this month i’m going to be super busy with exams, crying because i probably didn’t pass them, and going to the bo show so if i’m late with the updates or answering your lovely comments, that’s why
Series summary: Stuck in a life you don’t want, your only way out is a deal with a pirate, and that’s how your journey on a ship of outlaws toward a new life begins.
(This story is set in a fictional past and not in our world. All places and historical elements are invented and not accurate)
Series summary: Stuck in a life you don’t want, your only way out is a deal with a pirate, and that’s how your journey on a ship of outlaws toward a new life begins.
Tw: weapons, alcohol
Series mastelist
One night, after chatting with Davis while you ate some hardtacks, the taste of which you had now begun to tolerate, and playing dice with Folio, you went to bed. But sleep didn’t seem to come.
You turned onto your side. Then onto your back. Then again, pulling the blanket up, then pushing it down a few minutes later when it suddenly felt too warm.
It was all useless. So, with a quiet shift, you sat up and decided to go out for a bit.
You slipped your boots on, the wood of the floor cool under your feet for a moment, and stepped out of your cabin, closing the door softly behind you.
The ship was quiet. The sky was clear, scattered with stars, and the moon hung high enough to cast a pale, silvery light over everything.
You walked a few steps forward, wrapping your arms loosely around yourself. The air was a bit colder but not uncomfortable.
You let out a small breath, your gaze drifting out toward the horizon.
For a moment, you just stood there, then something caught your eye.
Near one of the crates, slightly off to the side, something had been left behind. You moved closer, curiosity pulling you forward before you could think too much about it.
When you arrived in front of the object, you realized it was a sword, probably used for those challenges they kept having. It wasn’t tucked away properly, just resting there like someone had forgotten it.
You hesitated for a second, then reached for it.
You adjusted your grip slightly, lifting it just enough to catch the moonlight along the blade.
It was clean and shiny.
Your fingers tightened just slightly around the hilt as you tilted it, watching the pale light slide along the metal, sharp and almost beautiful.
“Planning a mutiny?”
The voice came from behind you, and it was close.
You spun before you could stop yourself.
Your body reacted faster than your mind, instinct taking over in a sharp, sudden motion. The blade lifted, your arm moving without hesitation... and stopped.
The tip of the sword hovered just inches from Noah’s throat.
He didn’t move and didn’t even flinch, but just looked at you.
Then, slowly, one corner of his mouth lifted.
“Hey,” he said lightly, voice calm despite the steel at his neck, “I was joking, but now I’m starting to think you actually might be.”
You blinked.
Then immediately lowered the sword, your grip loosening as the tension snapped out of your arm.
“I—” you exhaled sharply, shaking your head once. “You scared me.”
“That was the idea,” he replied, completely unbothered.
You shot him a look, your heart still not fully settled.
“Well, congratulations,” you muttered. “It worked.”
He let out a quiet huff, something almost like a laugh, his gaze dropping briefly to the sword before returning to you.
“Careful with that,” he added. “Would’ve been a very embarrassing way for me to go.”
You frowned faintly, still holding it. “I didn’t realize I’d react like that,” you said, quieter.
“Yeah, well,” he said, tilting his head slightly. “You did.”
There was a brief pause, his eyes flicked once more to the blade, then back to you.
“…You know how to use it?” he asked.
You glanced down at the sword in your hand, then back at him.
“…No,” you said. “Of course not. Not really.”
One of his brows lifted slightly, like that answer had been expected.
“Not really,” he repeated.
A small pause passed between you, and that could’ve ended the moment entirely if either of you had stepped back. Instead, he nodded once toward the sword.
“I can teach you,” he said.
You blinked, it was the middle of the night and you thought it was a weird offer.
“Now?”
The word slipped out before you could stop it.
He looked at you for a second, then a faint, crooked smirk pulled at his mouth again.
“I like that your concern is the timing,” he said, “and not the fact that you’d be learning how to use a weapon.”
You exhaled lightly through your nose, shifting your grip on the hilt.
“Yeah... that also should be my concern,” you muttered.
“Probably,” he agreed. “And yet.”
You hesitated.
This was a bad idea.
You knew it was.
Everything about this felt like something you shouldn’t be doing, standing here in the middle of the night, holding a sword on a pirate ship, with him of all people offering to teach you how to use it.
And yet…
You didn’t put it down.
“…Fine,” you said after a moment, though it came out more reluctant than convinced.
“Alright,” he said simply.
He stepped a little closer, keeping just enough space between you. “First,” he nodded toward your hands, “you’re holding it wrong.”
You frowned slightly. “I don't think I am.”
“You are.”
“I’m just holding it,” you pointed out.
“Yes. And not in the right way.”
You gave him a look. He ignored it.
“Loosen your grip,” he said, reaching out and lightly tapping your fingers where they were wrapped too tightly around the hilt. “You don’t need to strangle it.”
You adjusted slightly, though not without a small huff.
“Like this?”
“Better,” he said. “Still not great.”
“You are such an encouraging teacher.”
He almost smiled.
“Feet,” he added, glancing down briefly. “You’re standing like you’re about to trip over yourself.”
“I am not—”
“Move.”
There was just enough authority in the word that you did, even if you rolled your eyes while doing it.
He stepped around you slightly, positioning you without touching this time, just guiding.
“One foot back. Balance your weight.”
You shifted.
“Like this?”
“…Close enough.”
You turned your head slightly to look at him. “You’re really a terrible teacher.”
“And you’re a terrible student.”
That pulled a small, unwilling huff of a laugh out of you.
“Alright,” he continued, stepping back again. “Try this.”
He picked up another sword from where it had been leaning nearby, apparently not as forgotten as you thought, and held it loosely, demonstrating.
“Don’t think too much,” he said. “Just follow.”
He moved first.
A simple and controlled motion. Not fast, but precise.
You tried to mirror it, but it wasn’t the same.
Your movement was a little too stiff, a little too unsure, and he watched for a second, then shook his head slightly.
“No. You’re overthinking it.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just... trying not to stab myself.”
“That’s a good start,” he said.
You shot him a look, then tried again and this time, a bit smoother.
He nodded once. “Better.”
You repeated the movement, slower, more deliberate now. The blade caught the moonlight again as it moved, a faint glint with each shift.
“Again,” he said.
You did.
And again.
At some point, it stopped feeling completely foreign in your hand. It wasn’t really natural, but less… wrong.
He stepped closer this time, reaching out without really thinking about it, adjusting your wrist slightly.
“Angle it like this,” he said. “Otherwise you’ll lose control of it.”
You felt the brief pressure of his fingers guiding the movement, then he let go again.
“Try.”
You did.
It worked better.
You exhaled softly, almost surprised.
“…Okay,” you admitted.
“Told you. Now,” he said, lifting his own sword slightly, “I’m going to try something. Don’t panic.”
“That doesn’t make me less likely to panic.”
“Too late.”
He moved.
Not fast enough to be dangerous, but fast enough that you had to react. Your body tensed, your blade lifting instinctively... but too slow.
He tapped your sword aside easily.
“You’re hesitating,” he said.
“Because I don’t want to accidentally kill you.”
“You already almost did, we'll be fine.”
“Very reassuring.”
“Again.”
He moved once more and this time, you reacted quicker.
Your blade met his with a light clink, the sound softer than before, controlled.
You both paused for a second.
“…That was actually decent,” he said.
You blinked. “Was it?”
“Don’t let it get to your head, I said decent.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle.
You tried again.
And again.
Each time a little better.
Each time a little less tense and more precise.
A laugh slipped out of you without warning when he exaggerated a movement just enough to throw you off and you completely missed it.
“Hey, that was unfair,” you said immediately.
“That was so easy to stop.”
“It was not.”
“It really was.”
You shook your head, lowering the sword slightly.
You glanced at him. He was closer again. You hadn’t noticed when that happened.
The space between you had shortened without either of you acknowledging it. For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you looked away first, clearing your throat slightly as you adjusted your grip again.
“…One more,” you said.
He tilted his head.
“Alright.”
After a while of what was really starting to feel like a training, you realized that you were actually tired. The kind that meant you might actually sleep.
Your gaze drifted to Noah.
You noticed the way he pushed his hair back from his face absentmindedly, fingers brushing through it before falling back to his side. The way his white shirt hung loosely on him, the fabric shifting slightly with every movement.
You blinked, realizing you had been looking for a second too long, and your gaze shifted away quickly.
“Okay,” he said, lowering his sword completely. “Lesson’s over.”
You looked back at him.
“We can do it again,” he added with a small shrug. “If you want.”
You hesitated just a fraction of a second. “Maybe,” you said.
He nodded once. “I might even choose you during one of our fights one day.”
You raised a brow.
“Try it,” you said, a hint of a smirk tugging at your lips. “And I’ll reconsider that mutiny idea.”
That got a quiet huff out of him. “Good to know,” he said.
In the following days, you started asking about the Devil’s Hook because curiosity got the better of you. Even if part of you wasn’t sure you actually wanted the answers.
You found them anyway.
You had been sitting near the railing one afternoon, the sun warm but not unbearable, when Vincent's name came up.
You had asked without thinking too much about it.
“Who is Vincent?”
“He used to sail with us,” Davis said, “Part of the crew for a couple of years.”
“What happened then?” you asked.
Davis shrugged lightly.
“He got hurt,” he said. “Bad enough that he had to stop for a while.”
“‘For a while’?” you repeated.
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Turned into longer than that. Then he just… didn’t come back. He realized this life wasn't really for him.”
“He stayed on Devil’s Hook while he was recovering.” Ruffilo added, “Then opened a place there. He has his own tavern there.”
“And you guys are still… friends?”
“Yeah,” Davis said easily. “Absolutely.”
You gave a little smile at that.
“Every time we pass near Devil’s Hook,” Ruffilo added, “we stop and go say hi.”
After some days, land started to appear gradually, the shape of the coast visible against the horizon.
You were sitting near Noah who was at the helm, a worn map spread open in your hands. Someone had left it around and no one had bothered to take it back. Your eyes followed the inked coastline until you understood why it was called like that when you saw an arched curve of land bending inward like a hooked arm reaching into the sea.
Devil’s Hook. The name definitely made sense.
Noah was guiding the ship without looking away from the water ahead.
By the time you reached the harbor, the sun was already lowering, spilling warm orange light over everything.
The docks were crowded and uneven, filled with ships of all kinds, some well-built, others barely holding together. Men moved between them constantly, shouting, laughing, arguing, carrying crates without much care for order. Nothing looked official or regulated.
The smell hit you as soon as you got closer, you recognized salt, smoke, alcohol, fish, tar and sweat.
Beyond the harbor, you could see the island rising inward with tight clusters of buildings, crooked streets, lanterns already flickering to life since the night was close.
Behind you, the royal ship that had been taken finally came to a stop as well, creaking as its sails were lowered.
One by one, they crew began to disembark onto the dock.
The wood beneath your feet felt even compared to the ship, like the whole place wasn't constantly shifting anymore.
“Wow, she's beautiful!” someone shouted from across the harbor, talking about the royal ship.
Noah appeared beside you a moment later. He glanced around once, taking in the chaos of the port, then let out a faint, satisfied breath.
Then he turned his head toward you, and small, almost amused curve touched his mouth. “Welcome to Devil’s Hook, princess.”
For a while, you stood a little to the side, watching as Noah and a few of the others spoke with some men at the port.
It didn’t take much to understand what was happening as they gestured toward the ship and nodded.
“We’ll leave it here,” Noah said. “You handle the rest.”
A pause. Then a nod.
“We’ll get you what you need for this.”
“We need food and water,” Ruffilo added.
“And money. A lot for this,” someone else said.
“Obviously.”
You stayed quiet, arms loosely crossed as you listened.
“Fresh produce too,” one of the dock men added. “Came in this morning.”
You nearly reacted out loud, because it was the best thing anyone had said in days. You were so tired of hardtack, rice and fish.
You said nothing, but your expression must have shifted just enough, because Davis glanced at you from the side, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“Excited?” he murmured.
You gave him a flat look.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He snorted quietly.
Around you, the group began to loosen. Some of the crew peeled away almost immediately, disappearing into the docks to greet people, clap shoulders and chat.
“Come on.”
You turned.
Noah had stepped back toward you, already moving like he expected you to follow.
“I’ll take you to Vincent’s place.” He added.
You frowned slightly. “Do I have to?”
He didn’t even hesitate.
“You can either come with me,” he said, “or stay here. Alone. On the ship.”
You glanced back at the docks and at all the unfamiliar faces there.
“…Right,” you muttered.
That answered itself.
“Fine.”
He just turned and started walking, and you followed.
A few others fell in behind you without needing to be asked. The further you moved from the docks, the more the island unfolded around you.
The sun was lower now, the ground beneath your feet shifted from wood to uneven stone and packed dirt, the path winding between buildings that looked like they had been built whenever and however someone felt like it.
You passed a small market first.
There, tables lined with goods, fish laid out on rough boards, their scales catching the last light, baskets of fruit and vegetables that immediately caught your attention, brighter than anything you’d seen in days.
You slowed slightly without meaning to.
The smell shifted as you moved, less of the harbor now, more of food, smoke from cooking fires and something sweet, and more voices filled the space around you.
You passed a group gathered around a man performing in the middle of the street, flames raising in the air as he exhaled, a burst of fire lighting up the dimming space for a second.
You instinctively slowed again.
The streets narrowed a bit as you continued, the buildings closer together now, lanterns glowing softly as night started to settle in properly.
Ahead of you, Noah finally slowed slightly, turning down another street without breaking his stride.
“We’re close,” he said.
You adjusted your pace to match his as the group followed, boots echoing softly against the uneven ground.
The street he led you into was quieter than the others, a little less crowded, though not exactly calmer because you could still hear laughter and voices.
A wooden sign hung slightly crooked above a wide doorway ahead, swaying faintly. The paint was worn, but you could still make out the name.
The Ceremony Inn.
Warm light spilled out from inside, along with the low sound of conversation and the unmistakable sound of glasses clinking together.
Noah stopped just outside, glancing back briefly to make sure you, and the others a bit farer away, were still there.
“This is it,” Noah said simply.
You looked at the place for a moment, taking it in.
Before you could say anything, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The warmth hit you first, then the noise.
The place was busy, filled with people, you thought they must have been pirates mostly, if the weapons, the clothes and the general attitude were anything to go by. Tables were scattered around the room, some occupied by loud groups, others by quieter pairs speaking in low tones. A long counter stretched along one side, bottles lined behind it, and behind that, a man with dark hair looked up.
Then his expression shifted like he didn't fully believe what he was seeing.
“Noah?”
A faint smile pulled at his mouth.
“Vincent!”
The man behind the counter didn’t hesitate. He stepped out from behind it, crossing the room in a few quick strides before stopping right in front of Noah.
For a moment, they just looked at each other.
Then Vincent let out a short breath and pulled him into a rough, one-armed embrace, gripping his shoulder tightly.
“You’re still alive, man!” he laughed.
“Definitely,” Noah replied.
Vincent pulled back, “You don’t even look like shit,” he said.
Noah huffed lightly. “Good to see you too.”
That pulled a grin out of Vincent.
Then his eyes shifted to you and he paused.
“…And who’s this?” he asked.
You hesitated only a second before answering, still standing just a step behind Noah.
You gave your name, then added, almost like you felt the need to explain yourself, “They’re taking me to Saint Marlowe. That’s why I’m with them.”
Vincent’s brows lifted slightly, something like interest and mild surprise crossing his face as he took you in a bit more carefully.
“Wow,” he said, tilting his head just a little. “Then you must be tougher than you look.”
You frowned faintly.
“I mean... to live on a ship with them?” he went on, gesturing vaguely toward Noah and the others starting to file in behind you, already chatting with other men they recognized sitting at the tables. “That’s not exactly… easy. I know. I ran away from them myself.”
Noah laughed. “You didn’t run away from us, you love us! Life just got in the way.”
Vincent let out a short laugh at that, shaking his head.
“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, and that just made Noah laugh again. You knew Vincent was joking.
By then, the rest of the crew had fully come in, the space filling even more with familiar voices greeting Vincent loudly, some clapping him on the back.
“What about food?” he asked after he greeted them all, “You hungry?”
That got an immediate reaction.
“Yes,” came from more than one voice at once, and you didn’t even try to hide your agreement.
“Alright,” he said, raising his hands slightly. “Sit down before you start eating food from other tables.”
You followed the movement as they all began settling along the counter, stools scraping lightly against the wooden floor.
You hesitated only a moment before taking a seat as well. Behind the counter, Vincent was already moving, grabbing bottles, gesturing to someone in the back for food, that arrived faster than you expected.
Vincent set down plates one after another along the counter. There were thick portions of meat, roasted until the edges were just slightly crisp, mixed with vegetables you hadn’t seen in what felt like forever, real vegetables, fresh, colorful, not dried or salted into something. There was bread too, soft, still warm.
For a second, you just stared at it like you were dreaming, then you started eating.
And it was… good. More than good. It was the kind of food that made you realize just how bad everything else had been.
Around you, the others chatted, laughed and someone was already asking for more to drink before even finishing their plate.
You stayed quieter. You listened more than you spoke, your attention drifting between voices as they talked about the past weeks, routes they had taken, ports they had passed through, things that had gone wrong and things that had gone very right.
Glasses kept being filled.
And emptied.
And filled again.
You noticed it more than you expected.
Everyone drank casually, but your gaze flicked, more than once, toward Noah.
You remembered that night and the way you had found him drunk.
You found yourself wondering, without really wanting to, what it meant for him, what kind of relationship had with alcohol.
At some point, his stories got louder, a little less precise, a little more exaggerated. Noah leaned back slightly on his stool, one arm resting loosely against the counter, a half-finished drink in his hand. There was a looseness to him now that hadn’t been there before, something a little less controlled.
“We got attacked,” he said suddenly, cutting into whatever Davis had been saying. “Middle of the night. Out of nowhere.”
A few of the others groaned immediately.
“Don’t—” Ruffilo started, like they had this conversation before.
“—by a kraken,” Noah finished anyway, completely ignoring him.
There was a beat of silence.
Then Vincent slowly turned his head toward you.
“…Is that true?” he asked, one brow lifting slightly.
You blinked, caught off guard.
You glanced at Noah, then back at Vincent.
“I’ve only been on the ship for two months,” you said, a small shrug following, “but I’m pretty sure the kraken isn’t real.”
Noah scoffed under his breath.
“It was real.”
“It was not,” Ruffilo muttered.
“It had tentacles,” Noah insisted, gesturing vaguely with his drink.
“So do a lot of things in the ocean,” Davis added dryly.
Vincent looked between all of them, clearly entertained now.
“So what was it, then?” he asked.
Nicholas, who had been sitting a bit further down the counter, spoke up, shaking his head
“It was a squid,” he said. “A big one.”
Noah turned his head sharply toward him.
“It was not just a squid.”
“It was,” Nicholas replied calmly. “A very large squid.”
There was a pause.
Then Noah let out a short breath, and suddenly he laughed, shaking his head slightly as he looked down at his glass.
“Alright,” he admitted, still grinning faintly. “It might’ve been a very large squid.”
“Thank you,” Nicholas said, completely unimpressed.
Vincent snorted, leaning back slightly.
“A kraken,” he repeated under his breath, amused.
You couldn’t help it, a small laugh slipped out of you too, but then you saw Noah emptying another glass and it quickly faded away.
At some point, the energy around the counter started to shift.
One of the men yawned, stretching his arms with a groan, and mentioned he was exhausted. That seemed to trigger something in the others. Vincent, overhearing, casually mentioned he had more than enough rooms upstairs for all of them, no need to go back to the ship that night.
It didn’t take much convincing. One by one, a few of them stood, still talking, still laughing, but clearly ready to disappear for the night. Boots scraped against the floor, chairs shifted, and the group slowly started thinning out.
You didn’t move. You weren’t entirely sure why.
You told yourself you just weren’t tired yet, that you were enjoying the warmth, the low noise, the feeling of being somewhere that wasn’t constantly moving under your feet.
But your gaze kept drifting back to Noah.
He was still there, still sitting at the counter, another drink in his hand, talking, though at this point it was less of a conversation and more… fragments.
And something in you didn’t like the idea of just… leaving him there like that.
Time passed. More people left. The inn grew quieter, the loud laughter fading into softer conversations, then into scattered voices, until even those started disappearing as the night dragged on.
Eventually, the others followed.
Ruffilo gave you a brief look before heading upstairs, like he noticed you were still there, but said nothing. Davis clapped Noah lightly on the shoulder on his way out, muttering something you didn’t catch.
And then it was just the two of you. And Vincent somewhere in the background, busy with closing things down.
Noah reached for his glass again.
You watched him for a second. Then, without overthinking it, you reached out and took it from his hand.
He blinked, slow, unfocused for a second, then looked at you like you had just committed something deeply offensive.
“Hey—” he started.
“That’s enough,” you said, setting the glass further away from him.
“I wasn’t done.”
“Yes, you were.”
He frowned faintly, leaning forward slightly like he might try to reach it again, but you didn’t move.
“It’s late,” you added. “You should go to sleep.”
He looked at you for a moment longer, like he was deciding whether to argue or not.
“…Fine,” he muttered eventually, though it came with a small, reluctant exhale. You didn’t give him time to change his mind.
“Come on.”
You stood, and after a second, he did too.
The difference was immediate.
On his feet, he was… less steady than he had seemed sitting down and you noticed it right away.
“Careful,” you said instinctively, reaching out slightly as he shifted.
“I’m fine,” he replied, though the way he adjusted his balance said otherwise.
You gave him a look he didn’t fully register and started toward the stairs. He followed.
The climb wasn’t long, but it felt longer. Halfway up, his steps slowed just enough that you glanced back, and that was when he misstepped slightly, his balance tipping just enough, and then his hand landed on your shoulder. Warm.
You froze for half a second at the contact.
Even through the fabric of your shirt, you could feel the heat of his hand. “…Told you,” you muttered under your breath, not really expecting a response.
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t move his hand either, so you kept going.
Step by step, slower now, adjusting your pace without fully acknowledging it, until you reached the top of the stairs and into the corridor.
The hallway was dimly lit, quiet compared to downstairs, doors closed on either side.
You didn’t even think about where you were going at first.
You just… kept walking and he kept following still leaning slightly into you. Until you reached a door that was not completely closed, showing you there was no one inside. You pushed it open, and stepped inside.
The room was simple, but comfortable.
A bed against one wall, covered in clean sheets. A small wooden table sat near the window, a candle already burned low beside it. There was a chair tucked into the corner, and a faint smell of wood and linen in the air.
You stopped just inside, suddenly very aware of the fact that you hadn’t actually meant to end up there, but you thought that maybe Noah needed supervision until he reached a bed.
You pushed him lightly, more insistently than gently, until he finally dropped back onto the bed with a soft thud.
He let out a breathy laugh, a little uneven, then tilted his head up at you with a crooked grin. “Heyyy,” he muttered, like he was offended and entertained at the same time.
You rolled your eyes immediately. “Don’t even start.”
He lifted a hand lazily, not really in surrender, more like he was drawing shapes in the air without thinking.
There was a pause where he just looked at you.
Too long.
Then his mouth twitched.
“You’re… really pretty tonight,” he said, words slightly slurred at the edges, like they were taking the long way out of his mouth.
You stared at him for a second, then glanced down at yourself.
“…I’ve been wearing this for days,” you said flatly.
He blinked slowly, like that information didn’t fully make it through.
“Mm… still,” he said, dragging the word out. “Maybe it’s like… the atmo... atmosphere.”
“No,” you said immediately. “It’s the alcohol.”
That made him exhale a quiet laugh, shoulders shaking slightly as he shifted on the bed.
He tried to prop himself up a bit more, but it came out slightly off-balance, so he just stayed leaning back, staring at you like he found you extremely interesting and couldn’t remember why.
“Princess?”
You sighed. “Are you still calling me that?”
“Yeah,” he said, way too easily. “Fits you. Kinda.”
“It really doesn’t.”
He ignored that completely, eyes drifting for a second before snapping back to you.
“Would you... would you like to be a pirate princess?”
There was a beat of silence. You blinked at him.
“…Noah.”
“What?” he said quickly, a little too defensively for no reason. “I’m just sayin’. It’s a question. Simple.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
He frowned slightly, like he was trying to keep track of his own thoughts and had already lost them once.
Then, abruptly, he changed direction, or at least, that what it seemed.
“What’s so important about Saint Marlowe anyway?”
That made you pause.
“…What?”
He waved a hand vaguely, like the words were floating somewhere in front of him.
“Saint Marlowe. You keep sayin' it like it’s… like it’s the only place that matters in the world.”
“That’s because it is where I’m supposed to go. You're not making any sense right now, Noah.”
He hummed again, slow and unconvinced. “Mhm.”
“Mhm?”
“It's my response,” he said, then blinked again. “A bad one maybe. But still one.”
You crossed your arms. “What are you even trying to say?”
He stared at you for a moment like the question itself was too complicated.
“I’m not tryna say anything,” he muttered, though it came out more like he was definitely trying to say something and just failing to package it properly.
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s not true.”
He gave a lazy, uneven shrug.
“Okay, maybe I am,” he admitted, then frowned slightly at his own honesty like it had betrayed him. “But it’s not like… clear, y’know?”
“Explain?”
“Saint Marlowe,” he said, “It’s like… your thing. It’s where you’re goin’. End of line.”
“Well, yes.”
“But you come on a ship like this,” he muttered, “you think you know what it is. You think it’s just… one thing. Then it turns into somethin’ else without asking you. You make friends. And laugh and stuff.”
“Noah—”
He raised a hand, cutting you off, not harshly, just… like he couldn’t hold the thought and your interruption at the same time.
“I’m not saying you should stay,” he said quickly, words stumbling slightly over each other. “I’m not— I’m not saying that.”
A pause.
Then, softer, “I know you won’t.”
That landed differently. He didn’t look at you when he said it but he just stared at the edge of the bed like it was safer than your face.
“People like you don’t stay,” he added, quieter. “You’ve got places you’re supposed to go. Dreams that don't involve people like me right?”
A small laugh slipped out of him, but it didn’t have much energy behind it.
“So yeah,” he muttered, “you go to Saint Marlowe. That’s what you do.”
You were starting to understand what he meant, but everything was still so confusing in that moment.
“Anyway,” he added, “it’s fine.”
A beat.
“…It’s fine,” he repeated, and closed his eyes.
You stayed there for a moment, just standing and watching him.
The room had gone completely quiet now.
His breathing had evened out, his chest was rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. His head had turned slightly to the side, hair falling loosely across his forehead, more disheveled than usual.
You frowned slightly, your arms still crossed as you stood there.
What the hell had he meant?
His words echoed back in your head. You exhaled slowly, your gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to him.
It didn’t make sense. Why would he want you to stay?
You weren’t part of this. You had never been.
You were there because of a deal. Because of circumstances. Because there had been nowhere else to go at the time.
That was it.
That was all it was supposed to be.
And yeah… maybe sometimes, lately, you had found yourself noticing things you shouldn’t. The way he looked at you sometimes. The way he spoke when he wasn’t trying to be difficult, sarcastic and sharp. The way he—
You stopped the thought before it could finish.
That didn’t mean anything.
Attraction didn’t mean anything.
It didn’t mean he felt it too.
And even if he did, it definitely didn’t mean you were about to throw away everything and stay on a ship full of pirates, of criminals, just because of something so temporary. Something so stupid.
You shook your head slightly.
It didn’t make any sense. You told yourself that again as your eyes drifted back to him despite it. To the way his hair had fallen across the pillow, uneven and soft in the low light. To the slow rhythm of his breathing.
To the way his lips had parted slightly as he slept, unaware and unguarded.
You stared for a second longer than you meant to.
Then you let out a quiet breath, almost a sigh, and looked away.
This was pointless.
You turned, moving toward the door, your steps quiet.
You didn’t look back again. The door opened with a soft creak, then closed just as gently behind you.
And just like that, you were alone again. Left with your thoughts.
And the faint, persistent feeling that something about that conversation hadn’t been as meaningless as you were trying to convince yourself it was.
Series summary: Stuck in a life you don’t want, your only way out is a deal with a pirate, and that’s how your journey on a ship of outlaws toward a new life begins.
Tw: violence, death/killing, blood
Series mastelist
The cards slapped lightly against the wooden crate between you as Ruffilo dealt.
The sun was low and soon it would begin to paint the sky a thousand shades of orange and red. A few voices drifted across the deck: someone was laughing loudly somewhere behind you, and you could hear the faint creak of ropes and wood. That background was starting to feel familiar.
You adjusted your seat slightly, one leg tucked under you as you picked up your cards, fanning them out in your hands. It was a position you would never have sat in just a few weeks ago, and now here you are, sitting like a man.
A few seconds passed in quiet, just the two of you and the soft shuffle of cards being adjusted. Then, he spoke.
“So,” Ruffilo said, placing one of his cards down. “How’s it going?”
You looked up at him.
“On the ship,” he clarified, like it wasn’t obvious.
“It’s… okay.”
He hummed, like he expected that answer.
“Just okay?”
You shrugged slightly, placing a card down. “What do you want me to say?”
“The truth.”
“That is the truth.”
Ruffilo studied you for a moment, then leaned back just a little, one arm resting loosely on his knee as he considered his next move.
“And with Noah?” he asked.
Your fingers paused over your cards.
You thought about the past few weeks.
It had… changed. Maybe. You weren’t sure.
You thought about the mornings when you’d ended up near him without really meaning to, standing by the railing while he pointed something out in the distance, explaining currents or wind patterns.
You thought about the knots. The way he had started showing you one, slow at first, like he assumed you’d struggle, and then the brief pause when you had repeated it back without hesitation.
“That’s… not bad,” he had said.
“Not bad?” you had replied.
He had tilted his head slightly, watching your hands. “Alright. That’s better than I expected.”
You had rolled your eyes. “I used to travel with my father. I’m not completely useless.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he had muttered.
You shifted slightly where you sat now, your fingers brushing the edge of your cards absentmindedly.
You let out a quiet breath through your nose at the memory of the arm wrestling day.
He had been so sure of himself, leaning back, smirking, rolling his sleeve up like he knew he was going to win.
And then he lost.
You had laughed. Not even tried to hide it.
“Oh, don’t—” he had started.
“You lost,” you had said immediately.
“The table wasn’t stable.”
“Of course it wasn’t.”
You remembered the look he had given you then. Both annoyed and amused, like he didn’t know whether to argue or just let it go.
Back on the deck, the sound of a card hitting the crate pulled you back. Ruffilo had played his turn, watching you now.
“Well?” he asked. You blinked once, refocusing, then finally placed your own card down.
“It’s… okay,” you said.
He raised a brow. “That’s the same answer.”
You shrugged again, “We talk,” you added after a moment. “Normally.”
“Normally,” he repeated, like he was testing the word.
“He tells me things sometimes,” you went on, your gaze dropping briefly to your cards again. “About places. Things that happened at sea.”
Ruffilo nodded slightly, like that tracked.
“And?” he prompted.
“And nothing,” you said, maybe a bit too quickly. “Why you keep asking anyway?”
“Because Noah doesn’t trust people easily.”
“And?”
“And,” Ruffilo continued, glancing down at his cards before looking back at you, “he brought you on board anyway.”
You let out a small breath, shaking your head slightly.
“We had a deal,” you said. “I helped him, he had to take me away. That’s it.”
Ruffilo’s mouth twitched just a little at the corner, not quite a smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”
You narrowed your eyes at him slightly. “What?”
He shrugged. “He could’ve left you there,” he said. “Or thrown you overboard halfway through the trip if he really didn’t want the trouble. But he didn't. ”
You huffed lightly, shaking your head. “I don’t think Noah has much to worry about,” you said, a hint of amusement slipping into your tone. “I’m half his size. What exactly am I supposed to do, betray him and overpower the whole crew on my own?”
Ruffilo looked at you for a second. Then he let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost like a laugh.
“That’s not the point,” he said.
You raised a brow. “Then what is?”
“It’s not about whether you can take him down in a fight,” he said. “If that was the standard, he wouldn’t trust half the people on this ship. No offence, but he just... doesn't trust rich people. Or people with power.”
“First,” you said, your tone sharpening without raising your voice, “my family was well off because my father worked hard for it.”
Ruffilo didn’t interrupt.
“Second,” you added, placing one card down a bit more firmly than necessary, “I don’t have any power.”
Ruffilo watched the card settle on the crate, then lifted his gaze back to you. “You were supposed to marry a governor, right?”
You frowned. “…Yes, but—”
“For him,” Ruffilo cut in, “that’s the same thing. The governor also works for the king. That’s money, and power. And he doesn’t like that.”
“Well,” you said, a small shrug following, “good thing I didn’t marry him, then.”
“Why? You care about being a little more likable to Noah?”
You blinked once, caught off guard for half a second before your expression settled again.
“No,” you said quickly. “I was just saying.”
A small pause.
Ruffilo held your gaze for another moment, like he was deciding whether to push further or not. Then he gave a short nod, looking back down at his cards.
“Alright,” he said simply. “If you say so.”
In that moment, you didn’t question it, you didn’t stop to wonder why Noah seemed to hate “rich people with power” so much.
He was a pirate. It made sense. Of course he did. Any of them hated rich people with power.
It wasn’t something worth thinking about any further. At least not then.
But later, months later, you would look back on that conversation and realize how easily you had brushed it aside, and you would think that you had been stupid not to listen more carefully.
Because there had been something there.
Something you hadn’t understood yet.
And you still had so much to learn about Noah at that time.
The evening was quiet.
The sea was calm, the wind steady but gentle, and the ship moved with a slow, almost rhythmic sway. Lanterns had been lit along the deck, their warm glow soft against the darkening sky, and the last colors of sunset were fading into deep blue.
You were sitting near the side, not too far from the others.
Someone had a bottle passed between them, someone else was lightly arguing about something that didn’t seem really important to you, and someone was laughing.
Noah was there too, a few steps away, leaning slightly against one of the posts, one arm crossed loosely over his chest as he listened to something Davis was saying, or only half-interested if the way his gaze drifted toward the horizon meant anything.
For a moment, everything felt… normal.
Then, a voice broke the peace.
“Ship!”
The word cut through every sound and every head turned at once.
“What?” someone asked, already standing.
“There!” the voice insisted, pointing toward the distance.
You followed the movement instinctively, your eyes narrowing slightly as you tried to make sense of the dark line on the horizon.
At first, you saw nothing. Then... another ship.
Noah was already moving before anyone else spoke again.
“Let me see!” he called out, stepping forward, his posture completely different now.
“Starboard side,” someone answered quickly.
He moved closer to the edge and someone passed a telescope to him.
“…Royal colors,” he said.
The words spread fast.
“Royal?”
“Are you sure?”
“What are they doing out here—”
“Shut up,” Noah cut in.
Silence followed.
He didn’t take his eyes off the ship.
“Merchants?” Ruffilo asked, stepping closer.
“No,” Noah replied immediately. “Too clean and organized.”
People scattered into motion, ropes were checked and weapons picked up.
You turned slightly, your gaze finding Noah again as he moved past you, already giving out another order, already halfway into something that felt completely different from the man who had been standing there just minutes ago.
“…Noah—”
He stopped, turned, and looked at you. For a split second, something in his expression shifted, like he had forgotten you were there and now he didn’t know what to do.
“Go to your cabin.”
You frowned slightly. “What—”
“Now.”
“Noah...” You weren’t even sure what you wanted to say.
“I said go.”
It was an order.
A few heads turned briefly in your direction before snapping back to their tasks.
You froze for a second, caught between the instinct to argue and the very real understanding that this was not the moment.
You turned before he could say anything else, already moving toward the stairs, your steps quick, more out of the sudden tension than anything else.
Behind you, the deck was no longer calm and all you could hear was orders overlapped.
You didn’t look back, you went down the stairs, through the corridor, and then into your cabin. You closed the door behind you, a little harder than necessary, your breath slightly uneven.
For a moment, you just stood there, listening.
At first, it was muffled and distant, but soon it grew louder.
You could hear boots above your head, running and shouting. Then a crash, then a sharp sound of metal against metal.
The ship shifted, more aggressively this time, like it was cutting through the water faster.
You moved closer to the door without fully realizing it, your hand hovering near the handle.
You heard a distant shout. Then another, closer.
Something heavy hit the deck above.
Your heart started beating faster, each sound sharper than the last.
You heard voices you didn’t recognize, another crash, louder this time, then, absolute chaos.
You stayed there.
At first, you told yourself you would just wait until the noise settled, but it all seemed like it would never end.
The sounds only grew louder.
You heard steel against steel.
Again. And again.
You took a slow step back from the door.
This wasn’t… this wasn’t what you had imagined when you thought about leaving. About escape. About the sea. You had thought about distance, about freedom, about something different from the life waiting for you on land.
Not this.
Not blood. Not fighting in the dark. Not the reality of what being on a ship like this actually meant.
You had been so fucking stupid.
This had been a terrible idea from the start but you did it anyway.
Another crash shook the wall beside you, like something, or someone, had been thrown against it.
You pressed your lips together, your fingers curling into your palms.
This is wrong.
They are killing people.
You shouldn’t be here.
You shouldn’t be on a ship that attacks others, that turns calm evenings into violence.
What were you thinking?
What had you expected?
Another shout echoed, closer now. Followed by a sharp, pained cry that cut off too quickly.
You shook your head once, like that could push the sound away, like it could make this feel less real.
This was your choice.
And suddenly, it felt like a terrible one.
Then... a violent impact slammed against your door.
You flinched hard, stumbling back a step as something heavy hit the wood with a dull, sickening thud, strong enough to rattle the hinges.
For a second, everything went still.
Then the door shifted, opening slightly.
The latch hadn’t held completely under the force, and now it stood slightly ajar, the thin line of the corridor visible through the gap.
You stared at it.
You shouldn’t look.
You knew that.
But the sounds were right there, just beyond that door, and now there was a space, a crack in the barrier that had kept you separate from it.
Your body moved before your mind could stop it, you took step forward, then another. And slowly, carefully, you reached the door and pushed it just a little more open.
There was blood.
Not a lot, not yet, but enough to make your stomach twist instantly, and then you saw Noah. He stood just a few steps from your door, his back partially turned to you, one foot braced against the shifting floor as he fought.
His white shirt, if it could still be called that, was torn at the sleeve, and a dark stain spread along his arm, blood seeping through the fabric where a cut had split it open, but he looked like he didn't even notice.
The man in front of him was not one of the crew. Even in the chaos, in the dim light of the corridor, and the movement, there was a clear difference.
His clothes were finer, structured and marked with details that caught the lantern light in brief flashes, like metal clasps and polished buttons. It must have been an uniform of some kind. He was obviously one of the king's men, and he had sword in his hand.
He striked forward, aiming clean and direct blows meant to end the fight quickly. Noah met him head-on.
Steel clashed again, loud and sharp in the narrow space.
The man lunged.
Noah stepped aside just enough, their blades sliding against each other with a harsh scrape before he twisted his wrist, redirecting the strike.
The corridor was too tight. Too close.
There was no room for wide movements, no space to retreat properly, and the ship’s constant motion only made everything worse.
Another strike.
Faster.
The man pressed forward, forcing Noah back half a step, then another, their boots slipping slightly against the blood-slick wood.
Your heart slammed against your ribs.
Noah’s shoulder hit the wall, then he moved again. He stepped in, too close for the other man to adjust in time.
His hand shot out, gripping the front of the man’s coat, pulling him off balance just enough, and then the blade flashed.
You didn’t even fully register the motion before it was over.
The edge of Noah’s sword dragged across the man’s throat in one clean, fast movement.
Blood spilled instantly, dark and heavy, pouring over the man’s collar, down his chest, too much, too fast.
A wet, choking sound tore from his throat, cut short almost as quickly as it began.
Your breath caught in your lungs and for a moment, you couldn’t move.
The man’s head tilted back slightly, his grip on the sword loosening as his body failed him, his knees buckling beneath him.
And then he fell. The sound of his body hitting the floor echoed in the narrow corridor, followed by the slow, spreading pool of blood beneath him.
You almost screamed, but you swallowed the sound at the last second, your hand flying to your mouth as your entire body went rigid.
You couldn’t look away.
There was blood everywhere.
On the floor. On his clothes. On Noah’s hands.
Noah stood there for a second, his chest rising and falling, his grip still tight around the sword.
Then he lifted his head and his gaze found you instantly. There was no regret for what he had just done in his eyes, no second thought, no guilt for the man lying dead at his feet.
But for a second he looked just sorry about but the fact that you had seen it. Seen him like that.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, and neither of you moved.
The lantern light flickered between you, catching on the blood still dripping from his blade, on the stain spreading across his sleeve and on the body between you.
And just like that, whatever had been in his eyes disappeared.
He looked away first, then he turned, stepping past the body without another glance, his boots leaving faint marks through the blood as he moved down the corridor, already gone before you could realize.
Your hand was still on the door, and you didn’t even notice you were moving until you pushed it shut.
The wood met the frame with a dull sound, and suddenly, everything outside was muffled again, like a murder hadn’t just happened a few steps away from you.
Your back hit the door as you stepped away from it, your legs giving out before you could stop them.
You sank to the floor, and hands came up to your head almost instinctively, fingers tangling into your hair as you tried to breathe.
You stayed there, curled slightly into yourself, your elbows resting on your knees, your head bowed forward.
And you didn’t move when the sounds outside continued, when more distant clashes echoed through the ship, when voices rose and fell and eventually began to thin out.
Time passed, but you didn’t know how much precisely, and slowly, gradually, the noise started to fade.
The chaos softened into scattered movement, then into quieter voices, and eventually into something almost like silence again.
Disgust sat heavy in your chest. You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening slightly against your hair.
You kept seeing way he had fallen, the blood, the sound of his body hitting the floor.
You hated it.
You hated what you had seen.
You hated what this was.
A ship that attacked others in the dark. A crew that fought and killed like it was just another day, living in a world where that… was normal.
Your breathing slowed, but the feeling didn’t leave.
Eventually, your thoughts shifted.
Were they all alive?
Would you have cared if some of them died?
You thought about Davis.
He had always talked too much, he spent his time with you, treated you... like a friend, and he had been kind to you.
Yes.
You would have cared.
More than you wanted to admit.
About Ruffilo too.
And same with Folio.
They weren’t just names in your notebook anymore, they were… people you were really getting to know.
And if one of them was gone—
You exhaled slowly... it would hurt despite everything. You almost felt like a hypocrite for thinking that.
Then you thought about Noah.
You went still, and your fingers loosened slightly in your hair, your hands slowly lowering as your gaze drifted unfocused toward the floor.
If someone walked in right now and told you he was dead, would you care?
Your gaze landed on the small table beside your bed, and you saw the shell, so pretty and so out of place in a moment like this. Still, he had given it to you like a child who gives one of the few he owns to someone he cares about as a way to apologize.
He was an killer.
A pirate.
A criminal.
You forced yourself to hold onto them and to let them be enough to judge him.
It was as if the Noah who had given you the shell, the one who had helped you with your clothes and who liked to tease you all the time was a different Noah from the murderer and the pirate.
And desite everything, you knew.
You would still care.
A sound from outside your door pulled you out of your thoughts. It was just a dull scrape, something heavy dragging against the wooden floor, slow and uneven, accompanied by low voices, but you didn’t need to see it to understand they were moving the body.
You stayed where you were for a while longer, sitting on the floor and listening, until the dragging sound faded.
You swallowed slowly, then pushed yourself up, your movements stiff, your legs slightly unsteady as you stood. For a moment, you hesitated, your gaze flickering toward the door again.
Then, before you could change your mind, you stepped forward and opened it.
The corridor was empty.
There was no body laying there anymore, but traces of blood remained, darkened streaks along the wood, already drying but still smelling.
You stood there for a second, just looking, then you stepped out.
You moved toward the stairs, your hand brushing lightly against the wall as you climbed, slow like you were still almost expecting something to jump out at you.
But nothing did.
When you reached the deck, lanterns were still burning, casting their warm glow across the wood, and the Specter had steadied again, rocking gently against the waves like it usually did.
There was an empty barrel lying on the ground and a few pieces of wood scattered around, evidence of the fight, but that was all.
The crew looked… fine.
A few men had blood on their clothes that clearly wasn’t theirs, but they were standing, moving, and talking.
They looked all alive and there was laughter, even.
Your gaze shifted slowly across the deck, then further, and you saw the other ship.
It was still there, pulled alongside yours, its dark shape looming close enough that you could make out details now. Only pirates moved across it now.
Of course that’s how it ended.
You tore your gaze away and moved further onto the deck, scanning the faces around you until you found Ruffilo. He stood near a set of crates, speaking briefly with someone before turning slightly and noticing you.
“Everything alright?” he asked.
The question was strange, like you hadn’t just heard and saw men die a few moments ago.
You looked at him. There was a brief pause before you answered.
“Did you kill them all?”
“No,” he said. “Most of them got away. Took the lifeboats.”
Your gaze didn’t leave his.
“We took the ship,” he added after a moment, gesturing vaguely behind him toward the other vessel. “And whatever they had on board.”
A small pause.
“Yeah. Of course you did.”
He let out a quiet breath, “Pirates do what pirates do.”
“I saw a man get his throat cut open a few steps away from me.”
“Yeah, Noah can be…” he started, then paused, his brow furrowing faintly. “Impulsive, sometimes.”
“That’s what you’re calling it?”
He ignored that, or chose to.
“He’s not... He’s not a bad person.”
“Yeah. Right.”
You didn’t get the chance to respond because Ruffilo’s attention shifted past you, and you turned slightly, following his gaze.
Noah was walking across the deck, already mid-conversation with someone else before he even reached you, like the blood you had seen on his hands had never been there.
He stopped near Ruffilo, not even sparing you more than a brief glance.
“We’re heading to Devil’s Hook,” he said. “We’ll leave that ship there.”
Ruffilo nodded once. “Got it.”
Noah didn’t wait for anything else. He turned immediately, and you moved before you fully decided to.
“Noah.”
He didn’t stop.
You followed him.
“I don’t remember agreeing to extra stops,” you said.
That made him glance back, just briefly, not slowing his pace.
“Well, princess,” he said, almost casually, “you’re already here, so you’ll come to terms with it.”
You frowned, keeping up with him as he crossed the deck and reached the stairs.
“It’s not far anyway,” he added as he started down. “Think of it as a detour. You might even enjoy it.”
You let out a quiet, incredulous breath as you followed him below deck.
“Oh, I’m sure I will.”
Lantern light flickered along the wooden walls as he walked ahead of you. You crossed your arms loosely.
“I’ve never even heard of that place,” you said.
“That’s because it’s not on normal maps,” he replied without looking back.
“Why not?”
He turned a corner, and you followed immediately.
“Because it’s not meant to be,” he said simply. “It’s mostly a pirate island. People stop there to trade, resupply… things like that.”
You let out a short, humorless laugh.
“Fantastic,” you said. “Another place full of criminals. Exactly what I was hoping for.”
He huffed lightly at that. “Relax,” he said. “If you come out for a bit, I’ll take you somewhere nice.”
You raised a brow behind him. “How reassuring,” you muttered. “Should I feel honored to be escorted?”
He didn’t answer that.
For a moment, the only sound between you was your footsteps against the wood.
Then you spoke again.
“So... don’t you have anything to say about what just happened?”
“About what?” he asked.
“About what?” you repeated, disbelief slipping fully into your tone. “You killed a man in front of my door.”
“I didn’t plan for it to happen there,” he said. “It just did.”
Your hands tightened slightly against your arms.
“That’s your fucking explanation?”
“Yeah.”
“Noah.”
“It’s the truth.”
For a second, neither of you spoke, he turned away again, reached a door and pushed it open without hesitation. You followed a step behind, stopping at the threshold as he walked inside.
The room was larger than yours. There was a bed against one wall, a table with scattered items, maps, a few things carelessly left where they had been used last. There where weapons within reach, some books and notebooks.
It was his cabin.
You stayed by the doorway watching him as he moved further inside like this was just another normal moment in a normal day.
“You really said that like it’s nothing,” you said.
He didn’t look at you, just reached for something on the table, pushing a few things aside.
“Because it is.”
Your brows pulled together.
“No, it’s not,” you snapped. “You killed someone.”
“And?”
You stared at him.
“And?” you repeated, incredulous. “That’s all you have to say?”
He finally looked at you. “They weren’t good people.”
“You don't know that.”
“I do.”
“How?” you shot back immediately. “How can you possibly know that every single person on that ship deserved to die?”
Something in his gaze darkened at that.
“First, they escaped. Most of them. Second, they work for the king,” he said, “That’s enough.”
“That’s not enough,” you insisted. “That doesn’t mean they all deserved—”
“The king’s a piece of shit,” he cut in sharply, “And anyone who works for him is just as bad. They can all rot in hell for all I care.”
You stared at him, taken aback for half a second.
“Why?” you pressed. “What makes you so sure?”
He let out a breath through his nose, shaking his head slightly as if the answer was obvious.
“Because they sit in their gold and pretend everything’s fine while people starve and die,” he said. “Because they take and take and take, and the only ones who pay for it are the ones who have nothing to give.”
His jaw tightened.
“They kill innocent people,” he added, quieter now, but somehow sharper. “The king kills innocent people.”
You held his gaze.
“And you don’t.”
It wasn’t really a question, more of repeating what you knew he was thinking.
“I kill people who deserve it.”
“How do you know?” you asked. “You can’t possibly know exactly what they’ve done, you can’t know every—”
“I know enough.”
The way he said it stopped you for a second, like there was something behind it you couldn’t see, something you didn’t understand and that he wasn’t going to explain.
You were about to say something else but he reached for the edge of his shirt and pulled it off in one quick motion.
You blinked, caught off guard for a second before your eyes instinctively dropped, then immediately flicked away, then back again despite yourself.
His torso was bare now, the lantern light catching over skin covered in tattoos, in ink winding across his arms, along his ribs, disappearing over his shoulder and down his side.
And scars.
Thin lines, thicker ones, some older, some not.
Your gaze flicked, almost involuntarily, to his arm.
The cut was worse than it had looked before. Blood still seeped slowly from it, running down along his skin.
He didn’t seem concerned.
He grabbed a strip of cloth, then a small bottle from the table, uncorking it with his teeth before pouring some of it over the wound without hesitation.
You winced.
“That’s not how you—”
He ignored you.
The alcohol hit the cut and he barely reacted, his jaw tightening just slightly as he reached for the bandages.
“You’re going to make it worse,” you said, stepping a little closer despite yourself. “You need to clean it properly first—”
“I am cleaning it.”
“That’s not—”
He wrapped the cloth too quickly, too tight, the movement careless.
You exhaled sharply.
“You’re obviously doing it wrong.”
He said nothing.
You took another step forward.
“Noah—”
Still nothing.
You watched for a second longer, then shook your head.
“You’re going to end up with an infection if you keep doing it like that.”
“Do you want to do it?” he asked sharply.
His eyes held yours. Challenging.
You knew that look, like he was already expecting you to back down, like the question hadn’t really been a question at all.
He didn’t think you’d say yes.
You saw it.
“If you let me,” you said.
The words came out before you could think them through, and a second, neither of you moved.
Something flickered across his face, and you knew that your answer surprised him.
You weren’t entirely sure why you had said it.
Maybe because you wanted to prove him wrong.
Maybe because you knew you could do it better.
Maybe because, despite everything, despite what you had just seen… you cared. At least a little.
He exhaled quietly through his nose, then gave a small, almost reluctant nod.
“Fine.”
You stepped closer and moved inside the room properly this time, letting the door rest half-open behind you. The lantern light shifted slightly as you approached him, your focus narrowing to his arm.
The edges of the cut weren’t clean, and the blood hadn’t fully stopped, still slipping down his skin in slow, dark lines. You reached for the cloth he had been using, then the bottle, your fingers brushing briefly against his as you took it.
“Sit,” you said. It seemed the most logical thing.
He didn’t argue. That, more than anything, made you glance at him for a second before you focused again.
You poured a small amount of alcohol over the cloth this time instead of directly onto the wound.
“Hold still.”
“I am—”
“Just—don’t move.”
He went quiet.
You pressed the cloth against the cut.
His entire arm tensed instantly, you felt it.
The slight tightening of muscle under your fingers, the almost imperceptible hitch in his breath. But he didn’t pull away.
You worked carefully, slower than he had, cleaning the blood away bit by bit. Each time you pressed a little too firmly, you felt his body react again.
He was trying not to show it.
“Sorry” you said at some point. Like the fault was yours.
Stupid.
“I'm fine.”
You glanced at him briefly.
“That was a lie.”
A faint breath left him, “It was not.”
You didn’t argue, just kept going. The cloth dragged lightly over the cut again, and this time his fingers flexed slightly at his side.
You noticed.
You softened your touch just a little after that, more careful now, even if you didn’t say anything.
The room was quiet.
Too quiet, compared to the chaos from before.
You could hear just the sound of your movements, the faint sound of the Specter, the soft shift of his breathing.
Once the worst of the blood was gone, you set the cloth aside and reached for the bandages.
“Lift your arm a bit.”
He did. This time without comment.
You wrapped it slowly, making sure it was tight enough to hold, but not enough to cut off circulation like he had tried to do. Your fingers brushed against his skin more than once.
You were close.
Closer than you had been before. Close enough to notice the details you hadn’t earlier, the flowers tattooed on his skin, the warmth of it, the smell of salt and alchol and sweat. You didn’t comment on any of it and when you were done, you tied the bandage securely and let your hands fall away.
“There,” you said.
A small pause.
Then you stood up and stepped back.
He looked down at his arm, flexing his hand slightly, testing it. There was another brief silence before he spoke.
“…Thanks.”
It was quiet and not forced, and for once, there was no sarcasm in it.
Suddenly, you realized how intimate that moment was starting to feel. The lantern light had softened everything, Noah was not wearing any shirt, and your hands that had just been on him.
You swallowed.
You took a small step back, then another, like distance could reset whatever this had become. Your fingers came together in front of you, restless, unsure where to put themselves.
“It’s… very late,” you said, trying to make your voice sound normal. “I think I’m going to sleep.”
Noah just glanced up at you.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “Of course.”
You nodded quickly, definitely too quickly.
“Goodnight,” you added, already turning.
You didn’t wait and left before he could say anything else, stepping out into the corridor and letting the door fall shut behind you a little faster than necessary.
Only once you were back in the hallway did you realize your breath wasn’t steady. And you didn’t slow down until you reached your own cabin.
The door clicked shut behind you and the sound lingered for a second in the quiet, then faded into the low creak of the ship.
Noah exhaled slowly.
His shoulders dropped just slightly.
“…Right,” he muttered under his breath.
He dragged a hand through his hair, then down the back of his neck. His other hand flexed absentmindedly at his arm, the one you had just wrapped.
The bandage held. Better than he would’ve done it.
Of course it did.
It had been… a nice thing to do.
Unnecessary, but nice.
He glanced down at his arm again, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric like he was testing it, but his attention wasn’t really there anymore.
He kept thinking about you and the way you had stood there, stubborn and irritated (as always), arguing with him like you actually expected him to listen.
He thought about the way you had stepped closer anyway, about your hands.
His fingers stilled.
For a second, he could still feel it. The pressure, careful but firm. The way you had adjusted when you realized it hurt more than he let on, the way you hadn’t said anything about it.
He leaned back against the wall behind the bed, exhaling slowly, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment before lifting again, unfocused.
Having you on the ship was... complicated.
More than he had expected.
At first, it had been simple. A deal. A temporary, even if probably long, problem. Something he would handle and then forget about once you were gone.
But now... it wasn’t simple anymore.
You argued with him, you looked at him like you didn’t agree with anything he said, you laughed when he lost any game or bet, and he secretly liked it. You also noticed things, too many things.
And now this.
He wasn’t used to… whatever this was, and he didn’t even know what to call it, didn’t know if he should ignore it, push it away, or just let it sit there and pretend it didn’t matter.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the door again.
It didn’t.
That was the point.
None of it did.
In a few months you’d be gone, where you were supposed to be, to a life that had nothing to do with him, nothing to do with this ship and crew.
And that would be it.
He wouldn’t have to think about you.
About the way you looked at him.
About the way you talked to him.
About the way your hands had felt on his skin...
He sighed trying to push the thought again once more.
No.
It didn’t matter. It couldn’t.
He pushed himself off the bed, reaching for a clean shirt without thinking too much about it, pulling it on.
He thought about the man he killed again.
When he had said he didn’t mean for it to happen in front of you, he hadn’t been lying. It had just… happened to be there, and he had done what he had to do.
Because he knew.
Because he had seen enough to not hesitate anymore, not when it came to men like that, to ships like that, to anything tied to the crown.
There were things you didn’t understand.
Things you couldn’t. Things you wouldn’t.
And that was the point.
Some things stayed buried for a reason.
And he wasn’t about to start digging them up now. You weren’t going to find anything out anyway.
Do you feel love? / Noah Sebastian X Reader! (Angst/A bit of Smut)
prompt: (contains smut in a succinct form, it is not a predominant attraction) in which two people find comfort in each other after dysfunctional relationships/life experiences and realize together what is best for them individually. it was heavily inspired by lost in translation.
words: 6k
Noah noticed you quickly.
His room was across the hallway, and over the past few weeks, he had assumed you were alone in the city. Every time he made noise with his guitar or tried to work through something, you would either crack your door open or casually stand in the corridor. You didn’t seem to be hiding, but you also didn’t make yourself too easy to see.
One night, he considered stepping out to talk to you, but the moment he opened his door, you had already disappeared into the elevator.
You exchanged polite smiles in the lobby. It wasn’t flirting—it was more of a silent acknowledgment that you both saw each other. You both knew you listened to his singing and enjoyed it. Still, you may not have felt quite aligned enough to join in.
"Is everything all right over there?" Noah asked, forcing a smile—one that, unbeknownst to him, wasn’t exactly natural. You were pleasing to his eyes, and although he was shy, he wanted to make a good impression.
He had noticed the ring on your finger before, but now, up close, as you hugged a box of macarons, it seemed to hold more weight. It reminded him of when he was carefree about how famous, listened to, and talked about he had become. Though he had no regrets and had managed to keep things amicable, he appreciated how, over the years, it had become just another detail in the long stretch of his life.
"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to stay here—I really am sorry."
Your rushed apology made him laugh, this time far more genuinely than before. You were wrapped in a large sweater and loose-fitting pants, looking completely at ease. Your face carried a hint of exhaustion, the darkness beneath your eyes more pronounced. Standing there in front of him, studying him with quiet curiosity, you looked undeniably endearing. He couldn’t deny he had thought that from the very first time he saw you.
"Did y’come t’listen t’me?"
Scratching the back of his neck, he realized how odd that sounded. His cheeks were certainly tinged with color, but you only gave him a shy smile and nodded.
There was something about the moment that was hard to put into words, yet it all felt so natural. The way you stepped into the spacious room, took a seat at one end of the couch and made it easy for him to grab one of the macarons and take a bite. You stuffed your hands into your pockets to keep them warm. You were fun to watch.
He didn’t play for you, but you ended up listening to random albums together, discovering a shared taste in music. The conversation stayed light, shifting from the weather to how the city felt during tourist season, to how the newspaper vendor beside the hotel was surprisingly friendly (Your fiancé would have never given importance to that detail, and you made a mental note of it.)
"Does your ring go on t’other hand?"
His fingers brushed against yours, sending a pulse of electricity through your body like a reflex. His skin was rough yet delicate as he turned the pearl between his fingertips for a few seconds. You wished his curiosity was about you and not just the correct placement of an engagement ring. Maybe you had wanted to be noticed by him from the start, back when you first saw him play at that crowded pub nearby.
"I’m not married yet. It’s a tradition for some—an engagement ring goes on the right hand, and only on the wedding day does it move to the left."
He listened intently, and you couldn't remember the last time you shared that without feeling ridiculous.
"So… is this a dream of yours?" He had a brief flashback to a Friends episode where Monica said that women might think about it since they were little, even when they were fighting to put a pillowcase on their heads. At the same time, he was focused on having a functional experience, either with his friends or with a special person he hoped to meet.
Your eyebrows lifted slightly, and he found it endearing how you handled words, as if everything he said carried a weight of its own.
"Getting married?"
He laughed.
"I mean, yeah, but… everythin’ about it seems special t’you. The tradition, the way you smile while talking about it. Feels like you planned this, thought ‘bout it for a while."
You swallowed hard. Something so simple, and yet he figured it out just by exchanging a few sentences with you. You ran your fingers around the ring, turning it slowly.
"Yeah, I guess so. I like the idea of being in love, but I wouldn’t even know about the ring placement if it weren’t for this newlywed woman who once came into the café where I worked. She was so happy—it made me want that for myself, even while being happy for her."
He smiled, a small, knowing expression that softened the lines on his face. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His presence alone made you feel heard.
"The ring's beautiful. Hope you’ll be happy."
You slipped your hands back into your pockets, not wanting him to see it anymore. The ring had been your choice, and honestly, if you hadn’t had that conversation with your fiancé about your years together and what the future held, you weren’t sure if it would even be on your finger right now. But there was nothing to complain about—wasn’t this what you wanted?
Noah noticed the flicker in your eyes and cut in.
"Well, Ah’m gettin’ divorced."
He held up his own ring, relieved when your gaze met his again.
"Why?"
Your voice was quiet, but there was a certain ease in the way you asked, making it clear the question wasn’t intrusive.
"Feel like… if it weren’t for her, I’d still be with her, y’know?"
"She got tired, I'm afraid. Ah-I was around, but it weren’t enough."
You nodded. His expression was tired, but not necessarily sad.
"Did you try to win her back? You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?"
He chuckled at your tone before continuing.
"I tried. She had someone else in mind. I don’t miss her, but I miss the life around her, I don't know? We were together for a while."
You looked at him with warmth, and he accepted it.
You couldn’t quite grasp what it meant to be with someone for long—I also couldn't say if her current partner was thinking about such a long-term relationship. You didn’t know what to say, but you understood why he still wore the ring.
"I’m sorry."
He simply gave you the same gentle smile as before.
Your arms brushed, something comfortable, and you let it happen. Neither of you knew where the line between safe and dangerous was, but this moment was cautious, measured.
"Are you always at the hotel? Never go out?"
His laugh was slightly nasal, soothing in its own way.
"I just came to record some tunes. I'm using my time here to relax, rehearse a little, and make some adjustments before heading out."
Your hands slipped back out of your pockets, and he took that as a sign that you were comfortable.
"Did you write about her?"
He nodded.
"A lot. I don't think about her the same way anymore, but she was a big part of my life. There's definitely a bit of her in my writing."
"Do you regret it?"
He studied your eyes, trying to decipher what the question meant to you, but he couldn’t quite tell.
"Nah. It were a good part o’ me life, even if we're not together anymore."
You licked your lips absentmindedly.
"I wish someone wrote songs 'bout me. It seems very romantic."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, realizing he hadn’t felt this kind of nervousness—the kind that made you hold your breath before speaking—in a long time.
"What’s the most romantic thing he’s done for you?"
Your gaze dropped to the floor. A brief silence, but noticeable. Your hands returned to your pockets.
"We planned this trip about nine months ago. He was supposed to come with me, but there was a work emergency—it happens a lot."
Your voice was calm, free of bitterness, but there was something tired in it—something that sounded like an ending.
....
The silence lingered, broken only by the sound of breathing and the room’s ventilation. You felt good, even with the weight in your chest. It was the lightest you had felt since the proposal.
After a while, Noah rested his cheek on your shoulder, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked peaceful, but you didn’t know that he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. That was a reaction to you. That feeling of warmth and being seen—it was mutual.
Your fingers traced the bridge of his nose, then moved to his hair. You found him beautiful, but there was a distance to that feeling, something that kept it from fully taking shape; yet you were getting lost in his freckles and carpet of tattoos.
His scent had already settled into your clothes, and you knew that if you stayed, you’d finally get the kind of sleep you hadn’t had in a long time. But recognizing this moment as a dangerous threshold, you chose to leave.
....
Daylight had already started to seep in, and Noah felt the emptiness in his chest, knowing you were no longer there. Maybe you’d come back the next time he played.
He thought about going downstairs for breakfast, but instead, let the weight of exhaustion dissolve him bit by bit. If not for the soft knocking at his door, he might have spent the entire day in the same position.
Annoyance flared at being pulled from bed, but it faded the second he saw you standing there. His fingers curled into a tense fist—he recognized that feeling. He had liked you enough for your pain to drain any energy from him.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your eyes didn’t meet his. They were distant, lost somewhere in the room, drowned in tears. You were still wearing the same clothes, except now just a tank top. It was clear you had been crying and restless for hours, and he hated that you hadn’t come to him sooner—as if he could’ve made it all go away.
"Hey," he murmured, opening his arms; the head speaking louder than reason. You folded into him instantly.
That familiar scent wrapped around you again, his fingers pressing into your back as he pulled you inside. He thought he knew what it was about, even if not entirely.
You left a small damp spot on his shirt, but he kept holding you close. It wasn’t a desperate kind of crying, which somehow made it worse.
The bed was low, and when he set you down and knelt in front of you, it left you at just the right height to hide your face against him. His hands moved along your back, his chin resting on top of your head, while your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. The small gestures grounded you, bringing you back to reality.
“I called him,” you sniffled, pulling back just enough to see him.
His hand rested lightly at your waist, keeping you close in a way that didn’t feel improper, especially with your fingers still playing with the buttons of his shirt. He waited patiently for you to continue, and that was something you liked about him—he didn’t ask out of curiosity, he just wanted you to speak if you wanted to.
“He’s not coming back here. He’s too busy. Said he can see me when I get home,” you paused, swallowing a bit.
Noah watched you carefully, not with pity but with an understanding you weren’t used to anymore. His eyes calmed you. He was wearing a long-sleeved button-up, the collar open enough that a hint of chest hair peeked out. He wiped your face with the edge of the fabric, showing you, without words, that he was there.
“I didn’t enjoy any of this trip 'cause I kept waitin' for him to be here, y’see? I thought things would be different. I don’t want it to always be like this. I don’t want this for myself.”
Your shoulders loosened, and to him, your face looked lighter, like speaking was helping you make sense of it all.
"Y’ve talked to him about this a lot, don't you?" He asked, remembering you saying it was a recurring problem.
You nodded. “Yeah. My whole last year has been about this.”
Your eyes dropped, hesitant to admit you had let yourself get into this situation. He brushed your hair away, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.
"I'm not gonna judge you. But he doesn't seem like someone to take serious, if I can say that. Why'd he wanna marry someone he doesn't even listen to?"
Hearing it out loud, from someone else, made it sound so simple.
“Do you think he’s marrying me out of convenience?” you asked, your voice quiet as your hand slipped from his shirt.
You were exhausted. As you looked at him, Noah gave a small, sweet smile. You settled into the bed beside him, the scent of his sheets huggable. When you moved to get up, he simply touched your arm and told you it was okay. You already knew the answer to your question.
"Do you think he loves you?" his voice was low, steady. “Do you feel loved?”
All you could hear was his breathing.
“When did you realize you didn’t love your ex anymore?” you asked.
He lay down too, just an arm’s length away. When he turned onto his side, he was all that filled your vision.
“Dunno,” he admitted. “I think it faded lil' by little as I realized she didn’t feel the same anymore—and didn’t care to show interest. But every situation is different.”
Noah found himself hoping you’d see that maybe this wasn’t the man for you. But he also had to remember he was not, and would never be, someone in your life.
He touched your face, more for himself than for you, and you closed your eyes, letting it happen. His fingers traced along your cheek, then moved to massage your shoulders.
“I don’t know if I love him,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I believe his words, either. He always says he’ll try harder, but it always ends up the same way I’ve come to hate. His indifference makes me want to be alone, and I don’t think he would’ve proposed if I hadn’t confronted him about it. Maybe marrying me never even crossed his mind. I don’t want to be someone’s uncertainty.”
The words came easily, revealing that you had thought about this more than you wanted to admit.
Noah squeezed you, a bit content that you could see things for what they were. You had time, so is he. You still had your chances.
“Don’t let your kids grow up to be bad people to others,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.
He didn’t mind. He liked having you close.
“I won’t,” he murmured, and for a moment, you were struck by the weight of it. Did he want to have children? Did he think about it before the breakup? Did he think about building a healthy family? Because you thought about it, but it seemed distant.
....
Your back didn’t feel as heavy as before. Your face was pressed into the sheets, arms wrapped around one of his pillows. His scent—woody, warm—filled the entire room. It was nice.
Your body still carried the lazy memory of being close to his, of drifting off in the middle of the night with his lips pressing against your forehead and his arm firm around your waist, like he was afraid he’d leave you behind if he let go.
"Better, tiny one?" His voice was smooth. He had changed clothes—still wearing buttons, still a pleasant sight. His hair was damp, and he was jotting something down in a small notebook.
“Good,” you murmured sleepily.
He laughed, glancing at you, and whatever he was writing became secondary now that your voice had settled into the room. It was intimate—bearable, even.
“What do you do?” Noah asked, cautious. He was sure knowing too much about you wouldn’t do him any good, but it was impossible to resist. “You mentioned the café, but said you’re no longer there...”
“I work at a bookstore,” you said, staring at the ceiling.
You could hear the sound of his fingers skimming across the pages, and even without looking, you could picture the shape of his hands perfectly—the wedding band, on long, tattooed fingers.
When you rubbed a hand over your face and looked back at him, he was watching you, his gaze soft. He had noticed—your engagement ring was no longer there. It hadn’t been since the moment you decided to come to him.
“I’m a pianist,” you said, voice steady. “I’m trying to get a spot at a theater in London. I’m really excited about it. Anxious, but waiting on the results.”
He smiled, genuinely. “I’d love to hear you play. I bet you’re good. I’ll save a seat next time I'm in London.”
He took a moment before saying it, wanting to be honest without making you uncomfortable.
You smiled back, a mirror of his own expression.
Noah briefly considered suggesting you work on something together but held back. He also couldn’t remember the last time he had felt truly drawn to a woman.
You kept watching him—the roundness of his cheeks, the way his fingers moved as he worked.
He was a stranger. He shouldn’t have this much of an effect on you.
....
You had put on one of your new dresses—fitted at the waist, flowing just enough. You liked how it looked on you, how it made you feel confident. It was one of the pieces you had carefully chosen for this trip, for the dates you were supposed to have with your fiancé, who, theoretically, should have been with you.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, you stared at the hotel phone. Your fingers were cold. You had been ready for a while now, wanting to visit a café you’d spotted nearby. You were determined to go home and at least be able to say you had experienced something of this place.
But suddenly, your fear wasn’t about missing out on seeing the neighborhood anymore—it was about missing him, about not getting to be with him in the short time left before you had to leave.
"I can hear you breathin’, but we can stay quiet if you prefer."
His voice came through the receiver, confident, amused.
You twisted the cord between your fingers, unsurprised that he recognized you without you having said a single word. Somehow, you knew you would have recognized him, too.
His breathing filled the silence between you, steady and calm, making your thoughts settle. He understood this—the simple need to be close.
“I’m going to visit a café nearby. Want to come?”
You probably sounded like a stalker, but Noah had to admit to himself that he had considered asking someone at the hotel for your number. The thought of you having to craft a story convincing enough for them to connect you to his room amused him.
"Alright, I’ll grab a jacket and meet yoh downstairs, tiny one."
You straightened up as soon as you saw him, a smile tugging at your lips. He looked relaxed, his usual furrowed brow still faintly marked, eyes focused ahead—until they found you. Your heart warmed a little when his expression softened, when his lips curled into a small smile that smoothed out the lines on his face.
It was like knowing that he naturally had a sweet and relaxed demeanor, but he needed you to remind him of it.
You wished you could take him home with you. Maybe no one would even notice.
His gaze traveled over you—not in a way that made you self-conscious, but in a way that felt good.
"Is this what takin' off a ring does?" he murmured, and you felt your cheeks burn.
He took your hand in his, and you noticed his wedding band was gone too. Then, with an easy motion, he made you twirl in front of him. When you stopped, his eyes hadn’t drifted far—they remained on your smile.
And so, the first steps were taken with the careful distance of two people still pretending they weren’t walking towards something. He kept his hands behind his back, and you found yourself a little too nervous to speak or gesture much. But it didn’t take long before your arms brushed, and his hand found a comfortable place on your back, guiding you along with him.
"Isn’t pumpkin supposed to be a vegetable?" he frowned at the orange hue of your drink, his voice laced with quiet skepticism.
He had ordered nothing but black coffee, refusing even a small cake. He was tolerant of new things, but he needed to annoy you.
"It is," you shrugged, taking a sip. "But it works in drinks. And desserts."
You nudged the cup toward him, inviting him to try.
He was dressed in black as usual, his hair a little longer, giving it a soft volume at the top. He was attractive—undeniably so. And knowing he had spent over years with someone by his side made you believe he must be a good person to have around.
Sitting across from him, avoiding him was impossible.
He took a hesitant sip, pretending to deliberate.
"You liked it," you teased. "Not as much of a grumpy man as you wish you were, uh?"
He let out a low, unguarded laugh, and you liked being the reason for it.
"It tastes like dessert. Too sweet," he admitted.
He saw a light in you that resonated with him, something he hadn't appreciated since his last tours or previous relationship.
You nodded in understanding, and he pushed his own cup toward you—black coffee.
You had never been fond of it, but you hesitated, curiosity getting the better of you.
The bitterness hit instantly. You had taken too big of a sip, and your eyes watered in protest.
Noah regretted it immediately, which only made you laugh as he rushed to pour you a glass of water and snatched his cup away from you.
"No wonder you only wear black and walk around completely dazed," you teased, watching as amusement flickered in his eyes.
He liked everything about you—how effortlessly you spoke to him, how you weren’t trying to make him think you were someone good.
"You look stunning," he murmured, brushing a napkin against your chin to wipe away brownie crumbs.
It felt right to say it, though he should have said it earlier.
Your eyes flickered away, unable to meet his directly. Instead, you cut the brownie in half, offering him a piece.
"Eat. We’re trying more of these."
He nodded, knowing he had endured worse things in life than indulging in a few sweets for a girl.
....
You were wrapped in one of his button-up shirts, loose and comfortable around you. There had been no need for words—just a quiet, mutual agreement that you would stay. Your hair was tied back, still damp from a shower, and he found you just as endearing as ever.
There was no hesitation when he sat beside you, close enough that the small couch felt even smaller. His hand ran over your arms, then down your back, and soon your head rested against his chest, as if it had always belonged there. He pressed a kiss to your hairline, his body unwinding as your arms curled around him.
A few days ago, Noah had been uneasy about what was ahead—unsure, directionless. But now, all he could think about was tomorrow, and the fact that he would get to talk to you again. You made him see past all of it. It wasn't the end of the world, though they had left him exhausted just thinking about them.
Your fingers trailed up his chest, finding the collar of his shirt and twisting the fabric idly. Your scent was starting to settle into him, a quiet imprint. Your palm found warmth against his tattoos, fingers playing with them.
He brushed your hair back, taking in the peaceful way your eyes remained closed. And for the first time in a while, he felt the same.
"You good?" he murmured.
Your gaze lifted to his, wide and searching, and you nodded. He kissed your cheek, and when you sighed in quiet satisfaction, he did it again—dragging his nose along your skin, leaving lingering kisses along the path.
The faint stubble on his jaw scraped against you in a way that was more pleasant than not. And when he finally pulled back, you were still smiling at him, calm and close.
Too close.
He realized it at the same time you did, and he started to move away. But your fingers found the back of his neck, keeping him with you. The furrow in his brow deepened, and you pressed soft kisses there until it smoothed out again.
"You’re probably never going to see me again."
You had thought about saying more but left it at that. There was nothing else that needed to be said. You both understood this wasn’t something that could work. He had a cruel life, a country and friends to come back to, a career that had nothing to do with the world you lived in. He might even go back to his ex-wife. And you—maybe you weren’t ready to give up on marriage as an idea.
It was complicated. You both knew that.
His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you in for a kiss.
His nose brushed your cheek, his lips soft, the warmth of him seeping into your lungs. His hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, holding you there—not in urgency, but in something slower, something indulgent.
Something that felt like exactly what you both needed.
His fist closed in your hair, pulling firmly to give him more space to go deeper. Your chest felt heavier, your breathing more desperate, your hands gripped his arms, between fabric and flesh, hoping that this would be enough of a sign for him not to stop. The kisses went down to your neck, spreading to your collarbone. He was so gentle, his fingers traced over your skin as if pressing too hard might shatter you, as if the wrong touch could make you slip right through his hands.
You held on tighter to him, and his nimble hands on your waist guided you closer. His thigh between your legs, your body pressed against his, he trailed his lips down your shoulder, your arms, every visible point of skin. Your thighs flexed against his in response, and soon your face grew hot, even though you could feel his jeans against your skin and your body was melting into him with no much shame.
Noticing you pausing, he pulled back slightly, his tongue wetting his lips as he let his back rest against the couch. His thumb traced slow circles on your waist, his gaze darker as it settled on you–this was good.
He squeezed your waist a little tighter, and you saw encouragement in it.
He tensed the muscle in his thigh, adding more to it. Your fingers tightened around him, tighter than before, and you wrapped your legs around him, letting out a pleasant sigh. He bit his lip, his hair falling a bit over his forehead, sweaty. In a slightly more abrupt movement, you could feel your raw skin brushing against his jeans, making your sigh louder and your head fall onto his shoulder.
"I've got you, princess." He comforted you, his rough, big hands running up your thighs, rising ever so slightly, until he held the hem of your shirt and pulled it up over your hips. His lips were at your ear, he whispered how good of a girl you were. He moved the fabric out of the way, digging it into his fingers along with the strength with which he held your waist and made the movement for you.
Your knees ached from the friction, but you were so wet that the contact with his jeans still allowed a muffled, wet sound through the silent room. You could hear his gasps, with each time your body moved forward and slowly back, as he controlled it. Sometimes the rhythm allowed you to feel how hard he was getting, and you had to admit it looked painful. He went back to kissing your shoulder, while you bit his, leaving his shirt damp, every now and then he pressed his fingers tightly into you and you wished you had his marks on your skin later.
Your body was starting to tremble, the spasms in your hips were no longer as controlled, your face and chest completely immersed in his body as he held you steady. Everything was slow, calculated by him, so that every second would take longer and he would have more time with you. He stood up, your arms and legs joining him like a puzzle piece, and delicately he placed your back on the bed.
You held him close, his weight on you was moderate—comforting. He looked at you with desire, but also as if he appreciated you being there, as if you weren’t going anywhere and had more to give. You thought of him as more than just this moment. His gaze made you feel attractive, even like this—messy hair, wearing clothes that weren’t even yours.
"I don't want to have to go back home,"
The melancholy in your voice made him shake his head immediately.
"I don't know what to say," he said honestly. He also thought about how much he wanted you around, but he didn't see a future in it; you didn't even really know him. "But I also wanted to stay here."
You shifted him, considering how this—whatever it was—was all you had. There were no "what ifs." He kept his leg between yours, the closeness a quiet reminder that he was here.
He moved briefly, and you traced a line from his chest to the mark you had left on his jeans with your eyes. His thighs made you imagine other things too. He opened his shirt wider, you bit your lip and he chuckled lightly. You could feel the elastic of your panties a bit out of its place and that was a good reminder of minutes ago.
He lifted your shirt again, kissing your knees and thighs, taking his caresses to your belly. Your eyes closed with the texture of his skin brushing where you were sensitive and then his nose lightly tapping the spot. He kissed you cautiously over the fabric and his eyes went up to you, his expression relaxed, as if he thought about being between your legs often and he whispered, "Is it alright if I carry on??" and all you felt was your heart bursting and your wetness like never before.
....
He didn’t hesitate to take you to the airport. Things were heavy, though there was an air of hope between you—not because there was any chance of being together, but because you saw things differently now.
You couldn’t bring yourself to touch him. You were too close, close enough to hold his gaze, but if you reached for him, it would break you.
"Y'know, I’ll come see you when you play at the London Theatre."
He touched your arms, pulling you into him. Your vision blurred slightly. His entire height intertwined with a sheet of paper being held in an envelope, you so wanted to live there.
"I don’t even know when that’ll be, and you’ve never seen me play, so you can’t say that." You joked, unsure how to take it.
"You saw something was off, like with your relationship, and handled it right. You're workin’ outside your field ‘cos you believe in it. You're determined—don’t seem the type t’ hesitate. If not now, then one day, you’ll get there. I believe in you."
You inhaled sharply, the tears never making it down your cheeks because he wiped them away first. His eyes were watery too. It made you realize how little you had accepted in past relationships.
Your fiancé once mentioned how important a stable job was—you had seen it as a valid concern, but he had always seemed to hate having an old piano taking up space in the living room.
"You won’t remember me," you murmured.
He shook his head, making that small sound with his mouth that told you to be quiet.
"Ah-I will. I feel relieved that I got to talk to you these past few days."
He wiped your face, watching as you tried to steady yourself, though your hands were trembling.
"And I need to see you play."
You laughed.
He told you he’d be in Tokyo for a while, dealing with record label matters. You told him you’d be going back to Europe. He lived in the USA—far from you. Your mind tried to map out the distance as something manageable, but the truth was neither of you would fit into each other’s lives.
He hated the thought that his life would be dragged into yours, a chaos you weren't even aware of, and you wouldn't risk the distance; it would certainly only make things worse. The present memory you shared was sweet, and it should prevail.
It was hard, but there wasn’t much to discuss. There was no space for bitterness.
"I got you something." his voice echoed in your mind as he kissed you right there, in front of everyone. It was slow, your fingers tangled in his hair, grazing through the soft strands. You needed a moment before facing his flushed lips and reddened nose. Your lungs felt empty.
You couldn’t look at him when you said goodbye.
All you had was the plastic bag he had given you, filled with the same macarons from when you first spoke to him, with revived dreams, and a cassette tape with your name on it—signed by him, with the words "For the good memories."
Noah and you share two kids, a boy and a girl but when Bad Omens blew up, you decided you wanted a semi normal life for your kids. You share the kids with Noah, but he's doing everything he can to win you back. Letting you leave was the biggest mistake he ever made.
Warnings: 18+. Possessive!Noah. Dad!Noah. Kinda? Toxic Noah? Smut. Breeding kink. This is purely fiction, and please take it that way.
Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
"We get to see Daddy!" Scarlett exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she bounced up and down, her small hands tightly gripping Rhys’s stroller. You, along with your energetic six-year-old daughter and your curious one-year-old son, were making your way toward the bustling recording studio, a familiar destination where they would spend the weekend with their father.
As soon as Scarlett flung the door open, her excitement propelled her forward, and she dashed into her father's welcoming embrace. "Daddy!" she shrieked, her laughter ringing in the air like a joyful melody.
Noah Sebastian Davis, her father, looked up with a radiant smile that lit up his charming face. "There you are! I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about me!" He enveloped her in a warm hug, planting a big, affectionate kiss on her cheek that made her giggle with delight.
Scarlett couldn’t contain her glee. "Look at my new sparkly shoes!" she declared proudly, lifting one foot high to show off her radiant pink jelly shoes, which sparkled in the studio lights. The band uncles, Davis and Bryan, responded with exaggerated awe and playful banter, their eyes twinkling with fondness for the little girl.
Noah turned his attention to you, a tender smile breaking through the casual demeanor he often projected. He took Rhys from your arms with practiced ease, cradling him while effortlessly relieving you of the cumbersome bags. “Hi, Gorgeous,” he said softly, his warm brown eyes locking onto yours with a lingering intensity. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you got dressed up just for me.”
You rolled your eyes, a tight smile creeping onto your lips despite your attempt at nonchalance. "Not this time, Rockstar," you replied, feigning indifference.
"Mommy has a date!" Scarlett piped up with a triumphant grin, her innocent announcement bursting forth with the enthusiasm of a child who didn’t yet fully grasp the implications. You winced, feeling your cheeks heat up.
Nick did his utmost to suppress a laugh, but the surprise on Jolly's face was impossible to ignore. Nicolas’s gaze was fixed on Noah, whose expression radiated an unsettling calmness. “Date?” Noah asked, his voice deceptively soft as he gently rubbed your son’s back. You recognized that look all too well—the intense, almost primal spark in his eyes that had first ignited the bond between him and the little boy he cradled.
You met Noah’s gaze, holding it steady. “Yes. A date. I got asked out, and it just so happens to fall on your weekend,” you replied, frustration threading through your words.
Noah's tone deepened, taking on a serious note. “Covenant,” he stated, emphasizing the weight of the word. He cooed, “Here you go, baby boy,” as he carefully passed Rhys to Nicolas. Before you turned away, you showered both children with kisses and hugs, savoring their warmth amid the swirling emotions. As you waved goodbye to the band, Noah accompanied you outside, curiosity thickening the air between you. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
You rolled your eyes, exasperated. This was precisely why you had hesitated to share your plans. Noah had a way of probing into your life, convincing you that you didn’t need anyone else. The thought of the Rockstar’s Wife life felt insurmountable; Noah was perpetually on the road, while Scarlet’s tears echoed your own frustrations as she longed for his presence. Your on-and-off relationship had only compounded the challenges, especially after Rhys came along. You had given it one last shot, hoping to mend things, but the flood of videos featuring Noah with Poppy became an inescapable reminder of the chaos. The album release party, a wild night at a 21 Pilots concert, and the final straw—the backstage footage with Jimmy Fallon—had shattered any remaining hopes.
Noah insisted vehemently that nothing untoward was happening between him and Poppy, and while you desperately wanted to trust him, the thought of putting your children through such heartache was unbearable.
“It’s none of your business,” you snapped, irritation flaring within you. Turning to face him, you pressed, “How’s Poppy?”
The muscles in Noah’s jaw tightened in response. “I wouldn’t know,” he replied, his tone clipped.
“That’s a lie,” you hissed, frustration bubbling over. “I know for a fact that you attended her concert recently.”
“Is your sister still stalking me?” Noah teased, a grin breaking through, but it didn’t lighten the weight of the conversation. Reaching your SUV, the tension simmered as he continued, “I didn’t expect you to be dating so soon after Rhys, that’s all.”
“He’s a year old now,” you scoffed, crossing your arms defensively. “I waited until he was weaned off breastmilk to make things easier for everyone.”
Noah hummed thoughtfully, the sound barely breaking the tension hanging in the air. "Right. Easier," he spat the last word, his tone dripping with skepticism. "How did you even meet this guy, anyway?"
You let out a weary sigh, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. "At work. He's new to the ballet."
Leaning against the sleek black SUV, Noah crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Ah, a pretty boy."
You shot back, a smirk tugging at your lips, "Says the man who has fan-made TikTok accounts dedicated solely to his hands." As you peeled off your coat, you revealed the form-fitting black knit sweater dress that hugged your curves, paired with sheer tights and stylish heels.
A sharp gasp escaped Noah’s lips, and you could feel his presence shift behind you. His warm, strong hands suddenly found their way to your waist, grounding you in a whirlwind of sensations. "Fuck, baby. You look good enough to eat," he murmured, his voice low and laced with longing. The intoxicating scent of his cologne enveloped you, mixing with the familiar warmth radiating from his body. You couldn’t ignore the evidence of his excitement pressing against you, even through the soft fabric of his sweats.
It drove you wild the way your resolve began to melt in his presence. He had an uncanny ability to make you feel like you were the only person in the world he desired. Burying his face into the crook of your neck, he inhaled deeply, savoring the floral notes of your date night perfume. “Cancel the date,” he whispered, his voice sultry. “All you really want is to get laid, and baby, you don’t even need to ask.”
You turn gently in his embrace, gazing up at him with a playful sweetness in your eyes. With a mischievous grin, you bump his nose with yours, a lighthearted gesture that makes him smile. He leans in, attempting to capture your lips with his, but you press your palm against his chest, halting his advance. “Scarlet has class in the morning,” you remind him softly, “so make sure she doesn’t run late.”
As you slipped out of his embrace and settled into the driver’s seat of your vehicle, you could feel the warmth of his presence lingering. He leaned against the window, pressing his forehead against the glass with an intense gaze. The soft rumble of the engine filled the moment, almost drowning out his voice.
“I'm not worried, baby,” he called out, a teasing glint in his eyes.
Curiosity piqued, you turned to him, eyebrows raised. “What makes you say that, Noah?”
A slow, calm predatory smile spread across his lips, a mixture of pride and mischief illuminating his face. “You gave me two children,” he declared, his tone deepening with a hint of possessiveness. “I’m not going a damn place.”
remember in p.e. when they'd take a bunch of insecure teenagers & be like "today we're going to play basketball" and then not teach you how to play basketball. and then put you in a group with guys who were obsessed with basketball and would get mad at you for not knowing how to play basketball. why did they do that
summary: you and noah continue to grow fond of each other. yet, his past has a funny way of sneaking up on you.
6:34pm
seattle, washington.
pain has a funny way of becoming background noise.
like the hum of a refrigerator or the faint buzz of city traffic. always there, always just tolerable enough to forget until it isn't.
you’re out the door pretty quickly, bag slung over your shoulder, hair tied in a low bun. your spine tugs the way it always does. like someone's hooked their fingers around it and pulling with every ounce of their being.
you wince and shift your weight, trying not to limp.
"off to the studio again?" the voice is familiar. warm. a little weathered.
you turn to see mrs. jean peeking out of her apartment, wearing her floral housecoat and a pair of fuzzy slippers. her gray hair is twisted into a clip, and she's holding a cup of something that smells like hazelnut.
you smile, tucking a strand of her behind your ear. "just for a few hours."
she squints at me over the rim of her mug. "you don't look like you should be teaching kids how to leap around. you should be resting"
you laugh softly. "you try telling them no."
mrs. Jean steps into the hall, lowering her voice like she's telling a secret. "you know, my amelia used to do ballet. lasted two weeks. she hates the way the tights fit."
i grin. "that’s fair."
she pauses, eyes softening. "you're walking like my eddie did after his surgery. you in pain, sweetheart?"
you swallow. you hate how easy it is for older people to see through your facade. maybe because they've lived too long to waste time pretending.
"some days are worse than others," you say.
she gives you a knowing look and presses her warm hand to your forearm. "you're determined, i know. but don't overwork yourself."
"i'll try."
"good girl," she says, and disappears back into her apartment without another word.
rain never seems to stop in seattle. it was always under a constant misty fog on the days that it didn’t rain, but you always expected gloomy days.
you were starting to appreciate it.
sure, it’s rained in new york but this was a different rain.
but maybe you just looked into things too deeply since moving.
you’re practically soaked as you enter the dance studio. the younger girls are already in the hallway putting their regular shoes on and their coats.
“miss l/n!!” they all cheer, huddling around you.
you’re beaming, smiling ear to ear and laughing softly. a warmth spreads in your chest as they all look to you with wide, glittering eyes. “hello ladies” you wave to them.
“did you all behave well for missus anderson?” you ask them. “yes maam!” they all answer in unison.
parents are entering the building, filing on one by one to pick up their daughters.
“good. now go on! listen to your parents!”
you hadn’t been to the studio in a while. too may extra shifts at the diner and trying to juggle college and other stuff.
the older girls begin flooding in, all warm smiles and laughter. they carry themselves with a kind of grace you’re envious of.
so full of life, health, and happiness.
something you’ve lost touch of.
“evening ladies!” your voice rings in the background. you’re in front of the mirror fastening your ballet slippers.
“evening!” they call back, falling into position.
you stand, ignoring that sharp pain shooting down your leg. you clasp your hands in front of your frame, “are you all ready for this evenings class?” you ask, beginning to strut around the girls.
“yes maam!” they say in unison.
“good! let’s refresh our memory with pilé in first, second, and fifth!”
for an hour, uou don't think about anything else. just the rhythm. the counts. the corrections.
but by the end of class, the sharp ache behind your ribs has returned. you sit on the bench near the cubbies while the girls gather their things, massaging the base of your spine, counting your breaths.
parents begin to flood the lobby, finding their children and signing them out. "bye y/n!" a few of the girls bid farewell, their smiles brighter than anything you’ve seen before.
"bye! i'll see you next time"
you stand and walk to the door, peering out. “don’t forget to practice at home!” you say to them. then, you retreat back inside to gather your things.
as you sling your duffle bag over your shoulder, you look out the large window in the reception area.
noah.
he's outside, leaning against the brick wall across the street, a cigarette between his fingers as he blows smoke from his mouth. his hair is messy and damp — like he just finished a run or something. but, his attire suggests something else. a grey blue washed jump suit, his name on the left side just above a pocket with a few pens. a mechanic jump suit.
you blink.
did he come here on purpose? how did he know you worked here? in a moment of seconds, your mind is flooded with too many thoughts.
when he notices you watching, he lifts his hand in a silent greeting, like he's trying not to scare you off. cautious like, hesitating.
you finish closing up the studio and throw on your jacket. then, you finna step outside.
he straightens, stepping away from the wall. “sorry” he starts.
"didn't mean to spook you."
"you didn't." you stop a few feet in front of him and cross your arms across your chest.
a pause.
he rubs the back of his neck. "i just got off work. saw you from the window. thought id say hi"
you don’t say anything at first, only offering a smile and a curtsy nod. “i thought you were a security guard” you question.
noah feels his neck burn with embarrassment, he was caught in lie but he tries to play it off. “i do, only part time. usually at night” he clears his throat.
you notice the oil and dirt underneath his finger nails as he finishes off a cigarette. you decide not to press further, you also work two jobs so it isn’t uncommon. “i get it” you nod, shifting weight to try to relieve the pain.
“didn’t take your for the dancing type” he adds.
you can’t help to chuckle, looking down at your feet. “guess i’m just full of surprises.” you shift again, the pain was just getting worse by the second.
noah notices, and out of habit he offers the cigarette to you. “need a puff?”
you shake your head, “no, thanks. i’m not the type” you hold out your hand refusing.
noah nods, taking another drag. “you heading home?” a trail of smoke.
“yeah, finally.” you roll your shoulders back.
“let me walk you” noah offers, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it with his boot.
“you don’t have to.”
he shakes his head, “i want to.”
you fall into step together as you head back toward the building. noah doesnt pray, he doesn’t bombard me with questions. he just walks quietly beside you like you’ve done it a hundred times.
"you always this quiet?" you ask after a block.
he glances at you, hands stuffed in the pockets on his mechanic suit. “yeah. always scared of saying the wrong things.”
"do you usually?"
"mhm. usually."
you smile despite yourself. "sometimes it’s better to say the wrong things."
he huffs a breath of laughter, like he wasn't expecting that. "alright then...." he pauses, occasionally kicking rocks as he walks. “i think you’re very interesting.”
you laugh, “interesting?”
he nods, biting back a smile. “yup. i can’t figure you out.”
“maybe i don’t want you to” your raise your brows, to glance at him.
now, you’re closing in on the apartment building. “oh cmon” he playfully bumps shoulders with you.
you grin, looking down at your feet. “you’re not much of an open book either” you say, accusing him in a teasing tone.
you watch him tense, jaw ticking before cracking a smile. “mhm guess i am” he shrugs. “means you’ll just have to try harder” he presses.
you grin, looking away again as you enter the apartment complex. he’s holding the door open for you. you didn’t expect it.
you both begin up the stairs. he’s about a half step in front of you. you’re trying to catch up, but the pain is only growing and getting worse. your lower back burns, the searing sensation is blooming both lower and higher.
you reach for the wall, feeling your legs wobble.
“whoa.. hey. you good?” his hands are already hovering over your body. ready to catch you.
you nod, squeezing your eyes shut. maybe if you just ignore the pain it’ll go away. it has to..right? “fine” you say, inching to take another step. but you feel your leg almost give out.
you feel his hand grab your bicep, preventing you from falling backwards. “i got you” noah mutters and helps you upstairs to your floor.
9:35am
seattle washington.
the next morning feels heavier than usual.
you move slower, dragging yourself from the warmth of your sheets, wincing as your spine protests every stretch. the dream you had the night before lingers.
a stage, the bright glare of lights, applause that never quite reached you. you wake with your cheeks damp, the ghost of music still playing in your head.
you lean against the counter as the morning sun floods your apartment. for once, it wasn’t a foggy morning. it was nice out.
coffee helps. sort of.
so does moving through the familiar motions: hair pulled into a bun, textbooks shoved into your tote, notebook tucked under your arm. the days all blur together now between school, shifts at the diner, and the studio. but lately, noah has threaded his way through those days too. like a shadow you never expected, never invited. but don't quite mind having there.
you lock your apartment door, and the hallway is quiet except for the faint sound of a television from mrs jean's place. she’s watching her morning shows again. for a moment, you let yourself imagine knocking on her door, sitting down at her little kitchen table, letting someone who reminds you of family fuss over you.
but you dont. you don't want to need anyone. you dont want that feeling of disappointment again.
classes drag like they always do when you attend in person seminars. your back aches against the stiff plastic chairs, and by the time you’re finished with lectures, the sky outside has already begun to gray. seattle is good at that. swallowing daylight early, leaving you wondering if the sun ever really rose at all.
by the time you’re walking home, you feel brittle. the cold bites at your cheeks, and my tote digs into your shoulder. you try not to think about last night.
noah had helped you back to your apartment. he practically carried you the rest of the way to the second floor. he let you lean all of your weight against him, he didn’t complain once or act like it was a problem.
he just wanted to help.
your apartment was dark, your free hand frantically searched for the light switch.
noah already closed the door behind him with the kick of his boot. “where do you want to go?” he asks.
“sofa is fine” you grit through clenched teeth.
noah is careful with his hands. he’s hyper aware of where and how he touches you. he doesn’t want you to hurt you further, but he also doesn’t want you thinking he’s a pervert or anything.
as soon as your back hits the soft, worn in, cushions of your sofa you feel some of that pressure dissipating. finally, you can breathe.
“thank you, noah.” you say, forcing a smile. your hand stays in his forearm as he crouched down in front of you.
“anytime” he says, looking up at you now.
this was the first time you saw him so close. you noticed the freckles dusting his cheeks, the specks in his eyes surrounding his irises. and the scars some old, some new, that littered his face.
he was actually quite beautiful.
he breaks the silence, “can i get you anything?”
you shake your head, “no. i’m fine. i just need to sit for a while.”
he’s reaching into the pocket of his jump suit, pulling out his phone. “do you have your phone?” he asks.
you stare at him for a moment, before hesitating. you reach into your duffle bag and pull out your phone and unlock it.
noah takes your phone and starts typing in numbers. then, he calls your phone from his and then saves his number in your phone.
“call me if you need anything.” he hands your phone back.
you stare at him like he just smashed your phone.
he doesn’t falter. “i mean it. anything.” he repeats.
you nod, your mouth opens to say something. but nothing comes. you just stare at him.
you blink, “right. yeah. no problem” you manage.
10:45am.
you wake up the next morning, later than usual. but you don’t move for a while. relishing in the heat of your heating pad resting against your lower back.
you’ve already called out most of this week. and you know it’s your own fault for not taking better care of yourself.
you had been slacking on your own physical therapy while picking up extra shifts at the diner, and not warming up properly before teaching a dance class.
maybe you were beginning to give up your dreams after all.
inside your apartment, diesel barks faintly through the wall. low, excited. noah must be home. you hesitate, almost tempted to check on him, but stop yourself. you tell yourself not to get attached, not allow yourself to grow too close to him.
judes warnings still ring in your ears.
but you can’t help yourself.
noah had been so gentle towards you, he looked out for you without you even realizing.
you didn’t know what was happening.
later, you heat up leftover soup and force yourself to eat while flipping through your notebook. half the words blur together.
you don’t get much studying done lately. your mind in too many places to just focus on one thing.
you hadn’t heard from jude in a while, she took the liberty of covering all of your shifts while training the new hire-on. you loved her for that. you knew she didn’t have to, but that’s what friends are for.
you were reaching for you phone, hoping she had updated you at all.
that’s when you seen it: three missed calls from ‘mom’.
your chest tightens. you haven't called her back in weeks. Each voicemail is the same. concerned, clipped, a little sharp at the edges. "call me back, y/n." like you’re still sixteen and just broke curfew.
you stare at the screen until your soup cools.
then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you hit "call back."
she answers on the second ring. "y/n." relief floods her voice, quickly smoothed over by restraint. "finally."
"hi, mom."
There's a pause. "have you been ignoring my calls?" Not a question.
"no, ma."
"i don't know how many times i have to remind you that ignoring me doesn't make me stop worrying."
guilt prickles hot against your skin. "i wasn't ignoring you. i just... needed space."
she sighs. "space from what, honey? from the people who care about you? from your family?"
you press your hand to your forehead. "no. from everything else."
her voice softens. "you sound tired."
"i am."
she hesitates. "i wish you would just come home. you don't need to be out there by yourself. especially with your back. especially after everything—"
"i can't, mom." your voice cracks sharper than you mean it to. "i can't just... go back and pretend like none of this happened."
the silence on her end says more than any words could.
finally, she exhales. "alright. but promise me you're being careful. please."
you close your eyes. "i promise. i’ve got people here who are looking out for me."
you hang up, but the heaviness lingers, thick and suffocating.
you don’t let yourself cry, you have cried in a while and you didn’t plan to start now.
8:35pm.
you had given up on all your assignments a long time ago. textbooks sprawled out at your feet. notebooks full of scribbled out ink and half erased sentences. you had reached a max level of burnt out.
the tv was playing low on a rerun you had turned on for some background noise but you eventually found yourself growing tired the more you read. eventually, you accepted defeat.
currently, you’re curled up on the sofa with a blanket haphazardly over your thighs, heating pad from your bedroom wrapped around your back.
you’re half asleep, just now finding a comfortable position.
the pain never leaves, the ache never subsides. it gets better in some positions, but you always know it’s there.
at the sound of knocking, your eyes peel open with a quiet grown following.
there’s a feeling more hesitant knocks and you’re finally on your feet walking to the door.
swinging it open, you find noah on the other side of the door with his signature black attire. his hands are already in his pocket, he’s rocking on his heels like he’s anxious. at his feet, diesel sits, sitting all pretty.
“noah, hey” you said softly, rubbing the corner of your eyes.
you know you must look insane, your hair wasn’t done, you were in your favorite lounge clothes that were just a bit too big on you.
he replied through tight lips, “hey” he pauses, then, “y’okay?”
you nod, chasing a yawn. “yeah, jus tired.”
noah nods, guilt creeping up his neck as he prepares himself for to ask for another favor. “i’m sorry to bother. i just” he begins, shoulders tense. “i was wondering if you could watch diesel again for a few nights? i’ll pay”
a tired but genuine smile forms on your face, “of course, noah. don’t worry about it.”
you see his shoulders drop with relief. “great, thank you. so. much.” you watch as the corner of his lips slightly tic upwards into a smile.
“of course.” you nod. “would you mind if he stays over here with me? i’ve got so much schoolwork to catch up on”
noah nods, “yeah whatever you need to do. i won’t be around much, i’ve picked up some extra shifts” he lies again. maybe you knew too but chose your own sanity.
“perfect” you smile, looking down to the dog. “hi bud” your voice goes higher when talking to him, his tail immediately starts wagging and takes the few steps to be closer.
“key is still under the mat, you know where everything is” he bends down to scratch diesel behind the ears. “bye buddy, be good for y/n.”
he stands, smoothing out his black jeans. “i’ll see ya later” he nods towards you then hes turning on his heels disappearing down the hall.
you make yourself comfortable again, diesel finds home on the sofa at your feet, curled against your body.
it was nice, you enjoyed the company. sharing space, even if it was dog.
you already went to noah’s apartment to get his dog food, bed, and toys. you made a corner for diesel in your bedroom, one room that had the least amount of furniture. but, he chose to sleep next to you.
the hum of the tv provided a nice background noise that lulled you to sleep once again, and you were almost out. peacefully.
knock knock. bang bang.
the knock startles you.
your head shoots off the pillow, your look towards the hallway. diesel does the same. he’s on high alert, muffled barks already leaving his throat.
another knock. louder.
diesel is off the couch, he’s halfway across your apartment, barking louder now. grumbling in his chest behind every charged bark. a threat to anyone on the other side of the door.
“easy” you stand, padding across the apartment barefoot. your stomach twists as you reach the door, pressing your eye to the peephole.
It isn't noah.
a man is pacing outside, one hand raking through messy black hair that falls just over his forehead. He's tall, wiry but tense, tattoos cover his arms and neck similar to noah. he looks like he hasn't slept in days. his jaw flexes as he turns, dark eyes flicking up and down the hall like he's expecting someone to ambush him.
he knocks again. "c'mon, noah. open up."
you pull back, feeling your heart racing.
and then suddenly, it's his knuckles rapping against the wood.
"hey." his voice is rough, carrying down the hallway. "open up man"
you dont answer his request, but your hand is on the doorknob. knuckles turning white.
"look, i know you’re here," the man continues, impatience threading through his tone. "just need a word man." he shifts his weight, running his hand through his hair again. back and forth. back and forth.
you’re shaking, diesel is at your feet still growling through the door. “not here.” you announce through the door. you scramble to find your phone.
the pounding on the door resumes.
your hands shake as your open your contact app, frantically searching for noahs number.
the mine rings twice, and on the third he finally answers. “y/n?”
your heart is beating in your ears, diesel barking loudly. “noah, thank god.”
noah grips his steering wheel. “y/n are you okay?”
you hesitate, biting down on your lip. “someone has been banging on my door asking for you.”
noah can hear the muffled noises through your end. “what?” he mutters.
he’s already looking for a place to turn around.
“noah, i don’t know what he wants but i don’t think it’s good.” you press a feee hand on your door, afraid he will bust it down.
“okay, listen to me.” noah begins, turning around on the highway. “go to your room, take diesel, and lock your bedroom door.” he says. he already knows who it is. even through the muffled voices on the call. his past always found him.
“i’ll be there in fifteen.” he assured.
“right..okay..” you say, calling for diesel to follow.
“it’s okay, y/n. i’ll be right there, just hold on.”
‘this was the first time you saw him so close. you noticed the freckles dusting his cheeks, the specks in his eyes surrounding his irises. and the scars. some old, some new, that littered his face.
🌼 go somewhere beautiful and quiet where you can see the clouds and trees and gain perspective on your current life and figure out what’s making you happy and what’s making you sad and what makes you feel most alive. sometimes we get too caught up in distractions that we feel like we’ve lost ourselves. engaging in a calming activity like drawing or riding a bike or focusing on your surroundings can really help clear your head. distance gives you perspective.
🌻dream a lot. wherever you find your mind wanders, that says a lot about who you are and what you want.
🍰 let go of past labels if they imprison you. if you labelled yourself as the shy person and recently you’ve becoming more confident, it’s ok to let go of that identity trait that you’ve always been known for. let yourself encourage growth and going out of your comfort zone instead of remaining who you are forever. change can be a good thing.
🌸 think about what you want. not what your parents want, or what you feel like you’re supposed to want. forget all the pressures surrounding you. think about the people you admire, what qualities they have and your deepest dreams that haven’t been filtered by other people’s opinions. write these down and look at your reasons often. simultaneously remove anything that makes you feel unworthy, whether it’s people who don’t appreciate you, toxic social media, habits that make you loathe yourself or common inner thoughts that make you want to dim your radiance. if you suffer from negative thinking or a mental illness, the real you is hidden beneath it and that version of you is still alive and bright as ever. do whatever it takes to recover even if it’s talking to someone or finding medication or self care activities like eating right or getting enough sun. if you’re numbing your pain constantly either by addiction or avoidance it’s time to be completely honest with yourself because the real you wants to be healthy and happy instead of self punishing, and it’s true that confronting the problem is hard but if you accept it and forgive yourself and treat yourself with kindness and compassion it will make your life a whole lot lighter on your shoulders. unhealthy coping mechanisms can make you feel like you’ve lost yourself but don’t worry because once you make small changes to your life you will feel complete and genuinely nice again. so it’s really important that you treat yourself as a friend would; maybe after years of feeling down or unworthy your inner conversation has become that of a bully so of course you won’t feel like yourself unless that changes.
🌷start a new hobby. stagnancy can feel comfortable but in the end it’s what can cause you to feel lost and hopeless. small senses of accomplishment can really lift your mood and create meaning in your life. so start a hobby and make small goals to enrich your life with what you think would make you happy. even better would be to meet new people because there’s nothing better than finding new people to connect with and inspire you.
💫 don’t isolate yourself. isolation causes you to lose yourself into endless ruminations and negative mindsets. you’ll start to listen to the voice that tells you that you’re never going to be good enough or that no one loves you. once you surround yourself with positivity and say yes to meeting friends you’ll realize that you are worthy and loved and you are loved for being you and nothing else.
I hope this helps!!
(ask a question and you can donate a little if the answer helps! 💌)
The Best Friend’s Sister Scenario - Luke Hemmings x Reader
Summary: Based off this class request from @bitterbethany - OKAY. you being one of the boys little sisters and having a MASSIVE crush on luke since the band started he sees you after years of not thinking about you and you guys click and he starts catching feelings (maybe smut idk).
Warnings: Swearing and little sexual bits but no acc smut
Note: This is kinda long and kinda shit, but I loved this idea. Based off the song She by Dodie - yes I know that song is about a girl loving another girl but I thought it applied good here too, from like Luke’s POV mostly but like the poetry and stuff, idk it’s a cute song either way x
Am I allowed to look at her like that?
The house was bustling already. Luke felt like he’d been blasted into the past in a time machine that hadn’t been discovered yet, walking through Ashton’s childhood home with a breeze of easiness he’d missed so desperately. He missed the element of home in these suburbs, something A-list Hollywood and L.A couldn’t provide. His modern house sometimes seemed meaningless when it lacked such humble walls of peeling paints lined with framed photos of Ashton and his siblings.
Occasionally he’d glance at the frames and smile at the grinning children who stared at him. Some showed Ashton, hammering on a dumpy drum kit with an emo fringe and thin arms. Some showed his younger brother, standing in the goal kitted from head to toe in soccer gear, focus deep in his eyes despite the brimming smile. Others were of his two sisters, the youngest usually standing beside the tallest, both holding awards for something or other, or messing around with make-up in one of their pink princess bedrooms.
The pictures began to sit in newer frames as the subjects in them grew older: Ashton winning an award at an awards show for the band; his brother running around his high school’s football field - having shot up in size; his youngest sister standing proudly on a stage, dressed in dance gear. Before he could view the next picture, there was a calling of his name from the kitchen.
Without thinking twice, he ditched the trip down memory lane and waltzed into the oak based kitchen. Ashton’s mum stood over the stove, juggling pots and pans. Luke loved this tradition. It was started up when the band started to pick up fame and the children of all the boy’s families grew older and matured. The families - Ashton’s, Calum’s, Michael’s and Luke’s - all met up once in September and had a massive dinner to catch up.
Last year, Luke couldn’t make it. He was due to get a later flight than the others back to Australia, but a freak storm hit and he was stranded until the next flight in 3 days: which would have been too late. Perhaps that was why he was enjoying this reunion so much, as it truly had been even longer than usual since he saw everybody he had loved from such a young age.
“Hey Anne, need any help?” He smiled, as her and Calum’s dad busied themselves above the stove and counter tops. She glanced up from stirring the pot on the hob, looking over to grin at Luke.
“Yeah, please. There’s some bottles of wine in the garage out front, can you bring them in? You have to go outside to get into it - no door from the house to it,” she explained, and Luke nodded. She gestured quickly to some keys on the counter top, and he collected them before heading to the front door. His black sweatpants weren’t exactly stylish, but he went for comfort than style when he was back home - choosing black sweats and a really old band t-shirt.
He opened the garage door, stepping in and searching for a light switch against the wall with his hand, eyes staring into the dark abyss. Flicking it to life, everything was illuminated. Cardboard boxes sat neglected on shelves, each with marked names on them of rooms or members of the family. He made his way into the concrete building, glancing behind a lawn mower to find a box of wine that looked as though it was bought (at least) two Christmases ago. Chuckling under breath, he lent over and picked up a few bottles of red before making his way back to the door. He turned his back to the outside world, turned off the light, the started walking before checking in front.
His body hit someone else, and a swear slipped from his lips as he tightened his grip on the glass bottles he juggled. He glanced up, ready to throw a quip at Michael or Ashton, but stopped short when he saw a remarkably pretty girl. You were so pretty he felt his breath catch in his throat, like you see in the movies, as your big eyes gazed up to meet his unfaltering stare. A smile came to your lips with clear amusement, thinking you’d just caught your older brother’s friend by surprise.
“Hey, Lu. Watch where you’re going next time, hm?” you chuckled lightly, and he forced himself to respond. There was no way that this was Ashton’s sister, the second eldest of the Irwin’s. “Guessing mum sent you out for the wine run, right? Need some help?” You pushed a wrapped parcel - that, honestly, Luke hadn’t even realised you were holding - under one arm and held out a hand to take a bottle. Holy shit, it was. He swallowed his words, passing you one of the red wines.
You didn’t question the quiet between the two of you. Luke was always one of the quietest in the band, and it had been about three years since you’d seen each other so awkward silences were no surprise. You’d missed a lot of the reunions, and guilt followed you due to that. You’d gone to a college in Asia, so coming home was so expensive and difficult and really didn’t line up well with your academic year. As your 20th birthday loomed over head, you decided it was time to finally attend a family reunion. Your studies were nearly done, all exams finished early due to the course you were taking, so time could be made to see your childhood in person once more.
However, what you did question was how he had become more attractive since the last time you’d seen him. He’d always had this attraction that had little 12 year old you skipping about in her room singing along to Taylor Swift songs daydreaming about him. Hell, since Ashton had brought Luke home for dinner one evening before they went and made musical vomit in the basement - gradually getting better every time - you’d had a massive crush on him. As his life took off, though, and he got dragged into a life of fame and fit models, you were hit with reality and work. You went to college and university and studied hard and tirelessly to become the cartoonist and animator you wanted to be. Admiring studio Ghibli’s animations, you were ecstatic when you got the apprenticeship there. But that consumed more of your life and soon the blonde guitarist was a passing thought that only ever came up when Ashton rang, due to your lack of social media.
But now that childhood crush that you’d buried so easily had hit you full blast. Your studies were essentially done and the apprenticeship was settling into a full paying job that you’d feel secure in: you’d have time for a relationship and a boyfriend. And especially a crush.
“Yeah, thanks,” he replied, passing you the bottle. You smiled, reading the label and shrugging, before guiding the way to the house, his footsteps trailing behind you ever so slightly.
Could it be wrong
When she’s just so nice to look at?
Summary: It’s been a year since you last saw Luke Hemmings, rockstar and your former best friend, but when invited to celebrate Christmas with the Hemmings family, you might get a chance to make everything right again.
A/N: I know that I haven’t been in any way active on here, but in celebration of Christmas I thought I’d post a small one shot which includes a little bit of Christmas spirit (not very much though), I hope you enjoy x
“How are you, darling? Feels like I haven’t seen you in forever.” Liz greets you with a loving hug and you can’t help but melt into it. Perhaps there’s just a gene for great hugging skills in the Hemmings family because it’s the exact same case with Luke.
“Yeah, it’s been way too long,” you agree, sending her a big smile while pulling away. “I’m doing great, thank you, what about you? Has Andrew’s back gotten any better?” She leads you into the dining room while assuring you that Luke’s dad is doing way better than last you talked with a member of the Hemmings household and that her only worry is that he’ll be eating too much Christmas food because he always has a hard time losing the extra pounds afterwards.
“But enough about us! We are so happy you’re coming; the children haven’t talked about anything else the whole day.”
You laugh, easily imaging the small kids that have always loved you jumping up at the thought of you celebrating Christmas with them this year. “Thank you again for letting my join you for Christmas, Liz. It really means a lot,” you say and smile.
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