longer, swallowing the days whole.

Nothing changes.

You don’t check the drawer. You don’t think about the postcard. Not really.

But sometimes, when you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, you wonder—did they ever make it home, wherever that may be? Do they even remember sending it?

Would they care if they knew a stranger was looking for them, holding onto their words like they meant something?

You don’t have answers, of course.

And you won’t find them, because you’re done looking.

Two days later, you wake up to the sound of something scraping against the semi-frozen ground outside.

It drags and scrapes, again and again, rhythmic but uneven—like someone is digging.

For a long moment, you lie in bed, mind heavy with sleep, not sure if you’re still dreaming or if your mind is simply playing tricks on you.

The house has been so quiet these past months, an unbearable kind of silence, like you're stuck in a soundless limbo.

You’ve spent so many nights staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the heater and the occasional creaks of the old house settling, that you're used to the weird noises.

But this—this is different.

You slowly sit up, ears straining, head foggy and pulse sluggish. Then, there it is again. A dull thud. A scrape. A pause. Then another thud—someone is definitely digging.

You push back the covers, shivering as the cold air bites at your skin even through your hoodie. The clock on the nightstand glares back at you—3:14 AM.

Who the hell could be outside your window, digging, at this hour?

Heart hammering, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and move toward the window, peeling back the curtain just enough to see outside, breath fogging up the glass as you scan the yard below. The dim light of the lamp post isn't much help, but you strain your eyes and focus, and then you see it—a tall, dark figure crouched near your dying garden, a shovel in hand.

Your breath catches, rage and fear flaring hot in your chest. There is a stranger outside your house, messing about in the yard.

No—the garden.

His garden.

He’d spent so many mornings out there, drinking his coffee and pulling weeds, talking to the plants like they were old friends. He loved that garden, and you haven’t touched it since he died.

The frost has taken over, creeping along the dead stems, claiming the once vibrant space. And now—now some stranger is out there, digging around in it?

You let the curtain fall back into place and spin around, adrenaline buzzing beneath your skin. You don’t even hesitate—just head straight for the bedroom door, movements sharp and purposeful.

You don’t bother turning on any lights as you make your way downstairs. Your fingers hover over the switch near the front door, but you stop yourself. If someone’s really out there, and if they happen to be dangerous, you don’t want to alert them of your whereabouts.

Instead, you leave the lights out and reach for the baseball bat that still rests behind the entrance door, untouched for months. It was his idea to keep it there—“Just in case,” he used to say, grinning as he twirled it in his hands.

He would laugh if he could see you now, clutching it in your freezing fingers, about to walk outside and confront some lunatic who apparently decided your yard was prime real estate for digging.

You crack the door open, bracing against the rush of icy wind. The porch light flickers on automatically, its dim glow illuminating the yard, causing the man to startle so hard he nearly falls over, dropping the shovel with a dull clank against the frozen ground.

He turns to face you, hands raised in surrender, eyes wide.

And, okay—what the hell?

He’s tall. Ridiculously tall. And covered in tattoos. Dark ink snakes up his hands, his arms, disappearing beneath the pulled-up sleeves of his black hoodie. You can also see ink all over his neck.

His long, messy hair falls over his face, and even in the dim porch light, you can see the wide-eyed panic in his dark eyes.

“Shit—okay, wait—listen,” he stammers, stepping back. His breath curls into the air in white plumes, and he sways slightly, unsteady on his feet.

Is he drunk?

“You have ten seconds to explain before I start swinging.” You say as you tighten your grip on the bat, jaw clenched.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“Okay, look, this—” He says, gesturing vaguely toward the considerably large hole in the ground. “This isn’t as bad as it looks.”

“Oh, really? Because it sure looks like you’re desecrating my yard in the middle of the goddamn night!”

“I—yeah, okay, that’s fair,” he says quickly, slurring his words a bit. Definitely at least a little tipsy, then. “But I can explain.”

“Then explain.”

He swallows hard, hands once again raised in surrender, palms out. His fingers are freakishly long.

“I used to live here, alright? A long time ago. And, uh…” He yet again gestures vaguely at the hole he was digging. “When I was a kid, I buried a time capsule here. Like, a treasure box? And I just—I don’t know, I wanted to see if it was still here. Get it back, hopefully.”

You stare at him, disbelief mixing with irritation.

“You’re telling me you broke into my yard at three in the morning, in the middle of December, to dig up some childhood treasure chest?”

He shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortably sheepish.

“Yeah, but—look, it’s not just some stupid thing. It’s important. You have no idea how much it means to me. I… I need to find it. It’s—” He glances at the hole again, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. “It’s the last thing I have left. It’s all I have left.”

His voice cracks at the end, and it stops you in your tracks. For a moment, everything goes quiet, save for the wind whipping through the trees.

You feel it—a tug in your chest.

It’s the edge in his voice, the kind of desperate longing you’ve been trying to ignore in yourself. The kind that made you search for something, anything, to hold onto after everything you knew went to shit.

And maybe he’s drunk, sure. But the look in his eyes—the hollow look of someone trying to cling to some sort of lifeline—makes you hesitate. You’ve seen that look before in the mirror. You’ve felt that look before.

And then it clicks, because—he’s the one, isn't he? He’s the person who sent the postcard.

For a second, you freeze, your heartbeat quickening, a wave of emotion crashing over you. You stare at him, that realization creeping in, and suddenly, you’re not so sure how to handle this anymore.

You blink hard, trying to shake off the weird emotions, and raise the bat higher as you try to remind yourself that, no matter how desperate they might look, this is still a stranger who's trespassing and ruining your yard. You shouldn't be willing to let him get away with this.

“You really think I’m gonna let you just dig up my yard because you need to find a damn child's box? It’s not happening. Get off my property.”

His expression falters, but he stands his ground.

“I’m not leaving. Not until I find it. You don’t understand—it’s more than just some kid’s memory. It’s—” He runs a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. “I’m not crazy. I swear. Please, just let me—”

You hate that you feel that tug in your chest again, harder this time, and something in you shifts. You know what that desperation feels like.

Hell, you’ve been drowning in it yourself.

So you lower the bat just a little, just enough to show him you’re considering it, your eyes narrowing.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? For the… You know. Grave robber vibes.” He tries again, and his eyes soften, just a little. “But just—please. I really need this. I swear I’ll go as soon as I find it. Please.”

God, this is fucking insane.

“Fine!” You snap. Even as the words leave your mouth, you can't believe you're agreeing to this. “You can look for the damn thing. But if you turn out to be a serial killer who’s in fact digging my own grave there, then you fucking suck, 'cause I’m being really nice here.”

He lets out a startled laugh, the sound coming out too easily for someone who was just moments ago pleading to keep digging in your yard like a madman.

“A serial killer?” He repeats, and for a second, it seems like he’s genuinely amused, the corners of his lips pulling up while his eyes glint with humor. “That’s a new one. But don’t worry, I’m not the homicidal type.”

He pauses, then looks at you with something else shining in his eyes now, his expression turning oddly sincere.

“Thank you. Really. You don’t know how much this means to me.” His voice carries a weight that makes your skin prickle. It’s enough to make you uncomfortable, the way he looks at you like you just saved his life.

Like this random act of kindness is everything to him.

You clear your throat and take a step back, trying to shake off the feeling.

“Yeah, yeah. Just keep looking, 'cause you’ve got thirty minutes. After that, you’re out. Don’t make me regret this.”

He nods quickly, the gratitude still heavy in his eyes.

“I won’t, I swear. Thank you.”

You watch him go back to digging, his hands moving with determination now, and you still don’t lower the bat completely. You just stand there, freezing under your hoodie and sweatpants, your mind racing, unsure of how you ended up in this bizarre situation.

He digs like his life depends on it.

His breath comes in short puffs of white against the night air, his fingers dirt-streaked and trembling from what you guess is more than just the cold. You watch, arms crossed, shifting from foot to foot to try and warm up, waiting for the inevitable moment when he realizes his stupid box isn't there anymore and he’s wasted his time.

But then—

“Oh, shit.”

His entire body stills.

For a moment, he just stares down at the hole, his chest rising and falling quickly from exertion, and then he’s dropping to his knees, pulling something from the dirt with both hands—a wooden box, old and weathered but miraculously intact.

You expect him to open it carefully, but no—he pries it open with frantic hands, as if he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he hesitates even a second longer.

His breath shudders out of him when he sees what’s inside.

“Holy shit,” he exhales, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s all still here.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch as he sits right down on the damp, semi-frozen grass, and lifts out a photograph, brushing dirt off the edges with the care of someone handling something sacred.

“This—” He says as he turns it toward you. It’s an old photo, slightly faded, showing a familiar house and a young-looking couple posing together in front of it.

Even in sepia tones, you recognize it instantly. The porch, the windows, the yard.

It’s your house.

“My grandparents,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “They bought this place before I was even born. Spent their whole lives here.”

He pulls out another photo—this time, it shows a little boy grinning between that same couple, older now, a backpack almost too big for his small frame draped over his back.

“That’s me,” he says. “First day of school. My grandparents walked me to the bus stop down the street every morning until I was, like, twelve. Embarrassed the hell out of me, but…”

He trails off, running his thumb over the edge of the picture, voice growing softer. “I get it now. They just wanted to hold onto me for as long as they could.”

Something in your chest aches.

He looks different like this—like the weight he carries has been lifted, even if just for a moment. Like, for the first time tonight, there’s some light in his eyes. It tugs at something inside you, something buried so deep it feels like it shouldn’t still be there.

Because you wish—God, you wish—you could do the same. You wish you could dig somewhere and unearth something that could bring back the light in your eyes. Something that could pull you back to who you used to be before everything happened.

But there’s nothing left for you to dig up, is there?

For one crazy, fleeting second, the thought slams into you with enough force to make your breath catch: if digging something out of the dirt is all it takes to bring back a lost part of yourself, then why can’t you just go to the cemetery, dig up your best friend, and demand he comes back?

The thought is so absurd, so horrifying, that your stomach twists violently against it. But the feeling lingers, even as you shake your head, even as you try to push it down.

Because the truth is, if you could, you would. If you thought it would work, you would.

You clear your throat, trying to rid yourself of the weight pressing down on you, and shift your stance. He’s still staring at the photo in his hands, lost in something only he can see.

Then, as if suddenly remembering you’re there too, he glances up.

“Come here,” he says, patting the grass beside him without hesitation. “You gotta see this.”

And you should say no.

You should turn around, go back inside, lock the door, and leave him to his nostalgia.

Better yet, you should ask him to get the fuck out of your property now that he's found what he was seeking.

But you don’t, because that small light is still in his eyes. And you think—just for a moment—that if you sit next to him, maybe some of that warmth will reach you, too.

So you turn around, step inside for a moment, and drop the bat near the door before coming out again and making your way over to him.

He barely even acknowledges you moving, too caught up in what he’s unearthing from the past.

The ground is freezing as you lower yourself beside him, the cold seeping through your clothes immediately, but you choose to ignore it.

He pulls out a tiny Lego man next, dusting him off with an amused huff. “I was obsessed with this guy. Had this whole elaborate storyline for him. He was, like, a secret agent with a double life. Normal guy by day, total badass by night.”

You huff out something that almost resembles a laugh.

“What a nerd.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees, grinning, but then his expression softens as he pulls out another object—something small and round that you can’t quite make out right away. He turns it over in his palm.

“My grandpa used to carry this around,” he says. “A pocket watch. It broke, like, years before I found out about it, but he kept it on him anyway. He used to tell me it was a magic watch, that it could stop time if you knew the right trick.” He shakes his head. “I spent so long trying to figure it out.”

He laughs under his breath, but there’s something wistful behind it.

“I put it in here because I thought if I buried it, I’d come back and it’d be fixed. I dunno. Kid logic.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just let him keep talking. And he does—more than you expected.

He tells you about his grandparents, about how his grandma smelled like oranges because she swore by some old family superstition about rubbing citrus peels on your hands for good luck. How his grandpa used to sit on the porch every morning with his coffee and newspaper, humming the same tune under his breath that no one ever recognized.

He tells you about how the house used to be filled with music, with warmth, with a life that’s long since been swallowed by time.

And you listen.

You listen because, for once, it doesn’t feel like you’re just existing. For once, the world isn’t so heavy, so empty, so cold.

And you know it won’t last.

In a few minutes, he’ll run out of things to reminisce. He'll close the box, the light will fade from his eyes, and the weight will return to both your shoulders.

But for now—for now, you sit beside this stranger in the cold, watching the past come alive through the objects in his hands, through the words leaving his mouth, and you glimpse into a life that was never yours.

You don’t know how long you sit there, knees pulled to your chest against the cold, listening as he pulls each tiny relic from the past and brings it back to life with his stories.

There's a marble.

A single, tiny, blue marble, its surface cloudy with age.

“Used to think it held the whole sky inside it,” he murmurs, rolling it between his fingers. “Swore I could see clouds moving in there if I stared long enough.”

There's a folded-up note, edges crumbling with time.

He hesitates before unfolding it, smoothing it out carefully on his knee.

“A letter to my future self.” His lips twitch up when he speaks. “Bet it’s something stupid.”

It is.

The handwriting is messy, barely legible. He squints at it in the dim light, clears his throat, and reads it aloud:

“Dear Future Me,

Are you famous? I hope you got us into a cool band like I planned. And do we have a dog? Our own house? Did you manage to leave town, or are we still in Richmond?

I hope you didn’t turn out lame. If you did, just lie about it.

(P.S.: If you have a wife, don’t be a dumbass. Tell her you love her. That's what grandpa always says, and he's usually right about that stuff.)”

You don’t mean to laugh, but the way he groans and drags a hand down his face makes it impossible not to. He crumples the letter back up, tossing it inside the box.

“God, I was a little shit.” He mutters, but there's amusement in his voice.

He keeps going, explaining trinket after trinket. Sharing fragment after fragment as he pulls random things out from his little treasure box.

You don’t say much—instead, you just listen.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, it doesn’t feel like you’re drowning in silence.

But eventually, inevitably, he runs out of objects and stories, and starts putting things back. Your chest tightens as you watch him tuck each piece of his past carefully into the box, securing the lid, brushing away the dirt.

He’s leaving.

You shouldn’t care. You barely know him. You don't know him.

But the thought of this moment ending—of him leaving and taking the momentary warmth away, of being left alone in the silence again—makes your stomach twist.

So, before you can overthink it, you clear your throat and blurt out the words: “Where are you staying? While here in Virginia, I mean.”

He glances up, like he wasn’t expecting you to ask.

“Charlottesville.” He nods vaguely down the street. “Took the bus here earlier, figured I’d just go to the bus station and wait for the first bus back in the morning.”

At that, something in your chest twists even tighter, and you don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because you know how miserable the bus station is at night—cold, empty, barely more than a fluorescent-lit limbo. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t sit right with you that he’s just going to disappear into the dark, back to whatever life he’s been wandering through before this.

Or maybe—maybe you’re just simply not ready to be alone again.

So, against all logic, against every instinct that should be screaming at you to let him go, you say, “You can stay here.”

He blinks.

“What?”

“Just for the night,” you say quickly, before you can change your mind. “You can crash on the couch. It’s freezing, and you’re kinda drunk—no, don't deny it, I can smell the alcohol in your breath.”

The words make his cheeks darken enough that you notice it even in the dim light, but you don't comment on it.

“Waiting at the bus station for hours sounds like hell,” you shrug. “But it's up to you.”

He just looks at you, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake—if you’ve misread the entire situation, if he’ll think you’re weird or crazy or too much. But then—

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “Yeah, okay.”

And just like that, you’re bringing a stranger into your home.

A stranger who sent you a drunken postcard.

A stranger who just unearthed his childhood from your backyard.

A stranger who, for some reason, doesn’t feel like a stranger at all.

Inside, the warmth of the house seeps into your freezing skin, making goosebumps rise all over your body, and you realize just how truly cold you were outside.

You shut the door behind you, locking it out of habit, then glance at the man as he steps further in, his eyes sweeping the space carefully, like he’s making an effort to commit every detail to memory.

There’s something oddly hesitant about the way he moves around the room, like he’s walking through a dream, a place he only half remembers.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just takes it all in—the cluttered bookshelves, the old coffee table, and the worn sofa that doesn’t quite match the armchairs sitting opposite it. As you watch him, you can’t help wondering what he thinks about it all.

“You changed the layout so much,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His fingers skim the back of the couch absentmindedly, and when he speaks again, it's louder, like this time the words are actually directed at you.

“The walls used to be a different color. Furniture was all pushed against them, too. My grandma had this old ass china cabinet right over—”

He gestures vaguely toward the far wall, but his words trail off, his attention shifting elsewhere, thought forgotten. You follow his gaze, and that’s when you realize what he’s looking at.

The pictures.

They line the wall, sit over the fireplace—snapshots of moments frozen in time. In every single one, you’re there, smiling, laughing, caught in moments that will never exist again.

And beside you, always, is him.

You feel the question coming before he even says it.

“Oh, is that your boyfriend?”

It’s such an innocent question, and yet, it slams into you like a fist to the chest.

He doesn’t notice your reaction at first, still looking at the photos as if they’re the most interesting things he's ever seen.

“Is he sleeping?” He presses, voice lowering to a murmur, as if it would make a difference after all the noise he's made by digging about outside. “Shit, sorry if I—”

“No.”

Your voice comes out sharper than you intend—too cold. Too final.

“That’s my best friend,” you say, forcing the words out, as if it costs you greatly to explain this. And it does, you realize, as you try to keep your voice steady. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

Silence.

You can feel him looking at you now, trying to put the pieces together and make sense of what you mean, but you don’t meet his gaze. You keep your expression blank, keep your shoulders squared, keep yourself from folding under the weight pressing against your ribs.

“Got it,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now. Gentler.

Just like that, the conversation ends. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry, just nods and keeps moving as he looks around, but the air between you feels heavier now, thick with something left unsaid.

You exhale slowly, trying to shake it off. Then, before the silence can stretch any further, you blurt out, “What’s your name?”

He blinks, caught off guard.

“What?”

“Your name,” you repeat. “I just let you into my house, and I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Oh. Right.” He huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh—Noah. My name’s Noah.”

Noah.

The name settles into your brain, into your chest, into the walls and the floorboards and the space between you.

You nod once.

“Okay, Noah.” You say the name out loud, trying it out, testing the weight of it on your tongue. “Are you hungry? I can fetch us something to eat.”

And then, without waiting for a response, you turn and head for the kitchen, pretending the sound of his name doesn’t linger in your head—on your tongue—a little longer than it should.

You hear his footsteps follow, and when you reach the kitchen, he steps in right beside you. When you look at him, you can see he’s scanning the place, taking in the details, like he’s once again trying to piece together what’s changed since the last time he was here.

You move toward the fridge, but before you can open it, he steps forward.

“Oh, please—let me.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You want to make your own food?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to make our food. It’s the least I can do after waking you up, trespassing in your yard to dig around, and then keeping you up to talk about my—” He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh as he gestures vaguely with his hands. “—my stupid childhood stories.”

His words make something protective flare in your chest, though you’re not sure why. It doesn't make any sense.

“They weren’t stupid,” you protest immediately.

Noah just gives a noncommittal shrug.

You shake your head but don’t argue. Instead, you lean against the counter, crossing your arms over your chest and watching as he opens a cabinet at random.

“Not that one,” you say, and he pauses.

“Where’s the bread, then?”

“Cabinet to your left.”

He adjusts, grabbing the loaf and setting it down. Then, without looking up, he asks, “Plates?”

“Top shelf.”

“Silverware?”

“Drawer next to the sink.”

Noah follows your instructions without hesitation, pulling things together with an ease that surprises you. You don’t know what you expected—maybe for him to be more hesitant, more awkward in a space that isn’t his—but he moves through the kitchen with confidence, his hands steady as he unwraps the bread and starts making the sandwiches.

You find yourself watching his hands.

They’re big—really big—but oddly graceful. His fingers move with precision as he spreads mustard onto a slice of bread, and something about the motion is… calming. Strangely comforting.

The repetitive, familiar sounds of food being prepared fill the quiet, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there isn’t suffocating silence in your house.

“So,” he says after a moment, “what’s your verdict?”

You blink.

“On what?”

“Me being a serial killer.” He says as he quickly glances at you, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Have I redeemed myself of that first impression?”

You snort, shaking your head.

“The jury’s still out.”

“Damn. Tough crowd.”

“You did dig up my yard in the middle of the night.”

“I did,” he agrees, nodding solemnly. “And yet, here I am, in your kitchen, holding a knife while making you a sandwich and definitely not stabbing you. If that’s not proof of good character, I don’t know what is.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips.

Noah doesn’t seem to notice—he’s too focused on what he’s doing, stacking slices of ham and cheese onto the bread like he’s making the most important sandwiches of his life.

Then, without looking up, he says, “I used to make these for my grandparents all the time.”

You blink. The shift in conversation is so sudden, so casual, that it catches you off guard.

“When I was a kid,” he continues, “they both worked a lot, so I’d try to help out however I could. I wasn’t much of a cook, but I was a master at peanut butter and jelly. And sandwiches. Lots and lots of sandwiches.”

There’s fondness in his tone as he sifts through old memories yet again.

“They never complained, even when I sucked at it, coming up with terrible new combinations,” he says, a small smile ghosting across his lips. “My grandma used to say that a sandwich made with love tastes better than a five-star meal. Which, looking back, was probably her way of trying to make me feel better about putting way too much mustard on everything.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“So should I be worried?”

“About what?” He sounds genuinely confused, and it's adorable.

“The amount of mustard, of course.”

“Nah,” Noah says as he looks up, meeting your eyes again. He grins. “I’ve perfected my craft since then.”

You huff a small laugh but don’t look away. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you—something warm, something open—that unsettles you in a way you don’t quite understand.

Instead of dwelling on it, you shift in place and say, “And just so you know… I really meant it when I said your childhood stories weren’t stupid. I liked hearing about them, and about the house, too.”

For a moment, Noah says nothing, and just stares at you with those unnerving dark eyes of his—eyes that make it feel like he's looking right into your soul.

After what feels like forever, he clears his throat and looks away, sliding a plate toward you.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “thanks for listening.”

You don't say anything as you take the plate, the coolness of the porcelain sinking into your fingers, and as you walk back to the living room, his footsteps following close behind, the house doesn’t feel quite so empty.

Neither do you.

You settle onto the couch while Noah takes the armchair across from you. The air between you feels lighter now, easier.

You finally take a bite, surprised at the taste.

“Okay,” you say, chewing, “not bad. Not bad at all.”

Noah scoffs. “Excuse me?”

“You were talking this up like you were some kind of sandwich prodigy, man. I was expecting a life-changing experience.”

He places a hand over his heart, mock-offended.

“I’ll have you know, that is a damn good sandwich.”

You smirk. “It’s edible.”

“Wow.” He shakes his head, taking a bite of his own sandwich, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Ungrateful.”

You let out a small chuckle, and for a few minutes, the two of you just eat in comfortable silence.

Then, between bites, Noah says, “I still can’t believe this house is so different now. Even just the living room. The couch used to be over there,” he gestures toward the opposite wall, “and my grandma had all these little porcelain birds over the fireplace that I wasn’t allowed to touch. But I did, obviously.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I broke one,” he admits. “A tiny blue jay. I was, like, eight, and I panicked. So I tried to glue it back together, but I sucked at it, and it ended up looking like some Frankenstein version of a bird. My grandma took one look at it and just sighed, all disappointed. My grandpa, though? He laughed so hard he nearly cried.”

You huff out a laugh.

“Sounds like your grandma had her hands full with you two.”

“Oh, definitely.” He grins, settling deeper into the chair. “I was a menace, just like grandpa. You have no idea how many times Mrs. Peterson threatened to call the cops on me.”

You nearly choke on your sandwich.

“Mrs. Peterson?”

“Yeah,” he says, giving you a look. “You know her?”

“Know her?” You groan the question out. “That woman was the neighborhood number one gossip. I swear she made it her personal mission to know everyone’s business.”

Noah laughs.

“That sounds about right. She used to sit on her porch and act like the neighborhood security system. If I so much as looked at my bike the wrong way, she’d be yelling at me about how kids these days don’t respect their belongings.”

“Oh my God,” you groan again, more dramatically this time, rubbing your temples. “She used to do that to me, too! Except instead of my bike, she was always getting on my case about my car.”

Noah raises an eyebrow. “Your car?”

“Yep,” you say, sighing. “I used to drive this old, beat-up Toyota, and I was never exactly… gentle with it.”

He smirks. “Define not gentle.”

“I mean, it got me from point A to point B.” You say, waving a hand dismissively. “Who cared if I left empty coffee cups in the back seat or if I never remembered to take it to the car wash?”

Noah just stares at you, blinking. And then—

“Oh my God,” he says with a laugh. “You were the menace!”

You gasp.

“I was not!”

“No, no, I see it now,” he says, pointing at you with his sandwich. “Poor Mrs. Peterson was just a concerned citizen, and you were out there treating your car like a dumpster on wheels.”

You shake your head.

“Whatever. The point is, Mrs. Peterson was obsessed with how I treated that car. Every time I passed by her house, she’d make some comment about how I was ‘disgracing a perfectly good vehicle’ or how I ‘lacked discipline and self-respect.’”

Noah snorts.

“Sounds about right.” There's an amused, teasing glint to his eyes when he says it.

“Oh, shut up,” you mutter.

“Come on,” he says, grinning. “She was kind of funny.”

“Oh yeah, hilarious.” You retort sarcastically, rolling your eyes. “You know she once told people that my best friend and I were actually related?”

Noah blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “She decided that we had to be related in some way because, apparently, a man and a woman being just friends but living together wasn’t believable enough for her.”

“So… What?” Noah looks both amused and confused. “She just declared you relatives?”

“Not just relatives,” you say, pointing at him. “According to her, we were close relatives. Practically siblings. And the only reason we pretended to be just best friends was because we were actually a couple living in sin.”

Noah stares at you for a second before bursting into laughter.

“No way!” He says between laughs.

“Yes, way!” You insist. “She spread that story around like gospel. And you know she believed it too, because every time she saw us, she’d give us these looks—like we were bringing some scandalous shame upon her sacred neighborhood.”

Noah is still laughing, actually doubling over a little, shaking his head.

“That’s insane.”

“You’re telling me.” You exhale, leaning back against the couch, a soft smile on your lips. Then, without thinking, you add, “He actually liked her, though.”

That makes him pause again, tilting his head.

“Your friend?”

“Yeah.” You nod, picking at the crust of your sandwich. “I complained about her a lot, and every time, he would just shrug and say she was probably lonely. That minding people’s business was her weird way of connecting with the world.”

Noah’s expression softens, and it makes your heart ache.

“He used to help her out, too,” you continue. “Cut her grass, help her plant new flowers, and all. He liked doing that stuff—gardening, I mean.” You pause, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat. “He had a way with plants, y’know? Could bring anything back to life.”

Noah is quiet for a moment, just watching you, then he says, “I get that. My grandma taught me everything I know about gardening. We spent every summer afternoon out in the yard together, tending to the plants. She made it feel… Peaceful, I guess.”

Something about that makes your heart ache harder.

It’s a simple thing, but it means something. The way Noah speaks about his grandmother with warmth, the way he understands why your best friend would’ve found comfort in the soil and the roots and the life that comes from them.

“Do you still garden?” You ask.

“When I can,” Noah says, giving you a shrug that's accompanied by a small smile. “It’s kinda hard when you don’t have a real home.”

You stare at him, suddenly aware of just how much he’s been carrying.

You don’t know why, but the thought of him—this person who once had a home full of warm memories—now floating from place to place, with no roots, no permanence… It bothers you.

It shouldn’t. You don’t even know him. And yet.

Something about him—about the way he’s sitting in your living room, eating a sandwich he made in your kitchen, sharing stories that make you feel something other than empty—makes it feel like maybe you do know him now. Even if just a little.

“Anyways,” you say, trying to stir the conversation back to safer grounds. “Mrs. Peterson? That woman lived to stir up drama.”

“I bet she still does,” he says with a soft chuckle.

“She, uh…” You hesitate, all the humor draining from your face. “She passed away. A few years ago.”

Noah pauses.

“Oh,” he says, expression sobering. “Damn.”

You nod, staring down at your sandwich. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Still,” Noah says, softer this time, “I bet she was spreading rumors ‘til the very end.”

Despite yourself, you smile.

“Yeah. She probably told the nurses at the hospital that the doctor was illegally selling organs on the black market or something.”

That makes Noah laugh again, and his laughter makes you laugh, too. It’s been a long time since you’ve laughed like this.

But as the laughter slowly fades, a familiar heaviness settles back in your chest. Because suddenly, he is in your mind again—your best friend, his smiling face flashing through your thoughts like a memory you weren’t prepared for, and it makes you realize: this is the first time you’ve talked about him out loud since he died.

The first time you’ve let yourself share with someone else even a fraction of who he was and what you had.

It should hurt more than it does, you think.

In some ways, it does hurt—like a dull, familiar ache in your ribs. But as you glance at Noah, who’s still a bit flushed from laughing too hard, you realize that talking about him, especially like this, isn’t as painful as you expected.

In fact, it almost feels nice. Like, for just a moment, the weight of grief isn’t crushing you completely.

You’re not sure what to do with that.

After you finish eating, Noah stands up and gathers the plates without a word, surprising you as he walks back to the kitchen to deal with them, leaving you a moment alone with your thoughts.

The open space allows you to watch as he moves around with efficiency, rinsing off the dishes and wiping down the counter, his movements relaxed, unhurried, as if he still belongs in the house.

Watching his back as he stands by the sink, you can almost convince yourself that it’s not Noah you’re seeing—it’s him. For a fleeting second, if you pretend the tattoos aren’t there, or that the strands of his hair are much shorter, you can make yourself believe your best friend is back.

For a blissful moment, you get to pretend the last few months of pain and loneliness and despair had never been real. That it was all a big, horrible nightmare.

God, you wish.

Shaking the thoughts away, along with the sharp sting of pain it brings, you get off the couch and climb the stairs, your steps slow and heavy. At the far end of the hallway stands the closed door of your best friend’s room, right next to yours—a room you haven’t dared enter since the funeral.

For a moment, you consider offering Noah to stay in the room. After all, a soft, warm bed would be much better than a cold, hard couch. But the thought immediately makes something twist in your stomach.

You still can’t bring yourself to step into what used to be his space, the room that holds so many memories of someone irreplaceable. No one else is allowed to disturb that place, much less a stranger, no matter how nice a stranger they might be.

So instead, you rummage through the hallway closet and pull out a couple of extra pillows and a thick, worn comforter—the only items that might turn the living room couch into something resembling a proper, comfortable sleeping space.

When you return to the living room, you find that Noah is still in the kitchen, putting away the condiments he used for the sandwiches back inside the fridge.

Just as he’s about to close the fridge door shut, something catches his eye.

“Huh.” He tilts his head. “You like Corona, too?”

The reaction is instant—you stop mid-step, frozen. Your grip tightens on the blankets. He doesn’t notice the way your face shuts off, the way your body goes rigid.

“Mind if I have one?” He asks, still looking into the fridge, reaching for one of the bottles as he speaks out.

You remember the six-pack you’d bought weeks ago—purchased out of habit, without thought.

They’re not yours.

They’ve been sitting in the fridge for weeks, untouched. You weren’t even thinking when you grabbed them at the store—just running on autopilot, your mind so foggy with grief that muscle memory took over.

He always asked you to grab him beer whenever you went shopping. Always made you double-check that you wouldn’t forget. And so you didn’t.

Even when he wasn’t there to ask or to drink them.

Even when he wasn’t there at all.

A lump forms in your throat as memories of late afternoons spent with your best friend over beer—his gentle smile, his ridiculous humor—flash before your eyes.

You had only realized your mistake when you got home that day, unpacked everything, and saw the six-pack sitting on the counter. Then you cried yourself to sleep at four in the afternoon, only waking up again the next day.

Noah turns to you, still holding the fridge door open, waiting for an answer.

You want to be pissed. You want to tell him to put the bottle back. Tell him to fuck off and just go to sleep.

You swallow hard.

“Yeah,” you manage to say, your voice quiet. Then, to your own surprise, you add, “Grab one for me, too.”

Noah pauses for a moment, watching you closely, as if he can sense something’s off. But instead of asking, he just nods and retrieves two bottles, pops the caps off with the opener on your fridge, and hands one to you when he’s back in the living room.

You take the bottle without another word, then take a careful sip, the cool liquid mixing with bittersweet memories.

This time, as you both settle into the living room, you take the armchair near the window, while Noah arranges the pillows and comforter on the couch. Making himself comfortable, he pulls the comforter over his lap.

He takes a sip of his beer, then glances at you.

“Corona is my go-to, you know,” he muses, tipping the bottle slightly to watch the liquid shift inside. “Reminds me of my grandpa. That was his beer of choice, too.”

You hum in response, taking a sip from your own. You don't have anything to add to that, so you don't.

The mention of his grandfather seems to unlock a few more memories, and he begins to speak again, eager to talk about someone he clearly misses, his tone soft and reflective.

You’re not sure how you get there, but as you drink, he ends up telling a story about how his grandpa always tried to fix things around the house himself instead of hiring someone to do it, and much to his grandmother's amusement and chagrin, somehow always managed to make it worse.

And you listen.

“Don’t get me wrong, he was full of wisdom—always had the best advice for anything you’d throw at him.” He says with a fond smile, but the glint of sadness in his eyes is impossible to miss. “But he was terrible with his hands.”

Noah chuckles, shaking his head. His voice is steady, easy—a comforting sound to accompany the low hum of the fridge coming from the kitchen, and the gentle rustling of the comforter whenever he moves.

“I remember the time he tried to fix a leaky sink. Ended up flooding half the kitchen until grandma had to come in and shut everything down herself. She practically dragged him away, threatening to file for divorce if he didn't call a plumber.”

You listen, each word wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You can picture his grandpa—the man from the picture, determined, wise yet hopeless with a wrench—and the way his grandmother’s stern love would have both scolded and comforted him.

Noah continues, “He was the kind of man who might make a mess of the repairs, but he could fix a broken heart with just a few words. Always knew what to say to make you feel better. I always admired that about him.”

The conversation meanders into lighter topics after that—memories of summer afternoons spent in the garden, laughter that echoed on warm evenings, and the comforting routine of a simple, happy childhood.

At some point, the warmth from the beer seeps into your skin, the exhaustion from the day creeping up on you.

You don’t remember when exactly your eyes close.

All you know is that, for the first time in months, you fall asleep with someone’s voice in the background instead of unbearable silence.

You wake up to the soft glow of late morning light spilling through the curtains, casting long shadows across the living room.

There's a crick in your neck and an ache in your lower back, your body stiff and uncomfortable from the awkward position you must’ve slept in.

Your eyelids flutter open, and as you slowly try to blink the haze of sleep away, the first thing you register is that you’re curled up in the armchair, tangled in a heavy comforter.

Confusion settles in. Why were you sleeping in the armchair?

You push yourself upright, wincing as your joints protest, your brain still sluggish with sleep. You blink some more and look around the living room, trying to piece together how you ended up here.

And then, slowly, things start to come together—the cold night air, the crunch of semi-frozen dirt. The quiet desperation in the eyes of a stranger digging in your yard.

Noah.

Memories flood back all at once—the treasure box, the stories, the sandwiches and the beers in the living room. His laughter ringing through the house. His voice lulling you into sleep before you even realized you were drifting.

Your stomach sinks as you glance at the couch, because it’s empty. The pillows are still there, slightly indented from where he must have laid his head, but Noah himself is gone.

Noah is gone.

A strange, hollow sort of disappointment settles in your chest.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’re not surprised. He was always going to leave—this was never anything more than a passing moment in the middle of a winter night, a crazy chain of events wrapped in quiet conversation and borrowed warmth.

And yet, something in your chest twists at the thought of him leaving without a word. You don’t know why it stings. He never said he’d stay.

Maybe it’s because, for the first time in so long, the emptiness in this house wasn’t unbearable. It wasn’t suffocating. It was filled—by another voice, another presence, another person simply existing here beside you.

You hadn’t realized just how much his presence had filled the cracks, how much softer everything had seemed with another person breathing in the same space as you.

And now, in the aftermath of that, the silence feels even worse than before.

Sighing, you shift the comforter off—realizing Noah had draped it over you before leaving, and ignoring how that small detail makes you feel—and start folding it, smoothing the fabric between your fingers.

It’s only when you move to place it back on the couch that you notice it: something small, something slightly crumpled, resting on the pillow Noah had used.

A note.

You hesitate before picking it up.

The handwriting is slightly messy, like it was written in a hurry, but still legible:

“Thanks for letting me dig around in your yard and crash on your couch. I owe you one.

If you ever want to fix the mess I made—or if you need help with the garden, since you said your friend was the one who used to take care of it—shoot me a text. I’ll be more than happy to help.

I don't know if we’ll be seeing each other, or even talking to each other again, before Christmas.

If we don't—Merry Christmas. And thank you so much. Again.

— Noah”

He left you a phone number.

You stare at it for a long time, your fingers ghosting over the ink. Something tight presses against your ribs, something stupidly close to relief.

Waking up alone, the comforter around your shoulders like a silent apology, the space around you empty once again. His absence had felt too much like an ending.

But this—this note—felt like something else.

An afterthought, a lingering presence, proof that it wasn’t just some meaningless, passing moment to him either. And yes, sure, the offer is casual. Maybe he doesn’t even mean it, maybe he’s just being polite.

But it’s there.

You don’t realize how long you sit there, the note loose in your grip, until the stillness of the house starts pressing in again. Until the ticking of the clock on the wall reminds you that you’ve already wasted enough time sitting around like this.

You press your lips together, shoving the note into your pocket as you move toward the stairs, up to your room.

You try to tell yourself you won’t text him.

You last less than 24 hours before you do.

YOU: Hey, Noah. I might take you up on that offer to help me fix the garden. Let me know when it’s best for you.

A reply comes less than five minutes later.

NOAH: How does tomorrow sound? Say, 3 PM? YOU: Sure, that works. NOAH: Awesome! See you tomorrow, then. :)

this silly little thing was inspired by this post here. also, some of the grieving parts were inspired by @concretejunglefm's 'poltergeists'. i channeled bubs a few times there, so thank you for the trauma, lexi!! and thank you for beta reading this and being so supportive, if i'm writing again and sharing it, it's mostly thanks to you. i love you.

#noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fic #bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fic #noah sebastian x reader

176 notes · View notes

lolitaonline · 4 months ago

Text

Now playing: Meddle About

Noah x F! Reader smut 18+ MDNI

Tw- mentions of choking, teasing, grinding, man handling (please please please tell me if you feel I missed a tw, I never want to upset anyone, thank you!🫶🏼) not proof read

Summary- you and Noah have a little cat and mouse game, who is bound to break first? You or Noah?

AN will be at the end, enjoy 🫶🏼

word- around 3k

Divider by- @saradika-graphics 🫶🏼

Noah wasn’t one to believe in the ‘love at first sight’ he was more of a ‘I would hook up with her’

The boys always either attended parties or hosted them. Noah typically stayed alone in his room or would hang with the boys and if someone came along to hook up then he would do that.

Noah was more concerned with his needs and wants for and to the band. He didn’t want any distractions or anything tied down that would take his attention away from his ‘work’.

Ever since you both met, he hasn’t gotten you out of his head. You both haven’t known each other long and have only talked a couple of times but that didn’t stop him from craving you and your presence.

He wasn’t one to crave something or someone for that matter but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t know if he wanted you on your knees worshipping him or vice versa.

He did know though that he wanted you. He was thinking of different scenarios for you both to become closer and different fantasies about you doing different things.

Ever since you first met you both felt this little spark, neither of you acted it out at first though. When you first moved to LA you were very hesiastan about the scene, seeing as you weren’t from the area.

Your friends had assured you that the ‘party’ you were all going to was not a party, normally that meant it was a party but relief was hit when you saw it really wasn’t a party.

You remember the first time you saw him in the living room, you had walked over and taken a seat next to him. You weren’t gonna flirt with him you just thought he was cute and it was the only seat available, perfect.

You both had spent that day talking a bit and getting to know each other, but, as the night carried on and the drinks were passed around you were both in your own world. You had asked him about his music, he was asking why you moved down to LA. You were just getting to know each other.

But the more you talked through the night the more you couldn’t help the feeling of craving something coming around your body. You tried to shift your mind off of whatever it was that was pulling you towards those thoughts.

Noah took note of the way your thighs were rubbing together and the way you were shifting around in your seat, tilting his head “you okay?” he asked with a smirk coming to life on his lips.

You both knew what that question meant, “yea, just getting cozy” you say flashing an innocent smile, you couldn’t help but take a look at his tattoos and lick your lips, bringing your eyes back up to him and giving him another smile.

Noah knew the look in your eyes because he did the same thing when you walked in, short shorts, a black tank top, showing off your curves, hair up, exposing your neck that he definitely didn’t want to take a bite of.

“Okay, just making sure, don’t want my guest to be uncomfortable” he says nodding his head, he took note of the lack of attention on them, half the boys were in the kitchen, the girls you were with were outside playing a game with the boys.

“I’m having a lot of fun actually” you say, seduction dripping from your lips, you were picturing him taking control of you but you were one to not break.

Noah was sat on the right side of the couch, man spreading, arms on display due to him wearing a plain black tank top and some black sweatpants, he didn’t plan on coming down.

Noah typically stayed to himself with work but when the boys told him some new friends were coming by he figured he should take a break. With the band taking off he knew he deserved a break and some fun.

What he didn’t expect was to see a beautiful woman standing in the doorway with some friends. He didn’t care for your friends being there at the moment but as soon as he saw you he needed you. The boys followed behind him welcoming you and your friends inside.

Getting food and drinks out, talking and getting to know everyone better. You and your friends had moved away from your small town into the big Los Angelous scene. You were excited to finally break free from a place you were being held down at. You just didn’t expect to see an extremely handsome man though.

You both spent the night teasing eachother, you found you both had a lot in common. You wanted to stay longer but the girls were ready to go and you didn’t want to give Noah what he wanted.

As the girls said goodbye and gave hugs you made sure to give Noah and extra big hug, whispering in his ear “I hope to see you again, handsome” you wanted to get the last word before leaving.

Noah bit his tongue and smiled “it was nice meeting you, Y/N, hopefully next time we can pick up where we left off”. You knew that smile was not a regular smile, it was like a challenge. Would you be the one to make the next move or him? You didn’t exchange numbers, you wanted to make him wait it out.

Ever since the first meeting you both spent time playing cat and mouse, everytime Noah tried to get you alone you would slip away. Just barely missing his finger tips, you loved working him up.

Everytime you were near him he craved you, he wanted to take you every chance he could when it was just you too. You were very aware of how Noah felt, you felt the same way but you loved this cat and mouse game.

When it was just you together you would subtly tease him, rubbing your hands against his thigh, everytime you would stretch you would make sure to wear something to help reveal your skin.

Noah couldn’t take his eyes off you, he just wanted a taste, a bite of you, anything. Noah couldn’t get the thought of you lying under him, panting, whining, crying for him to go harder, faster, slower.

The boys this particular night were hosting a big party, their second album was doing great, their shows were kicking off, they had interview after interview, so it only made sense to celebrate the new accomplishments that were made.

Noah was making his way through the crowds of people in the house, he was keeping his eye out for you. Noah needed to see you tonight, he couldn’t hold off on another week of not touching you.

As Noah made his way into the kitchen that’s where he spotted you, leaning up against the fridge, drink in hand, talking to someone. Noah could see the boredom in your eyes from the conversation you were having with the guy. He made his way further into the kitchen, reaching into the cooler for a beer.

Noah tried to be nonchalant and not get pissed at the fact this guy was cornering you. He should be the one in that position, he should be the one teasing holding you, not someone night jackass.

As Noah stood back up, he he couldn’t help but over hear your conversation, peaking his interest. “Well, it has been a while since I was with someone” you said, a smirk now plastered on your face, teasing eyes meeting his, you give him an innocent smile.

You were aware of what you were doing, you wanted to see how long you could get away with teasing him before he cracked. The guy, whose name you didn’t care for, was now interested in what you had to say, but Noah was more enthralled with your words.

Deciding to stay where he stood, in your presence, he wanted to hear more of what you had to say. He took a seat at the island stationed in the center of the kitchen. Cutting any conversation started with him short.

“Well, babygirl, I can help you with that” the man replied, you didn’t care for him but you knew he needed to be there for your game. You bring your hand to his chest, tapping on it rhythmically “mmm, I don’t think so” you teased, humming to yourself.

Keeping an eye on Noah’s reactions, you saw him start to clench his jaw, and his fist tighten around the can of beer, hearing the metal crinkle under the pressure.

“Oh come on” the man said, his hand was now on your lower back, pulling you closer to him and away from the fridge, you forced out a giggle to keep Noah’s attention up and high, you didn’t want him to miss the show you were gonna put on.

Before you could reply, one of your favorite songs came on “Meddle About by Chase Atlantic”, what a perfect opportunity you thought to yourself. You stood up and grabbed the man’s arm leading him out the kitchen and to the living room.

“I wanna dance, this is my favorite song” you said, you didn’t want to grind on a stranger you didn’t know but you knew in the long run it would be worth it..

As the song started the man pulled you close against him his chest. You closed your eyes and let the music to take over your body, you couldn’t wait for Noah to snap, you had been working him for what felt like ages.

You started to grind up against the stranger, opening your eyes, looking across the room to meet Noah’s. Jaw clenched, eyes piercing with anger? Jealousy? You couldn’t help the little smirk come to life on your face, the plan was working.

Noah sat back in his seat, never taking his eyes off you, watching the way your hips danced around with that man and not him. The way you would giggle at the touches he gave you as the song progressed.

Noah wanted to pick you up in his arms, take you back to his house and fix the problem you started in his pants. Noah wasn’t one to fall for games though, he was aware of your plan and what you wanted, he wasn’t gonna give it to you though.

As the song finished up, you turned around to the guy, telling him you had to use the restroom real quick. You quickly made your way through the living room and up the stairs to the nearest bathroom. As you walked down the halls you felt someone grab you and muffled your mouth.

You kick and thrash in the persons arms, trying to break free, “shhhh, shhh, it’s me” you heard, recognizing Noah’s voice, you slowly turned around in his arms.

You stood inside, what appears to be someone’s bedroom, you were pressed against the door, Noah leaning over you, brown eyes never looking away from you.

You could feel your pussy soaking through your panties, as Noah started to run his fingers against your thighs, tracing your warm skin under his fingertips.

Leaning down against your ear, whispering darkly “I know your little game, Y/N” he said in a teasing voice, bringing his fingers up closer to your shorts.

“I see the way you look at me, I see the way you sway your hips when you walk away from me, the way you stretch making sure your ass perks up in the air” the more Noah spoke the more Noah’s fingers explored, sliding under the hems of your shorts, coming close to your pussy, then slowly taking them away.

“You thought I wouldn’t catch on but I knew the moment I saw you” he says, turning you around, your chest now against the door, pulling the hips towards his, bringing you closer to him.

You could feel Noah’s hands tighten around your hips, grinding your pussy down against his cock, giving you some relief. Forcing out a moan from pleasure, you had spent nights fucking yourself to the thought of him taking control of you.

“ remember at the pool party? When it was just us, hmm?” Noah asked, slipping his hands inside of your shorts, slowly bring his fingers down to your pussy, just barely missing your clit.

“N-Noah” you whined out, he was so close to touching you, giving you what you wanted, pushing your hips forward trying to get any friction and pleasure.

“No, answer my question” Noah says sternly, taking his hand away from your pussy, placing his hand back on your hips, grinding you against him. He could feel his cock pulsating in his jeans, he could just imagine your tight pussy wrapped around him.

“Yes, I-I remember!” You cried out, of course you remembered. The boys had left for a quick second to grab the food for the barbecue you and you did a strip tease for Noah, sliding down your shorts, swaying your hips in the process. Fixing the top of your bathing suit, and accidentally letting the top drop, flashing him for a quick second. You had ‘apologized’ but you both knew it wasn’t needed.

“You teased me, and then flashed me these beautiful tits, except you didn’t let me touch them, remember?” Noah asked, leaving kisses against your neck, sliding his hand up your chest, grasping your boobs and squeezing them, he was running his hands all over your body, and you couldn’t get enough of it.

“Please, Noah, touch me” you cried out, your pussy was throbbing with need, and the way he was running his hands up and down your body didn’t help. You could feel your body getting hotter and hotter. The way Noah was taking control of you made you feel like a hunter caught his prey.

Noah slipped his hands under your shirt, mumbling in your ear “is this okay, pretty girl?”, you nod your head, pleading for more. “Yes, more please” you cried out, you hated the way he had you under his eyes like a spell. You were suppose to be the hunter and he the prey.

Pushing your bra as best as he could to the side and out the way he started to fiddle with your boobs. Drawing out whimpers and cries, he was very skilled with his hands, you wanted that skill to go somewhere else though, you wanted him to hurry up and give you what you wanted.

You turned around, causing Noah to drop his hands from your boobs back to your hips, pushing you back up against that door, “come on, pretty girl, you know I have the upper hand” Noah teases, leaning down, eyes lowered, mouth barely pressed against yours.

“It’s my game” you whined out, you were so used to being the one in control, Noah was the only one who made your body feel hot and good. “No, baby girl, it’s my game, I give you what you want, when I want” he says firmly, pressing his lips against yours.

Forcing out a moaning, giving him open invitation to slide his tongue into your mouth, fighting for dominance, you didn’t want to give up, but the way his tongue felt against yours, teasing and strong. You couldn’t help but give up, allowing him full control.

Now that you gave your submission up to him, Noah took this opportunity to tease your mouth his tongue, tangling it with yours, pulling back giving you a quick kiss, he brings up his fingers replacing them for his tongue.

Wrapping your lips around them, sucking the digits he had placed inside. You couldn’t help but wonder what his cock would feel like in your mouth. This thought brought out a moan from you, the thought of him throat fucking you, taking you raw.

“What’s wrong, baby? You need something bigger?” Noah teased, the way you were so compliant under his hands now, you were so close being fully under his hands.

You nodded your head as best as you could, your hands grasping his wrist to keep his hand in place. Noah bringing up his other hand, gently wrapping his fingers around your throat, tightening just a bit.

“Too bad, you’ve been a bad girl, and now you’re gonna have to wait” Noah says firmly, taking his hands away from your body, taking your away from the door, “see you next time”.

Noah slipped out the door, leaving you standing alone panting, you didn’t think he would do all that so quickly, but you also knew it was your move next. You weren’t sure of how you would get him back you had an idea. Taking a look at your surrounding you realized you were in Noah’s room.

You thought of a quick idea, and quickly unbuttoned your pants, slipping off your panties, you quickly got dressed again, slipping them under his pillow for him to find later tonight.

AN- Mandy and I have spent the last few weeks about this and I’m finally getting it out now, I tagged everyone who I thought might like it, I’m not sure when the next part will be out but I plan for it to be soon. I want to get back more into writing it’s just life has been very hectic as of late, I will be posting a master list soon, and updating a few things on my blog.

Tags- @fadingintothegrey @fadingangelwisp @bluestdai @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @flowery-mess @thisbicc @english-fucker @silent-stories @veephoenix @hurricanesfollowyou @dollieomens @dontwantthemoney @thenmaybehellaintsobadafterall @amelia-acero

186 notes · View notes

frightenedcricket · 4 months ago

Text

Noah pushes his chair back but misses the way your eyes fall on him.

His hoodie is ridden up when he stretches his arms and then when he crosses his arms it looks even cosier.

You are not really sure of what Noah and you have going on. There are flirting, touches, and occasional make-out sessions. But you are sure that you are falling for him.

It has been a long day in the studio, and Noah and you are the last ones. He wanted to finish the song, and you had good ideas for it, so you stayed when the others left. But you are tired and your mind is already burning from so much thinking.

He looks comfortable, tired but comfortable.

Noah feels you staring. "All good?"

"I'm just tired"

"Yeah? I'll be done soon. Ten minutes"

"Good"

You yawn and he chuckles while leaning back against the chair. He runs his hands over his torso and accidentally lifts again the damn hoodie, obviously catching your eye.

"What?" He chuckles.

"Nothing"

"You think I'm hot"

You roll your eyes. You do, but that's not your main thought right now.

"I think you are cosy and warm, not hot" You mention with a smile. "And I'm so damn sleepy"

Noah laughs and moves his chair to the side, offering his arms and lap for you.

"What?" You ask this time.

"Come here"

"What?"

He scoffs and drags your chair closer, then grabs your hands to pull you up.

"Noah?"

"Come here"

You don't complain when he makes you straddle his lap. It's so sweet when he cups your cheeks and pulls you for a soft kiss. You melt against him instantly.

"You are clingy" He mutters with a cheeky smile.

"Not my fault that you are huggable"

Noah pecks your lips once more and literally pushes you to the gap in his neck. You crack a laugh and get comfortable with your hands sliding in his hoodie for some warmth. He hisses because your hands are cold, but engulfs you on his arms.

"Better?"

You hum on his neck and close your eyes. It's sweet and intimate.

Noah keeps working, sometimes kissing your head or caressing your back. You didn't mind late nights at the studio, but if they keep being like this you are just more than happy with it.

#ns #noah sebastian #concept #bad omens fic #noah sebastian fic

173 notes · View notes

concretejunglefm · 2 months ago

Text

A taste of the Divine.

Kind of enemies to lovers vibes with Noah being a complete munch who won't stop until you're squirting all over him.

CW: fingering (f receiving), oral (f receiving), squirting, body worshiping.

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

Only you hold this kind of power over Noah—the ability to bend him to your will, to have him literally on his knees, voice thick and trembling as he makes his request.

These are the rare moments when he resists his instinct to take what he desires. Instead, he obeys, eagerly clinging to every word you utter, eagerly hanging on to each taunt you make, yearning for the permission you draw out just to tease him.

“Fine. Go on, then.”

His stomach flips and his cock twitches as he hears the tone of your voice—exasperated and almost put out. Somehow, over the course of your time together, even your most dismissive words have become another trigger for him, another thing he craves.

He doesn’t delve between your thighs the way his body aches to.

Not right away.

Once invited, Noah moves with agonizing restraint, taking his time to warm you up properly. His mouth is soft against the skin of your leg as he works his way upward, scattering slow, reverent kisses along your flushing skin. His fingers ghost along the sensitive inside of your thighs, always inching closer, always teasing.

He’s worshiping you—exactly as he should. Exactly as he wants to. Noah is a man of his word, most of the time, especially when it comes to promises whispered in dark, breathless moments like this.

Mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh, he murmurs sweet nothings against your skin, his breath hot and trembling as he moves higher, his voice thick with longing. He’s intoxicated by you, completely and utterly.

The tender worship slips away the second he has you where he wants you—where he needs to be. His arms hook beneath your thighs, spreading you wide open for him as he sinks between them, his mouth pressing hungrily forward. He’s instantly greeted by the sweetness of your arousal, a taste that’s become an addiction to him—something he chases without shame.

Noah’s patience finally snaps. His tongue now moves with a raw, desperate hunger, and his touch, once gentle, has become urgent, forceful. Every deliberate stroke of his tongue, roughened by the scrape of his scruff against your most sensitive areas, sends gasps and shudders rippling through you, no matter how fiercely you resist.

He doesn’t hide his desire or his willingness to drown in the scent and taste of you. The way he gently nuzzles his nose against your clit, and the way he licks and sucks with unwavering concentration, leaves no room for doubt. He intends to push you over the edge, whether it’s through his mouth, his fingers, or his cock—but tonight, he has chosen his mouth as his weapon of choice.

Every sound you make is a song to him. He greedily drinks in every little gasp and broken moan, pushing you higher and loving the way you lose yourself under his touch. He knows every telltale sign of your body, every little tremor and tightening of your thighs, and he guides you toward release with almost devastating precision.

When you finally break apart above him, your climax crashing through you, he feels it against his tongue—a rush of you flooding him, overwhelming and perfect. He doesn’t stop; he rides it out with you, slow, savoring strokes of his tongue coaxing every last ripple from your shaking body, desperate to taste every last piece of you.

But Noah doesn’t stop there.

Even as you tremble from the aftershocks, his long fingers slip back into you, curling deep and determined to find that perfect spot inside that makes you fall apart all over again. You squirm beneath him, the sheets growing damp with the rush escaping from you, but it only intensifies his desire. He’s feral and hungry, driven beyond reason. If necessary, he’ll suck the sheets dry to have every last bit of you.

There’s no satisfying him—not when he’s in this state, utterly insatiable and intoxicated by you. His mouth latches back to your skin, leaving behind a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your thigh, your hip, and any other accessible area. The insatiable hunger within him is endless, and at this moment, it’s all directed towards you.

Only when you’re completely spent does he relax, his kisses becoming softer against the inside of your thigh, leaving delicate marks on your skin. His grip loosens, allowing you to move, should you wish, before he climbs up the bed, dragging his body along yours, slotting himself between your thighs once more.

The taste of you lingers heavily on his tongue, and with a forceful kiss, he invites you to indulge in it, relishing in his pleasure as he openly moans into your mouth, your tongues colliding in a passionate fury.

In these moments, entwined with you, Noah swears that he has finally found heaven—and it all begins with a divine moment between your thighs.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @swissy23 @i-love-the-smell-of-your-blood @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @bloody-spades @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconictaurus

#bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfiction #bad omens smut #noah sebastian smut #bad omens fic #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian x reader #concretejunglefm fics

171 notes · View notes

darksigns-exe · 5 months ago

Text

it's delicate - noah sebastian x f!reader

warnings: swearing, fingering (f receiving) oral sex (f receiving) protected intercourse

word count: 4k

note: a little continuation of this thing that i combined with a request from @somebodyels3 hope this comes close to what you had in mine <3

masterlist | taglist sign-up

The party around you buzzes.

It’s the end of the year – New Year’s Eve – and everyone is here. The band's place is stuffed full of all of your friends. You’ve had a drink or two already, just to curb the bubbling anxiety that has settled in your belly.

These things aren’t for you, but at the same time you like seeing everyone. You haven’t seen some of these people in ages, and really it is nice to see some familiar faces again.

You’ve only seen Noah for a moment.

Things between you have been interesting since the encounter. Noah has kept a little more distance and while it had stung at first, you’re somewhat glad that he had taken that step. Getting that close to him had ignited a few feelings you had been very happy to ignore so far. Having a little bit of forced distance between you had given you time to reevaluate how you feel. Unfortunately, you had always come back to the same conclusion.

The things you feel for him are just a little bit more than friendship.

You can’t tell where he stands on the matter, but there’s a small part of you that hopes that he feels somewhat similar.

You’re ripped from your thoughts by the sounds of commotion in the kitchen.

The source seems to be an animated discussion between Folio and someone you can’t immediately recognise. It distracts you enough for Noah to be able to sneak up on you.

He drapes an arm around your shoulder, sidling up next to you.

“What’s he up to?” he asks, trying to get a glimpse at whatever is happening.

“I have no idea.” you reply.

You can barely make out Folio, and you honestly have no idea of what they’re debating. All you can tell is that it clearly isn’t entirely serious.

“You wanna head upstairs with me? I have something I’ve wanted to show you for a while.”

If he hadn’t sounded so earnest and things between you hadn’t been so off you would have made a joke out of it. Instead, you quietly follow up to his room.

You know that he’s been looking for a place of his own, but seeing boxes stacked in his room still takes you a little aback.

“Did you find a place?” you ask, pushing past some of the boxes so that you can sit down on his bed.

The room feels so much colder than it usually does.

Something about this feels odd.

“I did. That’s what I wanted to show you.” he pulls up a page on his computer, motioning for you to join him, “I know you’ve been having issues with your landlord so – there’s a spare room that could be yours if you want it.”

You sit on his desk chair and start to scroll through the listing.

The place is stunning.

Central, but in an area that feels like an actual neighbourhood. The rooms are spacious, and flooded with light. The living room is gorgeous, the kitchen looks to be newly renovated too. You know that Noah has already put so much thought into this, and really it’s a tempting offer. Maybe you would be less hesitant if it hadn’t been for that encounter.

“Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” he gives you that pretty smile of his, “It’s just an offer. It’s closer to where you work, too, just in case that influences your decision-making process.”

A small part of you wonders if that is part of why he settled on that apartment in particular.

“While I have you up here, I think we should talk about something else.” Noah continues.

You shoot him a questioning look, even though you already have a vague idea of what he wants to discuss.

“When I came over to your place and you — got me off?” you give him a nod, prompting him to continue, “I didn’t want it to make things weird between us. And I think in trying to give you space, I made it weird. I’m sorry about that.”

“To be fair, I took a step back too.” you reply, “Let’s just forget about the whole thing.”

Noah cocks his head to the side, “The whole thing? What if I don’t want to forget about it.”

You swallow a breath.

You can’t deny that you’ve been thinking about it a lot. The way he had looked up at you with tear stained eyes had seared itself into your brain. The visual of him thrust into your hand with nothing but pleasure had played on repeat in your mind.

“I don't think that you want to forget about it either, hm?” Noah squats down in front of you, “I can’t stop thinking about how good you made me feel.”

He brings a hand to your knee, thumb gently caressing your bare skin.

You force yourself to look at him.

His eyes are so soft, and there’s nothing that tells you that he’d be upset if you’d ask him to stop this. He waits patiently for you to make your move, quietly watching you with a curious expression.

You bring a hand to the side of his face. Noah leans into your touch, practically melting at the warmth of your palm.

“What about everyone downstairs?”

“They’ll be busy for at least another hour. We have plenty of time. And if we miss the countdown, we’ll just say that I wasn’t feeling good, and you stayed with me.”

He removes your hand from his cheek, and presses a kiss to the backs of your knuckles.

He rises back up to full height, your hand still grasped in his.

You let him pull you up from the chair.

Noah mirrors your earlier motion and places a soft hand against your cheek.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words just won’t come to you. The nod you offer seems to be satisfactory to him, though. Noah moves in so slowly, giving you plenty of time to move out of the way.

The first touch of his lips against yours is so soft and chaste. You hadn’t thought about what kissing him would feel like. But when you feel the gentle brush of his lips against yours, you never want to miss it again. His hand remains on your cheek, keeping you close to him. In return, your arms wrap around his middle.

Noah’s free hand comes to rest at the small of your back, and you can feel him toying with the tie that keeps your dress together.

When you finally part, your head spins with the lack of air.

“Sit down for me, will you?” he says softly.

His hands slowly drift away from you when you take a step back to sit on the edge of his bed. A moment later, Noah sinks to his knees in front of you. He moves to take off your shoes, placing them somewhere off to the side.

“Nothing you don’t want will happen. You can stop this at any point.” he says quietly, “We’ll only go as far as you want.”

You try your best to focus on the soft brush of his fingers against your calf, instead of the bubbling anxiety in your belly.

It’s always like this.

You want this – him – but when it gets to it, the anxiety to do well overwhelms you.

“Hey.” Noah gives a gentle squeeze to your thigh, “Everything okay? You’re looking a little lost.”

The concern on his face is unlike anything you’ve seen from him. You know that he cares deeply for his people, you included, but this feels different.

“Just a little nervous.”

“Don’t have to be nervous, sweetheart. I promise I’ll take good care of you. This is not the first time you’re doing this, right?”

You shake your head.

Maybe not the first time, but your anxieties had limited your experience quite a bit. More than a few partners had headed home again without seeing any kind of action after you’d gotten too into your head to enjoy it.

“Okay. Can I do something to make this better for you?”

You look down at him, finding only comfort and warmth in his eyes.

“Can you tell me what you’re doing? I keep trying to anticipate what’ll happen and –”

“Takes you right out of the mood, huh? Well, we can’t have that. I’ll tell you exactly what I’m doing. All you have to do is lie back and feel good. Sound good?”

You give him a nod in return.

“Has anyone ever eaten you out?” his voice is surprisingly calm considering the nature of his question.

“Just once, but – it didn’t seem like he enjoyed it.”

Noah scoffs, shaking his head.

His voice turns so awfully soft when he finally speaks up again, “Will you let me show you how good it can be? For both parties?”

“Will you?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, “Do you want to stay like this or do you want to lie back?”

“Like this is okay.”

“Good, if something feels off, let me know. No hesitation. I want this to be good for you.” another kiss to the inside of your thigh, a little higher this time, “Do you want to keep your dress on?”

“Is that okay?”

“Whatever you’re most comfortable with. If you want to keep it on, that’s okay. You wanna push up your hips for me?”

You do as he asks, allowing him to take your panties off. He’s careful, slowly sliding them down your thighs.

“Put on something cute before you came here, huh? Got all dressed up just for me.” he speaks more to himself than anyone else.

His hands roam across your thighs, giving gentle pressure to make you part them.

“Spread your legs a little, darling.” when you’ve made enough room for him, he continues, “I’m gonna touch you now, just with my fingers.”

His fingers slowly trail up your thigh. His touch is feather-light, barely there. You hold your breath when he reaches your centre. The tips of his fingers brush through your folds, until they catch at your clit. You gasp when he circles his fingers across the bundle of nerves.

“Don’t be shy, darling. Let me hear your pretty sounds.”

He keeps up the slow, gentle touch for a good while. Occasionally, his fingers drift a little lower, swiping through your folds again. With every pass, his focus shifts towards your entrance. You try your best to focus on him, but it’s already so hard to keep your eyes open.

Noah gives you another warning before he begins to tease the tip of one of his fingers into you.

He takes his time working his finger into you. The slow, teasing touch makes you gasp out loud. And, as his finger sinks deeper into you, you let yourself fall back against the mattress.

“There you go, baby. Does that feel good?” Noah asks softly.

You whine out a yes, but Noah doesn’t seem to be very happy with that.

“Words.” He says then, sounding almost a little taunting.

His fingers still, as he waits for your response, eyes fixed on your face so very expectantly.

“Feels good. Feels so good.” you choke out.

“That’s it. Gonna let me get a taste of your pretty little pussy?”

“Y-yes.”

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh, “Thank you.”

Noah removes his finger again and a moment later, you feel him trailing a barely there line of kisses up your thigh. And then you finally feel his lips pressing against your folds.

At first, it’s a soft little kiss, but then you feel the tip of his tongue dragging through your folds. He moves so slowly, that you feel like you could stop him so easily if it becomes too much.

You shift yourself upwards, in the attempt to get a glimpse at him. And when you look down, Noah meets your glance with the softest look.

You feel him smile against you, before he pulls away just so.

“Still feeling okay?” He asks.

This time, your nod is enough for him.

Noah quickly dives back between your thighs, burying his face there once again. He’s so careful with it. There’s something devotional about it. His attention is entirely on you and your pleasure.

You bring a hand into his hair, remembering how he had shuddered last time.

Noah lets out a sigh in response, but shows no sign of wanting to remove himself. In fact, you think that he sinks even deeper into you. You can just make out the flutter of his lashes against his cheeks as he continues his efforts.

He gives a first experimental suck to your clit before he pulls away again.

“Think you’ll be okay with my fingers inside?”

“I want to try.”

“That’s good enough for me.” He presses another kiss to the inside of your thigh, “Just keep making those pretty sounds for me, and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He keeps his focus on you while he eases his pointer finger back into you. When you give him no sign of discomfort, he returns his lips to your core.

Noah gives the softest little kitten licks to your clit, drawing whine after whine from you. As overwhelming as it feels, you just can’t tear your eyes away from him.

Soon enough, he starts to work a second finger into you. The stretch of it makes you sigh, and the grip of your hand tightens in his hair. And in turn, you’re rewarded with a moan from Noah.

The careful curl of his fingers, mixed with the steady licks he gives to your folds, drags you closer and closer towards your climax.

“Noah.” you choke out, making him look up at you.

“Getting close?” he asks, “You wanna cum for me? Let me hear how pretty you sound when you fall apart for me?”

You can only give him a desperate nod in reply.

“That’s it baby. You’re so tight around my fingers. I bet you’d feel so good around my cock.” you don’t understand how he sounds so unaffected by all of this, when you feel as if you’re about to be torn apart, “Come on, let me feel you. You’re so close, aren’t you?”

You’re right at the edge of it, but something is still holding you back. You let out a whine, hoping that it’s enough to tell him that you need more.

“Aw need a little more, sweetheart? That needy little pussy just can’t get enough, hm?”

He brings his thumb towards your clit. The slow circles he draws there, are enough to push you over the edge. You feel yourself clenching around his fingers, as you cry out in pleasure. You’re suddenly so very glad that the music playing downstairs is loud enough to disguise the sounds you’re making.

Noah works you through your climax with practised ease. The gentle praise he showers you with only makes you feel dizzier.

Eventually, his fingers slow until he stills entirely.

“You did so good for me.” he says softly, “I’m gonna pull out my fingers, okay?”

You give him a nod.

Your breath catches in your throat when he pulls his fingers from you. His fingers immediately dip between his lips. His eyes fall shut again, and he lets out a pleasured hum.

“Noah?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes fly up to meet yours, “Hm?”

“I want you.” “You just had me, sweetheart.” Noah says with a smirk.

“All of you.”

“All of me?” the smirk fades into something you can quite identify.

He rises up to his feet and for a moment, you think that he’ll turn around and leave. But instead, Noah leans down to you, placing a hand against your cheek.

“I’m going to kiss you now. Is that okay?”

Your heart is beating at a thousand miles a minute. Since the evening when you’d gotten him off, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.

“Please, Noah.”

His lips meet yours just a split second later. And before you know it, you find yourself on your back, with Noah hovering above you.

You bring your hand into the hair at the back of his neck, to keep his lips on yours.

One of his hands drifts up your thigh and under your dress. You feel his fingers digging into your waist.

From your lips, Noah trails a line of kisses along your jaw and neck. You sigh when he sucks a pretty little mark into the skin of your neck.

You try your best to tug his shirt out of his trousers, desperate to feel his skin beneath your fingers again. Noah seems to understand what you’re trying to do and quickly pulls his shirt off. He doesn’t return to you immediately, instead he moves to unbutton his trousers. You’re sure it’s just your imagination, but for a brief moment, you’re sure that his hands tremble just a little. He drops them onto his desk chair, together with his shirt, before he finally returns to you.

You scoot back, making a little more space for him on the bed. Noah kneels between your parted thighs. You let your eyes wander across his mostly bare body. His chest heaves with quick breaths. You can’t deny the bubbling anxiety in your belly, either.

Taking this step could change everything between you.

You bring your hand to his waist, to guide him back to you.

Noah meets you in another quick kiss, before he sits up again.

“Can I take this off?” he asks, playing with the hem of your dress.

As much as you want to seize up, you have to feel his hands on your body. And so you give him a nod.

Noah helps you sit up, allowing him to take off your dress. You don’t care where it lands because as soon as your body is bared to you, his lips are back on your neck. His hands roam across your body, and now you’re actually able to feel the tremble of his hands.

Noah kisses his way across your chest, grazing his teeth against your collar bones. You bring a hand between your bodies, pressing your palm against the bulge in his boxers. Noah’s forehead instantly drops to your shoulder. The groan he lets out makes you shiver.

“Careful, baby.” he sounds so breathless already, “Don’t wanna finish before I’m inside you.”

He shuffles out of his boxers, finally giving you a proper view of him.

“Hurry up then.” You say, once again reaching out for him.

Noah manages to catch your hand in his before you get a chance to catch him.

“Don’t get impatient now. You’ve been so good until now.”

He leans over to his night stand and pulls open the top drawer. Somehow you hadn’t thought about protection until now, but you’re glad that he did.

“Better to be safe.” He notes as he tears open the package.

Noah leans back over you, dipping down to steal a kiss from you.

“Ready?”

You nod, bringing your hands to his waist.

Noah remains focused on your face for a moment longer, before he looks down to where he’s working the head of his cock into you.

The focused furrow in his brow makes you wonder if he’s struggling to keep himself composed. He takes his time with it, slowly working his length into you.

Your hand remains on his waist, trying to steady both of you.

“Oh—fuck.” His head drops against his chest, “You feel so fucking good.”

You wrap your arms around his body, gently coaxing him back down to you. Noah drapes himself across your body, burrowing his face against your neck.

You feel his breath against your skin. He’s still for a long moment, his body heavy against yours. The weight of him eases your worries. He’s warm and comforting, skin so much softer than you had imagined.

The skin of his back twitches when you move your hands.

He begins a slow, steady rhythm. He rocks against you, barely moving away from you. But it’s enough for you. His lips return to the side of your neck, leaving what you assume will be a rather prominent mark.

He sighs out your name, whispering it against your skin.

With every thrust, he picks up a little bit more movement. Noah still doesn’t allow a lot of distance between you, but with the extra bit of leverage, he manages to hit all the right spots.

You’re not sure how long you’ll last.

The intensity of the moment is quickly dragging you towards your climax. Your belly already feels so taught.

You can’t tell where his body ends and yours begins.

Your name is a prayer on his breath. You’ve long given up on trying to form actual words. Between the moans and sighs that fall from your lips, you barely manage to utter his name.

Your fingers dig into his back. Noah gasps against your skin. You swear that you feel teeth scraping against your bare shoulder.

It’s a slow unravelling.

Your climax hits you in slow waves, dragging you under like a current. Noah stills above you. You feel him release into the condom with a quiet gasp. His breath fans out against your skin.

He stays where he is for a long moment.

Noah’s back rises and falls beneath your palms. A part of you wants to keep him close like this forever, but you know that you’ll have to face the people downstairs at some point.

Eventually, he begins to pull away from you. Your hands stay on his body as long as possible. But once he has sat up completely, you’re practically forced to let go of him.

“I’ll be right back with you, sweetheart.”

He gives a barely there squeeze to your waist just before he gets off the bed.

You don’t have time to feel shy about being entirely bare, as Noah quickly returns to you. You find yourself scooped up in his arms. Before you know it, he’s wrapped all around you again, this time with his chest pressed up against your back.

There’s so much you want to say, but you just don’t know where to start.

Noah’s arm snakes around your middle, somehow pulling you closer against him. You wrap your hand around his.

He presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“So about that room –” you say quietly, scared to disturb the mood.

“It’s yours if you want it.”

“Gonna make me sleep in the spare room, huh?”

You hope that you haven’t read too much into all of this. Every little touch is still embedded in your mind. The way he had looked at you is burned into your brain. And in that moment, all you hope for is that you’re not the only one who feels like this.

“Can you look at me?” he says and is voice is so unexpectedly soft then, “Please.”

Noah eases his hold on you enough for you to turn around.

His brow is furrowed so faintly, “Would you want me like that?”

“Noah.”

“Please – I need to know.”

Just like you had done at the beginning of the night, you place your hand against his cheek, “Of course I do.”

The corners turn up into the faintest beginning of a smile, before he dips down for a kiss.

“Does that mean that I can call you mine?”

The barely there nervousness makes your chest ache a little.

“Only if I can call you mine too.”

He breaks into that pretty smile of his, “I think this might be the best start into a new year so far.”

And really, you can’t disagree with him.

The party downstairs is long forgotten. The important thing is right here in front of you. And as selfish as it feels, you’re glad that you have him all to yourself in that moment because truth be told, this has been a long time coming.

Eventually, you hear the fireworks, but neither of you moves even a muscle. You stay here, wrapped up in your own little moment, wholly entranced by each other. And for the first time, you realise that he’s been yours for a while, just like you’ve been his for just as long.

All it took was a little nudge.

taglist: @deathblacksmoke @circle-with-me @sitkowski @ladyveronikawrites @baddestomens

@malice-ov-mercy @chels3a-smile @ferduttini @somebodyels3 @itsafullmoon

@shilohrosechicken @poisongirl616 @mysticdoodlez @agravemisstake @th4t-em0-k1d

@thisbicc @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @mrsnoahsebastian @blackveilomens @sorrowsofsilence

@fadingangelwisp @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @thisisntablogspost @tintadecirco

@rumoured-whispers@cheyyyyr@mathfairchild1 @thewrstinme @Follow-me-down-to-wonderland

#noah sebastian x f!reader #noah sebastian x reader #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens fic #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfiction

179 notes · View notes

measuredingold · 11 months ago

Text

you right

authors note: hello hello ! two weekends in a row ? i am on fire lol I’ve been working on this piece for awhile and finally got around to finishing it. inspired loosely by you right by doja cat. feedback is always appreciated and i hope you all enjoy !

pairing: noah sebastian x reader

cross posted on ao3

word count: 2.3k

cw/tw: infidelity, p in v ( be like them and wear protection! ), slight…angst?, noah sebastian is bad at feelings, slight hurt ig?, situationship lol, toxic relationship, 18+ mdni

Your breath hitches when Noah's hand runs up the back of your thigh, hiking your leg up against his hip. His lips brush over yours to muffle the noise you make when his hip rolls into yours, pressing you flush against the wall.

"Shit." He groans, pulling back to drop his head down to your chest, lips attaching to your exposed skin.

Your shirt was lost about five minutes ago, along with your bra, and your skirt was now bunched up around your waist. You knew it was a sight to see, Noah attached to you with your head thrown back against the wall, his lips wrapping around your hardening bud. Your hand moves to his hair, fingers twisting in his dark locks and tugging ever so slightly, and the vibration of his moan against your skin has your back arching.

The disappointment that was settling in your stomach was still there, fading, but still there nonetheless. You should be disgusted, ashamed for letting yourself get into this situation again but you're not surprised anymore. Noah was an enigma, pulling you to him whenever he could even if you tried to fight it. You couldn’t help that you wanted him, could never get enough of him. Constantly always craving to feel his lips against yours, to feel his hands caress your body, to feel his hips pressed flush against yours.

He was something you always wanted, needed, and you don't think you'll ever get tired of it soon.

Which you should. It'll never go further than this. Sex. That's all it is, all it'll ever be. Two people too stubborn to address their feelings for one another, instead hide it with casual sex. It's sad, and borderline pathetic, but that's how it's always been with him.

And how it always will be.

You thought you got over it. You met someone a few months ago, had a nice thing going. They were nice and treated you well. You thought the hold Noah had on you was finally over, you've moved on. Though, the second your eyes met his across the room tonight, celebrating a mutual friends birthday, you knew that it was a fucking lie.

You're not over him. You never were.

"Noah..." Another tug at his hair has his hips pressing into yours again, causing a moan to slip from your lips.

"Missed this." You hear him mumble, lips trailing up your chest to your neck. "Missed you."

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, the weight of it slamming into your chest. Missed you. That's the most vulnerable thing he's said to you in... ever. Your hips stutter for just a moment, eyes fluttering open to find that he's pulled back, already staring at you.

"Yeah? You missed me?" You hum out, your grip on his hair loosening.

"Of course I did." He pauses, tongue darting out to swipe across his bottom lip, eyes dropping from yours to drag down your body. "Did you miss me?"

When his eyes find yours again you notice the grin tugging at his lips because he knows you did. If you didn't you wouldn't be here right now, his hips flushed against yours with your back against the wall. You roll your eyes, but you know your cheeks are flushing.

"Maybe."

"Don't be like that." His head dips down again, lips brushing against the base of your neck and you can't help but shudder, your fingers in his hair tightening their hold yet again. "Say it."

"...Say what?" You sound breathless, eyes fluttering shut as Noah's teeth grazed over your skin.

"That you missed me." You don't even bother stopping the whine that slips from you when he pulls away, but he doesn't go far. His lips are barely brushing against yours now, forehead pressed firmly against yours. "Say it. Please."

"...I always miss you, Noah."

There's a split second of silence before Noah's surging forward, lips pressing into yours with such force you wouldn't be surprised if you woke up with a bruise on your lips. It moves quickly after that, your underwear being lost somewhere in the dimly lit room with your shirt, and then the sound of his rustling belt as he shoves his jeans down. He pulls away to flip you around, your cheek now pressed against the wall.

Big hands sprawl against your backside, gripping, and the groan Noah lets out from behind you has your core aching.

"Fuck. Look at you..." You hear him shuffling behind you and then the sound of the condom wrapper ripping, and for a second your stomach drops.

He was prepared, which isn't shocking to you, but he couldn't have known you were going to be here tonight. He acted shocked when he saw you, even telling you that he didn't think you'd make it. Had he planned on hooking up with someone else tonight? You don't get to dwell on it for too long, or the way it makes your blood boil from jealousy, because his tip is pressing into your entrance.

"Oh fuck." Your eyes squeeze shut and you reach back blindly, his hand finding yours immediately.

"So fucking tight." He grits out.

Your fingers lace with his and you squeeze hard, because the stretch is almost too much. Almost. You can't lie to yourself and say you hate it, because you don't. You loved the stretch, the burn of it all, because it was a sore reminder the next day that he was yours for a moment. His hand that wasn't laced with yours gripped your hip, his thumb sliding across your bare skin in a comforting manner.

"Always take me so well," He exhales, voice teetering on a whine, and he leans his forehead against your shoulder. "So good."

You just whimper in response, squeezing his hand again. The both of you moan in unison when he finally bottoms out, hips pressed flush against together. He lifts his head before you feel his lips ghost over your shoulder.

"You okay?"

You nod, teeth digging into your bottom lip to try and keep your noises at bay, mind already racing at how fucking delicious he feels inside. You never understood how he always felt so good, snug deep inside you, like he was meant to be there. He presses another kiss to your shoulder before unlacing your fingers, letting both of his hands now grip your hip as he slowly starts to move.

The drag of his cock has your eyes rolling back, mouth dropping open as he pushed back in, hips snapping against yours. The gentle demeanor is now gone because he knows your time is limited so he doesn't waste it, rocking into you with such force that has you seeing fucking stars. Pleasure courses through your body as the head of his cock slams into that spot over and over, your body shuddering against the wall.

"Noah..."

"What is it, baby?"

"I... I need..." You don't even know what you need and find yourself grinding back against Noah, pushing his cock deeper inside you.

“What do you need?” You only whine at his words, grinding back against him again. You feel one of his hands slide from your hip and down to where the two of you meet, his fingers brushing against your swollen clit. Your body shudders again, a broken moan leaving your parted lips. “Oh? Is this what you need, sweetheart?”

You nod, cheek still pressed against the wall as your eyes squeeze shut. “Yes. Fuck, yes. Noah, baby, please.”

He shushes you, fingers pressing against your clit and rubbing in time with his thrusts. “I got you. Don’t worry. Gonna give you what you want.”

You hear him grunt behind you as your cunt clenched around his cock at his words. It was all becoming so much so quickly, if you were more coherent you’d be sad at how little time you actually had left with him, but you can’t even think of that. No, you’re too focused on how fucking good his fingers feel, rubbing circles against your sensitive clit. His thrusts don’t let up either, his pace quickening and the drag of his cock has a fire building in the pit of your stomach.

“Shit.” He whines out, giving you one hard thrust before grinding himself against your ass. “Does he fuck you like this, baby?”

You choke on a sob, pussy clenching around his cock and you hear him groan.

“No, he doesn’t. Poor baby was begging me to fuck her.” His face buries against the back of your neck, his thrusts picking up again. “But it’s okay, you don’t need him… because you know all you need is me, right? I’ll always give it to you the way you like.”

He sounds drunk, words slurring in between his moans as he thrusts into you again. Your cheek is starting to hurt with how hard it’s pressed against the wall but you don’t care, chanting Noah’s name over and over again. The fire in the pit of your stomach keeps growing and you blink away the tears that are burning at your eyes.

It’s so good, feels so fucking good but so wrong at the same time. He wasn’t lying. Your sex life with your current partner was fine but nowhere near compared to this. Noah knew your body better than you did and knew exactly what you needed every damn time.

“Noah, I’m…” Your eyes burned and you choked on another moan. The hand between your thighs never let up, and his other hand comes up to wrap around your throat gently.

“Gonna come?” You try to nod in his hold, but his grip on your neck tightens slightly making it difficult. “Yeah? Go ahead. You can come, pretty girl.”

And that does it, the coil in the deepest pit of your stomach undoing. Your vision blurs and if it wasn’t for the grip on your neck, you’re sure your moans would be so loud the entire house would’ve heard you. You don’t even fucking care at this point, too lost in the pleasure that’s coursing through you, and the way Noah continues to pound into you to reach his own high.

“That’s it, fuck. Come all over my cock, baby.” He groans behind you, face burying against your shoulder to muffle his own noises.

Your body convulses with aftershocks of your orgasm, whimpering in over sensitivity. It doesn’t take much longer for Noah to find his own release, hips stilling against your ass as he whined out your name. His hold on your neck releases but he doesn’t move from you.

The two of you stay tangled in each other for a few moments longer, trying to catch your breaths. The reality of what just happened settles over you but for some reason you feel… content. The guilt and disappointment was no longer lingering over you.

“Fuck.” Noah chuckles behind you, lifting his head from your shoulder just a bit to scatter a few kisses where his forehead had been. You preen at the affection. “That was…”

“Yeah.” You say breathlessly, groaning quietly when you feel him shift behind you, cock still buried inside you.

The two of you both whine at the feeling of him slipping out and you couldn’t help but feel sad at the emptiness it left behind. You hear him shuffle around behind you, probably to throw away the condom and to hopefully look for something to clean you off with, and when your felt him settle behind you, the gentle touch of a cotton between your legs has you melting against the wall.

“Sorry to whoever shirt this is.” Noah mumbles, chuckling quietly.

You only hum in response, eyes fluttering closed as the exhaustion enters your body. Noah takes his time and even places another kiss against your shoulder, whispering to you that he was done and that you could get dressed now.

Something shifted in the air after that, the moment much more intimate than the other times you had spent together. But you nod, humming in response again before turning to find your clothes. You find your clothes with ease, Noah's words lingering in your head.

Because you know all you need is me.

The truth in those words makes your throat close up and you try swallowing whatever it is you're feeling away, pulling your underwear up and under your skirt that was still bunched up around your waist. You smooth it down before reaching for your shirt, slipping your arms through the holes. The weight in your chest returns, just like it had when Noah mentioned that he had missed you, the first admission of its kind.

Maybe there was some truth behind that for him, as well. Maybe all he needed was you, too. Your stomach turns at the thought as you begin to button your shirt up with shaky fingers, hearing Noah shuffling behind you in silence.

You begin to wonder what he must be thinking and a part of you is hoping he's thinking the same thing. It's foolish believing, you know it is, but you can't help it. Maybe you two had finally gotten over that unspoken rule that was set in place to where all feelings were avoided? Maybe it was time you two faced the music and admitted to whatever the fuck was going on?

You shouldn't want this. You should let it go. Yet, your mind is racing with all the possibilities and what if's, and you find yourself speaking before you can double down on it.

"Noah, I..."

You finished buttoning your shirt, turning around to finally face the male but find him nowhere to be found. Your heart drops, sinking so low into the deepest pit of your stomach. He's gone. He left you here without even an utter of a goodbye. Your eyes burn and there's a sour taste in the back of your throat, building up slowly as the realization dawns on you.

#bad omens fanfiction #bad omens fanfic #bad omens fic #noah sebastian fanfic #noah sebastian fic #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian x reader #mine

419 notes · View notes