Misc. (Leon Kennedy, Arthur Morgan, Patrick Bateman)
🔥 = alludes to NSFW
🔥🔥 = includes NSFW
🔥🔥🔥 = hardcore NSFW
➴ ᖇEᑫᑌESTS ཐི༏ཋྀ
Please keep inbox requests short (1-2 lines) so that I can write the fic in the reply to the request. Request any character (including not below) + idea. No judgement here, pervs!
I’m mostly interested in writing about:
💽 Harry Potter (all)
💽 Twilight (all)
💽 Red Dead Redemption II (Arthur Morgan)
💽 Ryan Gosling (all)
💽 Resident Evil (Leon Kennedy)
➴ TᗩGS & TᗯS ཐི༏ཋྀ
I try to hashtag my fics as accurately as possible.
I won’t specifically describe reader (eg skin tone) but they are always implied to be a woman.
The hashtag #binchithinks are just drabbles or thoughts about characters that aren’t developed into full fics.
I don’t use a TW system, but my fics tend not to include common triggers (e.g SH, SA, etc,.).
I do not consent to my fics being reposted elsewhere.
Hi!! Would you be interested in doing Leon x sex Repulsed/asexual reader? Friends to lovers if possible!! Tysm!!!!
Ugh this is so real I lowkey think I'm asexual bc if they're not fictional I don't want it. So here's some HCs.
Dating Without Sex Headcanons
(Leon Kennedy x A-Sexual! reader)
Leon Kennedy Relationship Headcanons
(Non-sexual / Ace or trauma-friendly relationship)
Leon is 100% respectful of your boundaries from day 1. The moment you tell him you don’t think sex is gonna be part of your relationship, he accepts it without hesitation or pressure. reassures you that it doesn’t change how he feels about you
maybe he's actually relieved in some ways bc he carries a lot of guilt and trauma himself — the idea of a relationship that isn’t centred around sex feels safer and more genuine to him in some ways + plus imagine coming home from a mission and he's got like major injuries... the last thing he wants is to feel bad for neglecting you physically. this way he doesn't have to worry that you'll think something's wrong if he's not immediately trying to fuck you touch you
still, physical affection is v present: e.g., lots of forehead kisses, back rubs, hugging you from behind while you’re making coffee, and falling asleep tangled together fully clothed or nude. he's easy like that.
lovessss the quiet domestic moments. Coming home from brutal missions and just collapsing on the couch with you, head in your lap while you play with his hair, is his favorite form of comfort.
not rlly related but he is extremely protective....he’ll check the locks twice, leave weapons hidden around the apartment “just in case,” and always makes sure you feel safe other than like having his arms round you
his love language is Acts of Service rather than Physical Touch imo.
still gets jealous sometimes, like quietly insecure or worried that bc he can’t give you “normal” intimacy, you might leave (i'm headcanoning that he's also lowkey asexual). You have to reassure him that this relationship is exactlyyyy what you need
he neverrrr makes you feel broken ugh he's the king of reassurance
(Dad's Best Friend! Courtland Gentry x Younger! reader)
Your father and Courtland had been thick as thieves since some classified op under Fitzroy decades ago: your father was older the Courtland, had been his mentor, in fact, before he'd retired. They had a list of inside jokes that could rival the bible in length (including referring to each other as 'four' and 'six', whatever that meant) and they could sit in silence for hours together. 'Best friends' didn’t quite cover it: more like the only person your dad trusted with his life, and vice-versa.
Still, he was rarely around— until recently, that is. You'd asked your dad about the sudden uptick in Courtland appearances and he'd just said that Court had 'gotten sick of Thailand' and 'wanted to come back home'. You didn't push for more information: you knew you wouldn't get it, either way. So, more often than not these days, you'd come home to find Court at the house, fixing things or showing up for Sunday dinners, always giving you that same old poker-face that he'd perfected over the years.
You hated how much you noticed him now he was around: before, he was just some guy from your dad's past. He'd been at your parents' wedding, before you were born; in and out of your life since then; now, he was here all the time, and you couldn't help but feel a little... shy around him. After all, he was six-foot something, built like a tank, and knew you well— who could blame you?
Tonight was no different: you’d come home from yet another disappointing date, heels clicking against the floor as you kicked off your shoes in the hallway. Your parents were out of town for the weekend (you suspected your dad wasn't quite as retired as he claimed he was), which left exactly one person in the kitchen, nursing a beer like he was forcing himself to relax: Courtland leaned against the counter in a black Henley, sleeves pushed up over his muscular forearms, looking annoyingly good for someone who claimed he was "losing the touch".
“Back already?” he asked, voice laced with that signature dryness. “Must’ve been a real winner.”
You shot him a glare and grabbed a glass of water.
“He was fine.”
“Fine,” Courtland repeated, tasting the word before washing it down with a swig of beer. “High praise, huh? Let me guess— talked about himself the whole time, tried to impress you with his made-up job, then invited you back to his soulless penthouse?”
You contemplated lying, but you couldn't deny that he was bang on. “He’s a finance guy. They’re all like that.”
“Exactly. They're all assholes. You can do better.” The words came out flat, but his eyes tracked you as you moved around the kitchen. There was something sharper underneath the sarcasm tonight. “A lot better.”
You turned to face him, arms crossed over your chest, now conscious of your outfit.
“You say that about every guy I date, Court. You keeping a running list?”
He took a final sip of beer, then set the empty bottle down with a quiet clink, toying with it.
“Someone has to. Your dad’s too polite to say it. I’m not.” He stood from the kitchen island and closed the space between you in some quick strides: he was close enough that you could smell his cologne (something woody, you thought?) and that you had to crane your neck a little to make eye contact when he spoke.
“The last one couldn’t change a tire; the one before that had bedsheets that were last changed before you were born! Remember him?" He scoffed and leaned over you to toss the bottle into the recycling with perfect precision. "And tonight’s finance bro is probably worse than all of 'em put together.”
You let out a frustrated laugh, trying to seem un-phased by the proximity.
“So, what do you suggest? I stay single forever while you play grumpy watchdog?”
Court's unreadable gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before flicking back up. His jaw tightened before he spoke.
“I suggest,” he said, voice lower, “you stop wasting your time on boys who don’t know what to do with... someone like you.” He paused, then reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear with surprising gentleness. His fingers lingered for just a moment too long, and you fought to keep your eyes from fluttering closed.
“You deserve a man who, you know... actually sees you. Who’d kill for you, or die for you— eventually, anyway." He rolled his eyes. "Not some suit who can’t even keep up."
The air felt thick; you swallowed as you parsed your words.
“Right. And where exactly do you think I find someone like that,” you challenged.
He didn’t answer right away; rather, a half-smile appeared on his face, one that made your stomach flip partly because of how nice it looked on him, and partly because it was so rare to see him looking less than stoic.
“I’m saying that you can do better.” His voice dropped even lower. “A hell of a lot better.”
The tension stretched between you, years of stolen glances and sarcastic comments suddenly felt like something more coherent. Courtland stepped back first, ever the professional, but his eyes stayed locked on yours.
“Go get some sleep, kid,” he muttered, the nickname sounding anything but casual now. “I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.”
As he walked past you, his hand brushed your arm. You stood there long after he’d left the room, heart racing. Maybe that 'someone' had been sitting in your kitchen the whole time.
Holland March with teacher/babysitter reader and she's a total sweetheart to Holly and him and she kind of likes how pathetic he is and likes to kiss him on his cheek and wave at him when he looks a mess in the morning because he's so cute when flustered and wearing that stupid lovesick smile.
One day she just plugs one cigarette out of his mouth and places it on her, taking a drag and coughing cause she's not used to it and it makes him smile cause 'holy crap. You're kind of pathetic too and that was so cute' so to stop his rambling, she kisses him silly until he manages to press her up to the column of the entrance to his place-
Sorry, I got carried away.
Patheticute
(Holland March x Babysitter! reader)
Every morning, without fail, Holland March would stumble into the living room to wave Holly off for school looking like he'd just survived a small house fire. His tie would be crooked, his hair would be sticking up in at least three directions, and he would always freeze up when he spotted you next to Holly, about to walk her to school. There was a sort of dance that you two had perfected in the mornings, wherein he'd make a total dick of himself and spend all day thinking about it.
"Bye, dad!" Holly yelled from the bottom of the stairs on one such morning. "Oh, shoot, forgot my backpack!"
You laughed as she ran up the stairs at full speed past her half-awake father, who was only now coming down to say goodbye. Once again, he seemed to have forgotten that five days a week, you would be there: he had hired you, after all.
"Morning, Holland," you said, smiling up to him. Holland froze halfway down the stairs, and quickly pushed a hand through his messy hair.
"Hi. Hi, Y/N," he replied, mouth opening and closing like he had more to say.
"...That all?" you asked, furrowing your eyebrows with a smile.
"I had more," he admitted, shaking his head. "It— uh, it left."
You laughed and he visibly relaxed, like his job for the day had been done. He knew that he'd spend the next ten minutes replaying the sound in his head while trying (and failing) to get ready for work without making more of an ass of himself.
It had been weeks of little moments like this that Holland kept in mind to get through the day: sweet, teasing greetings when you arrived; your deft hands fixing his tie in the mornings as he tried not to stop breathing; your smile when he brought you flowers (as well as a generous tip) when you stayed late because a stakeout ran over.
Yet, despite how pathetic he was for you (maybe a little because of it), you felt the same way, looking forward to every shift and trying not to stumble over your own words. Which was why, one afternoon, you made a terrible decision; an incredibly attractive decision, according to Holland March.
On this particular evening, Holland was leaning against one of the columns in the house's entrance, cigarette hanging anxiously from his lips whilst he waited for you to arrive. If he was being honest, he'd smoked about five cigarettes back-to-back just for an excuse to stand outside and greet you when you got there.
Finally, he saw you walking up the driveway, walking quickly because it was raining buckets. When you saw him at the doorway you cocked your head, squinted through the rain, and smiled: he was normally gone by the time you got there. He smiled back warmly, straightening up a little as you approached.
"Hey, Mr. March," you waved, jogging to get out of the rain.
"Hey."
His gaze softened as he looked at you, soaking wet and a little windswept: you looked wonderful, as always. "It's raining," he said, then immediately took an enormous inhale of his cigarette to try and off-put what he had just said; nice one, asshole, he thought.
"Yeah," you laughed, peeling the hood of your jacket from your head. "I noticed."
He smiled down at his shoes. You leaned your back against the column opposite him, catching your breath for a moment. Without a word, you suddenly reached over and plucked the cigarette right out of his mouth. Holland blinked.
"What are you... hey!"
You placed it between your own lips, taking a drag like you'd seen him do so many times before. You, unlike Holland, however, were not used to cigarettes (let alone his cheap and unreasonably strong Lucky Strikes), and the smoke hit your throat like a freight train.
"Oh, urgh—" You tried to stop yourself from coughing, but the cigarette fell from your fingers onto the floor as you cupped your hand over your mouth and began to cough— violently. Holland watched, amused, with one eyebrow raised.
"Oh my God," you coughed. "Holy—" Cough. "Holy shit."
You were laughing through your streaming eyes, now, and so was Holland. Finally, the coughing fit subsided and Holland reached down to pluck the cigarette off the floor, inspecting it before popping it back between his teeth.
"Not a smoker?" he asked.
"Obviously not."
His face was doing something strange: trying very hard not to smile, and failing miserably as he grinned down the end of his cigarette at you.
"You stole a cigarette even though you don't smoke? Why? What's wrong with you?" he laughed.
"Sue me! I was curious," you defended, wiping your eyes and crossing your arms over your chest like you didn't nearly just die from one puff. "I see you putting those things away every five minutes, I wanted to know what the appeal was."
"You figure it out?"
"Fuck no," you scoffed.
"Thought you'd look grown up? Do you feel grown up, now?" he laughed. You didn't reply, scowling at him; he continued to grin at you. "And here I was, thinking you were far too cool for—"
"Oh my God, would you shut up?"
With one determined stride, you closed the space between you and Holland, and grabbed the front of his white vest, once again pulling the cigarette from his lips and throwing it onto the ground. You pulled yourself against his lips, one hand fisted in his shirt and the other clenched by your side.
The words disappeared from his lips immediately as Holland mumbled against your mouth. When he finally caught on to what you were doing, he closed his eyes and kissed you back— deeply, needily. You pulled back to catch your breath, certain that you'd got the final word, but he wasn't having that: it was like he remembered that he was a grown man, and quite a tall one, at that.
He straightened up from his slouched position against the column, leaning over into the kiss so that your head craned upward as he walked you backward, one hand snaking around your waist and the other cupping the back of your head. You squeaked in surprise as he guided you, and a second later your back met one of the columns with a soft thump. Holland's hands rested on your shoulders, and you began to worry that you'd misread the signals.
"I—"
"There." He looked incredibly pleased with himself. "Can I finish my point, now, please?"
You paused.
"What point?" You furrowed your eyebrows.
Holland leaned closer, so that you could see the way the sunlight caught in his eyes as he stared you down longingly.
"I was going to say... that it was actually pretty cute."
You froze, then laughed; his expression softened instantly. It dawned on you that you knew this look, the one he got whenever he saw you: it was a lovesick look. You spent a moment peering up at him before he spoke again.
"You know," he murmured, brushing his nose against yours lightly, "I was trying very hard to be charming when you rudely interrupted me."
"You were failing."
"I know."
You laughed again, and Holland's smile widened: that was his job done. God, he adored that sound. Then, he kissed you before you could come up with another comeback.
By the time Holly finally appeared in the doorway, both of you were still smiling like complete idiots as Holland leaned over you, his leg resting between your thighs and his hand next to your head to suppport himself.
"Ew," Holly announced immediately; you and Holland jumped apart in surprise. She sighed dramatically. "I knew this was going to happen. I've got bets with Healy that Y/N would make the first move. Was I right?"
Holland sighed. She really was her father's daughter.
im so curious about how rygos boys would react to reader just.. peppering them with kisses and affection unwaveringly .... ;w; mostly henry, ryland, driver, and lars, but i love all of them...
Peppered with Kisses Headcanons
Ryland Grace
Ryland is caught off guard bc he’s not used to affection (he's basically a virgin with how long it's been since his last canoodle)— especially not while he’s trying to focus on calculations or fixing something on the ship.
He freezes mid-sentence the first time you pepper kisses across his jaw while he’s working, leaning over his shoulder and pecking him.
“Do you... need something, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low and slightly flustered, but he doesn’t pull away. He finds he kind of likes it, actually.
Over time, he starts leaning into it, even if he pretends to be annoyed.
“You’re going to be the reason I make a mistake in these equations,” he claims, but there’s a small, helpless smile on his face that he hopes you can't see. Eventually he just sighs, pulls you into his lap, and mumbles against your hair, “you’re ridiculous. Wait, don't stop!”
Holland March
Holland is the most dramatic about it IMO. The first time you start kissing him all over his face he’s talking about a case, back against the kitchen counter with a glass of whiskey and a smoke lit.
“You even listening?” he whines as you reach up to peck him, but he’s melting, hands grabbing your waist and trying to turn it into something more (inevitable with Holland). You squeal and shove him off, laughing at how he's almost entirely erect already.
“You can’t just do that to a man, sweetheart. I’m weak. I’m a weak, weak man!"
Eventually it stops being a (strictly) sexual thing, and he just takes the kisses for what they are: affection. He might complain if you're watching TV or something, but he’s smiling like an idiot the entire time you're clambering into his lap (this black and white noir film was his choice, and it sucks) and he keeps whispering “more” every time you pause.
Henry Letham
probably mostly happens whilst he's painting. First time, he freezes and stares ahead at his canvas with those wide eyes while you kiss his cheeks, forehead, and hair over and over. He doesn’t know how to process consistent, gentle love; it almost overwhelms him. He goes very still and tense, breathing shallow, like he’s afraid moving will make you stop; he also hopes you don't notice the effect it has on him, how such a small gesture makes him freeze mid brushstroke. He'd slowly place his brush down, spin around in his studio chair, and cup your face.
“…Why do you do that?” he asks quietly. When you tell him it’s because you love him, he kisses you hard and insists you sit in his lap as he paints.
Lars Lindstrom
Lars is shy OBVIOUSLY. Every time you pepper him with kisses (assuming you've been together long enough that your touch is a welcome thing to him), his face turns bright red and he gets all stiff and awkward. You'd be lying if you said this wasn't part of the appeal.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that…” he mumbles as you ritualistically kiss the corners of his mouth. You just hum and he never stops you. He slowly starts melting, shoulders dropping, eyes fluttering closed, a tiny, shy smile forming.
He becomes the type to follow you around the house like a lost puppy, hoping for more affection. When you kiss his nose or forehead, he gets the softest, most lovesick look on his face and whispers, “I really like when you do that.”
Ken
Ken is in absolute heaven: this man was made for attention and affection. The second you start peppering him with kisses, he lights up like the sun, grinning with eyes closed to as not to disturb you and sighing contentedly with his head in your lap. When you finish, he furrows his eyebrows and pouts. He becomes dramatically clingy, wrapping his arms around you and tilting his head to give you better access.
He will literally moan and shiver when you kiss his neck.
“I’m the luckiest Ken in the world,” he declares, burying his head wherever he has access. He gets so happy and confident from your affection that he starts calling you 'babe' and pulling you in by the waist.
If you stop for even a second he gives you the biggest kicked-puppy eyes and says, “Did I do something wrong? Why did you stop loving me?”
i can't stop thinking about sleepy sex with 2000s Noah ohhhhh my godddd
liie imagine him being just SLIGHTLY condescending. You start whining about how you need him and he gets all playful and huffy........
"Y'need it right now? Really?" And when you start whining more or start moving away he grabs you and pushes you up against him .like. Oouughhhh.
Just giving you shit because he thinks it's funny but then he fucks you slowly and makes sure you feel good even when he's struggling with nodding off .needthat
No idea if this is coherent
- 🌺
Oh hey oh hey oh hey oh hey oh hey
I'm biting my dogs back right now wtf
"Y'need it right now? Really?" OHHHH MY KNEES ARE GOING TO BUCKLE
Him being like "just fucked you last night, baby. Y'always gotta bother me when I'm sleepy."
And when you pull away with a whine because you're kind of embarrassed but also still needy he'll grab you right back and be like "well, pull y'panties down if you need it that bad." 🚬
He's groaning and fucking you slowly but so good but he's still so sleepy, gripping at you to make sure he's steady and doesn't just roll over on you or crush you 🚬
Wait wait wait edit:
Him laying on the couch with his hat covering his eyes because he's trying to relax and maybe get a little rest before you actually head up to bed and he's just talking to you with it still covered until you try to pull away and with his eyes still covered he grabs you, pulls you back tells you to pull your panties down and then takes the hat off and tosses it while he starts to unbuckle his belt HELLO why is that hot to me I got mental Illinois 😭😭😭😭💔💔💔
anything ANYTHING WITH HOLLAND MARCH as long as he keeps his suit on please that is my only request
The Knack
(Dad! Holland March x Mom! reader)
‘After the birth of your first daughter (and his second), you and Holland try to figure out how to do it right, together.’
The nursery was quiet except for the soft creak of your rocking chair and the occasional fussy whimper from your newborn (who you were affectionately referring to as 'the baby' because you still hadn't named her. Holland wanted to call her 'David' after David Bowie, then, after realising she was a girl, proposed 'Bowie'— which you also refused).
You were in the nursery, silently crying, tears wetting your cheeks in exhaustion: it was 2 a.m., and no matter how many times you patted, rubbed and tapped your daughter’s back, she just wouldn’t burp. She was obviously uncomfortable and wouldn't stop fussing because of it.
Six weeks into motherhood and you already felt like you were failing; it didn't help that Holland, as wonderfully helpful as he was, couldn't always stay up late with your baby because he had work the next day: he'd tried to take as much time off as he could, but Healy needed his partner back for a huge case that they were so close to cracking and would pay well. Nonetheless, Holland appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Even exhausted, he looked ridiculously handsome in his worn, white t-shirt and boxers. He'd felt you get up from the bed when the baby started fussing, and had expected you'd be back soon enough. Twenty minutes later, you were still in the nursery. Concerned, he'd traipsed through to check on you, even though you told him you wanted him to be well rested for work— someone had to bring some money in; motherhood was expensive.
“No luck, sweetheart?” he asked gently from the doorway, voice rough with sleep.
“I’ve tried everything. She just keeps crying.” You shook your head in disbelief, hardly looking up. Still, Holland caught sight of your puffy face and tear stained cheeks.
“Oh, babydoll," he murmured. He stepped closer and kissed the top of your head tenderly. The last thing he wanted was to make you feel inadequate, but he couldn't stand seeing you like this.
"Can I try help?"
You nodded and carefully passed the baby up to him. Holland took her with practiced ease, rocking her in his arms like he’d done this a thousand times before— because he had with Holly, many years ago.
You leaned back in the rocking chair and wiped your eyes, relieved to stretch. You watched as he positioned her upright against his chest, one large hand cradling her head, the other rubbing firm circles on her back.
“I was twenty-two when Holly was born,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “Way too young. Thought I knew everything.” He let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle.
“Holly's mom passed and suddenly it was just me and a little girl, figuring it out. She'd cry all night and I just wouldn't know what she needed," he paused. "It takes trial and error, even if you're the best mom in the world,” he said, looking across at you. "N' I'm always gonna be here to help."
You watched him in silence, heart aching with a mix of irritation for your own inexperience, love for Holland's tenderness, and sadness for his loss.
Holland switched to gentle but steady pats, bouncing gently to jostle her. A few seconds later, your daughter let out a big burp, followed by a tiny sigh of relief: she visibly relaxed in his arms, tiny fists coming unbunched. Holland smiled brightly, amused by how such a loud sound could come out of such a tiny body.
“There we go,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Better?” he cooed. She burbled and he took this as his cue to put her back into her crib.
In three big strides, Holland gently lowered her down, brushing his thumb over her cheek as her eyes began to flutter close. He gazed across at you, eyes soft but tired before he spoke.
"You know, you made us feel like a family again. Me and Holly, I mean. We were fine just me and her, she's a great kid and so she made do. But you sort of...glued us.” He looked down at your daughter, his expression full of wonder and fear.
“And now we’ve got this one.” He beamed down at her as he brushed her cheek with his thumb, leaning over the crib as you sat. "Wanna get this right," he murmured.
You stood up from the rocking chair and moved toward him, wrapping one arm round his waist and one on resting on the side of the crib. He leaned into your touch as you both peered down at your baby.
“You’re such a good dad, Holland. Holly adores you, and look at her— she’s completely calm when you're here. Wish I had the knack the way you do.”
Holland smiled faintly as you let your head lull onto his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around your shoulder, mindlessly tracing patterns there.
“I was a mess when Holly was born; barely keeping it together after her mom died," he admitted. "It's only a knack 'cause I've done it once before— and even then, I'm rusty," he scoffed and lowered his voice. “As long as you keep loving her the way you do, she's gonna be one spoiled little girl.”
You peered up at him.
“You think so?”
He let out a long breath and reached across to pull you fully into his arms, resting his chin on top of his head.
"I know so."
For a long moment, the two of you stood in adoring silence as you gazed down at your baby, finally sleeping under the soft lamplight.
Holland pressed a kiss to your temple.
“So, how about that name... 'Bowie'...?”
"No fuckin' chance," you whispered, grinning into his chest.
I just watched the notebook and I was looking for some reader x noah calhoun fics but there are barely any:( So could you write a jealous Noah fic where him and reader are close friends but when reader starts getting the attention of some other boys he realizes his feelings for reader?
Just Friends
(Jealous! Noah Calhoun x BFF! reader)
The summer fair in New Bern was alive once again with lights and laughter, the breeze warm as it carried the smell of cotton candy toward you. You walked beside your friend, Martha, with Noah and Fin trailing just behind as you weaved through the crowd, turning round to point out the games and rides you were keen to try.
You four had made a great friendship group since your freshman year at NBHS, and since Martha and Fin had started going out last year, everyone in town naturally assumed you would end up with Noah— everyone except you, apparently.
Noah had never been much of a romantic, seeing himself more of a practical man, but had recently begun harbouring feelings that he could only describe as sappy: it disgusted him, but he wanted to hold your hand, to know what you looked like under your clothes, to kiss you silly, to make you see how great he thought you were.
Fin knew it; Martha knew it; and Noah knew it. You, however, were oblivious to his feelings, and who could blame you? Noah never made it obvious that he was head over heels for you, worried that you wouldn't feel the same and it would ruin your long-standing friendship. So, for now, he satiated his desire to be close to you with more covert gestures, passing off giving up his jacket to you as something that you do for a friend. He figured that he would rather have you as a friend than lose you forever, even if that meant yearning painfully every time he looked at you.
Noah's mind was elsewhere as Fin talked to him, his eyes barely leaving you as you gracefully made a path through the bustling crowd; he was reluctant, but agreed to go with Fin to the ticket stand to get you all some ride tokens.
"Back in a minute," Fin said, pecking Martha on the cheek. "Stay out of trouble."
Noah, as always, envied Fin and Martha's closeness, wishing he could do the same with you. Nonetheless, he smiled at you and followed Fin.
You and Martha giggled, rolling your eyes as they made their way to the ticket stand.
"He's worse than my dad," Martha complained, linking her arm with yours and leading you to the side whilst you waited.
As you giddily discussed what rides you would go on first, a pair of boys eyed you and Martha from across the way: one was tall and confident, with a cute grin; the other a little quieter, but equally good looking. You were both too involved in your shared laughter to see them approaching.
“Hi there,” the taller boy said, flashing a charming smile that, admittedly, made your cheeks flush and tuck some loose hair behind your ear. “My friend and I are from a College of town and were wondering if you might like to show us around.”
"Do you dance?" the shorter of the two asked Martha, hopefully.
She giggled and batted her eyelashes, ever the flirt.
"I'm here with my boyfriend, I'm afraid," Martha smiled, elbowing you lightly in the ribs when you didn't follow suite.
"And yourself?" the taller boy asked you, stepping a little closer. You blinked, smoothing your skirt awkwardly. They seemed like nice enough boys, and on any other occasion you might have agreed, but you weren't here to meet anybody new.
“I'm sorry, but I'm with—”
Before you could finish, Noah and Fin returned. The second Noah saw the boy standing too close to you, he stepped in from behind you.
“She's with me,” Noah said, voice low and even, but carrying a sharp edge you rarely heard. "Sorry, fella." He moved right beside you, keeping his eyes locked on the boy who, you realised, was the same height as Noah: how had you never noticed just how tall Noah was, before?
The boy raised his hands in mock surrender, still smiling.
“Didn’t mean no harm, friend. Just thought she might like some fun.”
Noah’s free hand found the small of your back, resting there with purpose.
“She’s got everything she needs right here, thank you.”
It wasn't unusual for you to be close to Noah, but this felt different: protective in a way that didn't feel like he was your big brother, anymore.
The older boys backed off, laughing between themselves as they disappeared into the crowd. Martha linked her arm with Fin's as she led him toward the Ferris wheel.
"Come on, you two, let's get in the queue!" she shouted over her shoulder, dragging Fin away.
Noah stayed tense for a long moment, unmoving, jaw clenched, staring after the pair like he was contemplating what he had said: was it too much? Was it not enough? He couldn't make up his mind.
“You okay?” You snapped him out of his trance.
His eyes darted across to you. He didn’t answer right away, but dragged a hand over his face and readjusted his cap.
"Come on," he drawled, spinning on his heel and walking toward the quieter edge of the fairground. Your eyes darted between him and the crowd behind you, worried that you'd lose Martha. Nonetheless, you hurriedly followed after him into the clearing. Only when you were alone by the river's edge did he stop, hands shoved deep into his pockets.
"Noah, where are we—"
“I ain’t okay,” he admitted, voice rough. His eyes were intense in the dim light as he turned to face you. He dropped his gaze, sighing, and sat down on a nearby bench; he pulled off his cap and ran a hand through his hair.
“Seein’ him look at you like that… talk to you like that. It made me realise I’ve been damn stupid.” He put his head in his hands.
You paused and sat down beside him, tentatively placing a hand on his back.
"Whad'you mean?" you whispered, slowly rubbing his back. You furrowed your eyebrows as he remained silent. Eventually, he sighed and straightened up, eyes locked on yours.
“Fin and Martha made it look so easy, and I got to thinking I should tell you, but I just didn't wanna ruin this,” he gestured between you. "I love you. I'm in love with you, I mean,” he said. “Longer than I probably should’ve kept quiet about. I thought we were just friends, that that was gonna be enough. But watchin’ someone else try to do what I shoulda been doing… woke me up real fast." He reached out and gently took your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles.
“I don’t want you dancin’ with no one else,” he continued, voice low and earnest. “I don’t want no one else lookin’ at you the way I look at you. I want you to be mine.”
The bright lights of the fair twinkled behind him, but all you could see was Noah, looking at you like you had hung the stars.
“You're a damn fool, Noah," you whispered. "I’ve always been yours."
Noah didn't hesitate: he cupped your face in his two, large, calloused hands and pressed his lips hard against yours, eyebrows furrowed in pent-up desire. He let out a shaky breath against your mouth, pulling back just enough to kiss all over your face. Finally he pulled you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest as he cupped the back of your head, brushing circles on your back.
“About damn time I said that,” he murmured into your hair, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. He suddenly leaned backward and peered down at you sceptically. "You mean it?"
"Yeah, I mean it," you laughed.
He smiled in relief and tilted your chin up to kiss you again: slow and deep and full of all the years he’d kept his feelings quiet. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“Come on,” he said, voice warm. “Wanna get outta here? I’ve had enough of crowds.”
Noah kept your hand in his the whole walk home, fingers laced tightly like he was making up for lost time.
Could you write some prevy noah calhoun headcannons?
Writing these as vignettes bc I'm a yapper and he's defo into public sex UGH
Pervert
(Noah Calhoun x reader)
Rowboat
The lake was calm and golden as the sun dipped low. Noah rowed slowly, seeming to enjoy the view of you more than the lake: his eyes had hardly left your figure, but you were used to his quiet appreciation by now. You sat across from him in a cotton skirt, the hem riding up your thighs, head thrown back enjoying the sun on your skin. His voice cut through the silence suddenly.
“Hmmm... spread your legs a little,” he murmured, continuing to row like he'd said nothing out of the ordinary.
"Noah!" you exclaimed, smacking his arm lightly. He grinned, eyes leaving yours to scan the shore: anyone still on the banks could see the two of you easily. Still, Noah’s eyes darkened as he returned his gaze to watch the way the fabric shifted between your thighs.
“God, I can see the outline of your panties,” he groaned quietly. He adjusted himself in his trousers, breaking rhythm with the oars as you clamped your thighs together to hide his view.
"Get us back to shore and I'll think about it," you smiled into the sun.
Town
You were walking through town, wearing a cool sundress that soothed the hot weather perfectly. It was innocent and perfectly decent, going well below your knees, but nothing was innocent with Noah Calhoun around: he stayed half a step behind you, eyes glued to your ass as you chatted away. When you realised he was no longer right next to you, you spun around.
"Come on, Noah, what're you doing?"
He tore his eyes away from your lower half— ruefully— and caught up with you in one quick stride, wrapping a strong hand around your waist. “M'sorry,” he whispered against your ear as you passed a store. “Got distracted by the view." He grinned against your temple and pressed a quick peck against the side of your head as he pulled your tighter against his side.
"Now what was you sayin', baby?"
You rolled your eyes, certain he wouldn't be listening this time, either, now he could see down the front of your dress.
Fair
The streets were loud and crowded, neon lights flashing everywhere you looked; the summer fair had once again taken over the town square, but you hadn't even managed one ride before Noah pulled you behind one of the game tents into a narrow alley between two stalls.
He pulled you along by your hand, then, once he found a spot adequately hidden from view, he dropped to his knees in the dirt and bunched your skirt up around your waist.
“Hold it up,” he ordered, voice thick as his eyes bore into you.
Before you could even get a good grasp on the fabric, his mouth was on you, hot and desperate over your panties. He sucked on the cotton, tongue pressing hard against your clit through the fabric while people laughed and shouted just a few feet away. You couldn't help the gasp that left you as your knees weakened; you would've buckled then and there save for his hands roughly bracing your waist against the wall.
“Quiet, sweetheart,” he growled against your now-soaked panties, eyes looking up at you wickedly. “Don’t want anyone to see what you're doing, do you?"
Without waiting for a reply, he hooked one finger into the side of your panties, pulled the lace aside and buried his tongue inside you, groaning like a starving man.
Dinner
You were at a table with Noah’s work friends, fellow sawmill workers, and a few contractors. You were hoping to make a good impression for the sake of him getting more work, but Noah was not making this easy.
Noah’s hand had been on your thigh for twenty minutes; now his
fingers were slowly rubbing you over your panties, pressing the damp fabric against your clit in lazy circles. He kept talking casually about stupid lumber prices, voice perfectly steady whilst his fingers moved faster. He feigned leaning over to peck you on your temple as someone else spoke, before whispering into your hair.
“Feel that?", two fingers stroking firmly over the soaked cotton. “Making such a mess, sweetheart. Keep your legs open for me.”
You nodded solemnly and furrowed your eyebrows, as if he'd just told you something perfectly innocent, and pretended to take another sip of wine to prevent yourself from moaning. You bit your lip hard as he slipped a finger under the edge of your panties, teasing your entrance while smiling at the man across the table.
Dock
The old wooden dock creaked softly under you. It was late, approaching early morning, but a few boats drifted in the distance. You couldn't have cared less about them, though: Noah had you straddling his lap, your dress bunched around your waist, as he buried himself to the hilt inside of you as he guided your hips in slow, deep rolls that made your eyelids heavy with pleasure and a blush creep across your cheeks.
“See those boats, hmm?” he breathed against your hair, thrusting up into you and forcing your nails to dig into his shoulder.
"Y-yeah," you managed when he squeezed your ass harshly.
“Yeah? They might see us. Might see how pretty you look riding my cock. You don't care? Mm? Answer me.” He gripped your thighs harder, spreading you open as he fucked you.
"Nnngh—" You couldn't get a reply out: you let your head fall forward onto his shoulder as he thrust upward, groaning an incoherent response.
“S'ok. Let ‘em hear you. I want everyone to know exactly who this pussy belongs to.”
Home
You had dropped in to see Noah, to check how things were going with the new house that Noah was building so that you could live there, together. The second floor was still under renovation, with beautiful, arched Georgian windows dominating the front room; curtains and blinds were yet to be put up at this stage of construction.
Early evening light poured in through the huge windows as Noah fucked you from behind, your sweaty hand pressed hard against the pane. Anyone walking the dirt road below could look up and see everything; even though the road was rarely frequented, you couldn't help but feel a little exposed.
Noah kept one hand fisted in your hair and the other gripping your hip, pounding into you hard enough that your chest and the side of your face pressed against the window.
"That’s it,” he groaned, accent strong with lust. He yanked on your hair, forcing your back to arch even further against him. “Feel good? You like your new house, baby?” He reached around to rub your clit, sending your eyes rolling back into your head as he picked up the pace.
"Yeah— yes, Noah," you managed, knees buckling below you: his grip around your waist and in your hair was strong enough to keep you up-right.
"Yes what?" he cooed, slowing his pace torturously.
"Yes, I love the new house... p—please!" you cried out
“That's nice baby. M'gonna fill you up right here in your new bedroom."
Hi, I just read Fire Escape. "He felt sick when you didn't come out; he felt sick when you did." is a line that's going to be permanently glued in my brain forever. Really great fic, thank you 🖤
Oh my goooodness thank you so much! I love writing about Henry he’s such an interesting character you can do so much with. Thanks again for reading and for such lovely feedback <3
