Horny means oops, more smut.
This one is straight up gross btw. Just Noah being a nasty little shit, seeking out strangers in filthy truck stop bathrooms.
-
Noah presses his back to the concrete wall. Feeling the chill against his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.
His jacket is tucked into a bag on the back of his bike. Standing across the large gravel lot from him. Waiting for him to be ready to head off again.
He stifles a shiver against the cold.
It’s late enough for the temperature to have dropped a fair bit. And it’s only going to get colder, if the last few nights have been anything to go off.
And yet, he’s left his warmer layers hidden away. Though not for no reason.
He’s got his sleeveless shirt on. It’s white. So well worn it’s almost see-through in places.
It shows off his arms, and the holes where the sleeves used to be are cut low enough that it leaves little to the imagination.
He’d chosen his leather riding pants too. The tight ones that cling to his ass just right.
They don’t do much to keep him warm either, but they’re good for this. For grabbing the sort of attention he’s after tonight.
The truck stop’s signage throws a glare of orange and yellow onto the nearby landscape.
He’s not fully sure exactly where he is. Just that it’s hot and dry during the day, and biting cold at night.
He’s felt the itch of restlessness under his skin all day. Maybe from the monotonous landscape, or maybe just because it’s been a while.
Maybe he just doesn’t like it when the bruises start to fade.
Less than an hour after he'd parked up. Someone finally pulls in.
There are other semis in the lot. But so far no one has been willing to seek him out.
The way the guy pulling in now eyes him from under the brim of his hat, tells him this might be the one.
And he doesn’t have to wait long after the roar of the engine cuts out, before the man is climbing out and walking towards him.
The anticipation in him climbs higher with every beat of worn boots against gravel.
The guy spits, clearing his throat. He’s careful to keep his face angled so that his hat is hiding it mostly from Noah’s view.
He doesn’t mind. That’s how it usually goes. With the lack of a convenient hole cut into the stall divider to offer anonymity, you take it where you can get it.
All he can tell is he’s a big guy. Sturdy, a little taller than Noah. He’s older too, skin weathered by days spent in the sun.
He’s wearing a dark blue flannel over a work shirt with the same logo on it as his truck.
His jeans are grease-stained but nice, fitted well enough to show some bulge. Which Noah eyes, not so subtly.
He looks big. And the way he’s carrying himself tells Noah he’s not shy about it.
The man doesn’t say anything when he passes him and pushes the door open. He just lazily trails the tip of his finger against the bare crook of Noah’s arm on his way past, and that’s all the confirmation he needs.
There’s no lock on the inside of this door.Any one could walk in here.
Two stalls take up almost half of the total area of the room. The rest is occupied by a row of stained urinals and a lone sink in the corner.
Nothing in here looks like it’s been cleaned in the last month. At least.
The familiar clatter of a belt buckle coming undone is Noah’s cue.
He undoes his own belt, unzips his fly.
He’s about to take his shirt off when the man speaks.
“Leave it on.” He’s gruff, stern. Just how Noah wants them. He gestures him closer, not towards the stalls, like Noah would have expected, but to the sink. “Don’t talk.”
Noah can do that. He hopes it goes both ways. Almost prefers it to the kind of dirty talk he gets out of these guys usually.
He goes easily when the guy grabs for him. Shoves him up against the tiles next to the sink without any preamble.
Noah braces himself with his hands to the smooth wall and rest his head against it. A shock of cold against his overheated skin.
The man palms his ass over his pants, hard enough to force Noah into pushing back against him if he wants to keep his balance.
The stranger takes that as permission to grind on him.
With his fly open, the hard heat of him is a vivid line against Noah’s ass. He feels just as sizable as he’d looked outside, and Noah’s mouth waters at the promise of something that will fill him up, right to his limit.
When he looks to his left, out the corner of his eye, he can see them both in the cracked mirror above the sink.
He can see the way the stranger is looking down at where they’re touching. At the shape of his cock rutting against the leather of Noah’s pants through the fabric of his boxers.
The head is visible above the line of his waistband when he lifts his shirt up to see better.
Noah imagines the glisten of precome on his pants. Pearly against the black.
It’s hard to keep his pleased groan to himself. And thankfully the man doesn’t seem put off by him making noise.
With that beast in his near future he doubts he’ll be able to stay quiet. So long as this guy knows how to put it to good use.
Large hands frame his hips to let him grind even harder. Setting a pace that has Noah straining to keep himself off the grimy wall.
He almost starts to worry that this is all he’ll get, but then his pants are being pulled down roughly, until they’re just low enough to expose him.
He’s guided back to make the angle of his hips steeper, before his legs are kicked apart.
One hand finds the back of his neck, as if to keep him in place, while the other trails up his thigh until a calloused thumb is spreading him open.
He’s been wet for hours. Just from thinking about exactly this.
Finding this run down little truck stop in the middle of nowhere had been a godsend. Just what he needed to settle his mind for a while.
That thumb doesn’t waste any time before it pushes in. Not aiming to get him ready. Just feeling, checking how worked up he is.
Noah tries to push back into it. To hopefully hurry things along. But all it gets him is a firmer grip around his neck that gets his heart beating, eager at the smallest taste of danger.
He wants both of those hands around his throat. Squeezing until the world goes dark.
What he gets instead is a grunt as the stranger pulls his cock out and lines up.
He ruts forwards, overeager, not seeming to care that he’s missing the mark repeatedly, driving Noah more and more out of his mind with each pass, never hitting where he wants him.
Noah is baring his teeth in pure, feral frustration by the time the guy finally bothers to aim true.
All that rage drains out of him like he’s had his strings cut.
He’s suddenly so full he feels like he’s choking on it.
The stretch is sweet agony, and even without any friction, the cock inside him is pressing up against just the right place to force a strangled groan out of him.
The stranger is kind enough to wait him out a little. Can no doubt feel the way Noah’s body is warring between rioting at the intrusion, and melting into the pleasure.
He pets up the length of Noah’s back. Rough palms encouraging him to arch a little deeper, only improving the way he’s hitting Noah’s g-spot.
He’s good.
Experienced. Clearly knows exactly how to push the right buttons to have Noah moaning. Even before he’s started moving in earnest.
He’s only picked up a gentle motion, rocking his hips just a little, as if taking care to make sure Noah is ready.
Which is the opposite of what Noah is after. The kindness sets his teeth on edge.
Hackles up, he slams his hips back, hard. Then he pulls forward, like he’s about to bolt.
That gets him precisely the reaction he was hoping for.
The man grabs him, both hands on his hips to haul him back, flush against his hips.
Noah yelps at how deep he’s getting, now that he’s no longer holding back.
He can feel the curve of a hairy belly against his asscheeks. The moisture of the stranger’s raspy pants on the back of his neck.
Outside, the rumble of a large engine grows steadily louder. Until the crackle of gravel under tires can be heard.
It suddenly reminds him of where he is.
Of the view someone would get upon walking in here right now.
Of him with his pants around his thighs, shirt rucked up and sweat-damp.
Hands white knuckled against slick tile, with a complete stranger twice his age balls deep inside of him.
Fuck he wants that.
Hopes someone will walk in and see them like this.
Maybe they’d like what they see. Maybe they’d stick around.
Sloppy seconds, or just to watch.
Heat shoots through him, and the man behind him picks up a punishing pace.
Noah swears that if he had the strength to take one hand off of the wall, to put it against his stomach, he’d be able to feel the guy nailing into him through the skin there.
He almost wishes he could, just to check. But he can't. Already struggling against the force of the body rutting into him.
What he can manage however, is a glance into the mirror.
Watching himself get fucked is something entirely different to just feeling it.
The sight of the stranger’s hands, skin stained from cigarette smoke and engine oil, contrasted against the pale skin of his sides.
There are red marks in the shape of fingers curling around his hip bones.
The skin on his ass is rubbed raw from the teeth of the guy’s zipper and the roughness of his jeans.
He can’t wait to feel it all in the morning.
It’s almost a surprise when he comes.
He hadn’t felt it build. Too drowned out by all the other thoughts and sensations crowding his head.
It hits him like a freight train. Near blinding in its intensity, and for a moment it really must have been, because the next time he opens his eyes, it’s with his cheek pressed against the tile, knees buckling underneath him, before arms wind around him and haul him up.
The man doesn’t even pull out as he moves him. Wrangles him over to the sink to lay him over it. Giving him something better to hold on to.
Noah stares down at the cracked porcelain, hand curled limply around the faucet to stay standing. Dazed and too ashamed of himself to meet his own eyes in the mirror.
He can feel it when the man comes, but he barely even grunts as he does.
A shame really. Could have at least had the decency to be loud about it.
But decency isn’t a part of this. Not in any way.
Which is evident in how the man pulls out, tucks himself away roughly, and walks out. Door slamming shut behind him.
Leaving Noah bent over the sink. Cum dripping out of him and running down the inside of his thigh. Leather pants still around his shaking legs.
It’s how it usually goes.
Left to clean himself up. To get back in the saddle. And point his bike in the direction of something new.
I'm gonna be myself and say 🥾 Caro boots? :) for the ask game!
There’s exactly one moment in Seemingly Dark where Caro wears boots to dress a bit more like what they wrongly believe Johnny will be more attracted too, and it’s black leather Justin ropers 🖤
First part of that Literal Fallen Angel AU thing I mentioned yesterday.
Remembered I had a couple hundred words already written for it, and let it snowball from there.
I'll likely keep the rest of this on AO3 exclusively, but here's a start ;)
-
Martin Hart has never been a religious man.
He’d grown up in an average, god-fearing family like most of the kids in this town of course, but the belief never really stuck. He’d prayed at bedtime under his mother’s careful eye until he was old enough to put himself to bed. He’d gone to church every Sunday, dressed up in his finest, but only until he moved out at eighteen.
It wasn’t that he had anything against faith. It wasn’t even that he strictly didn’t believe. Martin just never felt the need to pay so much mind to it. If there was a great creator of some kind out there then so be it. They’d done a lousy job of it, if you asked Martin, and until they deigned to fix the mess they’d made of this humanity thing, Martin would be content to continue living life his own way, thank you kindly.
All of this to say that Martin was in for a bit of a shock one night in late April, when he found himself forced to reconsider his view on the whole thing.
It isn't the light that wakes him initially, it's the sound.
When Martin opens his eyes to squint up at the curtains, he finds them lit up like the world outside is on fire. The noise, a fizzling sort of crackle that’s steadily changing in pitch, grows louder and louder, until it’s rattling the glass in its frames.
The light beyond the window shines brighter until Martin is forced to put his hand up to block the glare. The noise keeps building along with it, and then, with a resounding crack like a lightning strike, it vanishes, taking the light with it.
Martin is left blinking, suddenly very awake.
His heart is beating in his chest, rabbit fast. The result of a primal sort of fear he can’t quite shake.
His cane is by his bed and he doesn’t need to look before he reaches for it. His hand finds the shape in the darkness.
He pushes himself up with a groan, wincing at the stiffness in his hip but not once taking his eyes off the window.
The curtains are cool against his hand when he pushes them aside, chilled by the cold April air.
At first, nothing looks out of the ordinary.
The view from his bedroom window is the wide open space of the pastures below the farmhouse, just dirt and stubborn grass stretching on until it hits the mountains in the distance. It’s too dark to make out anything but the faint outline of them against the night sky, a barely there shadow in front of the stars.
He’s almost about to chalk it up to some freak lightning event or shooting star or something, when a glimmer of fading light catches his eye.
It’s way out there, in the pasture, a fleck of brightness in the dark that definitely shouldn’t be there.
Did the lightning cause a fire in the grass? It’s not terribly dry yet, but there’s still a risk of it spreading, and he’s got cattle down there.
They must have gotten a pretty bad scare. Hopefully none of them were hit by whatever just happened.
Something tells him he needs to go check on things. It’s not like he’ll get any more sleep anyway, he never did have an easy time getting back to sleep after waking up in the night.
As he pulls his jeans up over his hips, he decides to put some water on for coffee before he leaves, might as well just start the day, if he’s going to be awake.
He glances at the clock on his bedside table only briefly. It’s 2am. Oh well. There’s no helping it. He’ll just have to have a nap on the couch later.
Water set to boil and boots stepped into, Martin grabs his jacket off the hook and heads outside.
The porch light is being swarmed by moths and other insects. The fluttering of their wings and bodies hitting the glass is audible in the unnatural stillness.
Martin has never been scared of the dark. Hasn’t ever hesitated in the face of a potential nightly threat to his animals or himself.
But now, there’s a thin tether of dread anchoring him to the spot.
Like stepping outside the radius of the porch light would pop this bubble of safety he’s in.
Martin shakes it off with a huff.
Ridiculous, letting something so silly rattle him.
He covers the distance between the front steps and his truck in three strides, telling himself he doesn’t flinch at the sound of gravel under boot breaking this fragile silence the world is shrouded in.
He can’t help the way he hesitates before turning the key in the ignition, glancing up before he does so, as if making sure the coast is clear.
The Bronco roars beneath him, a sound that usually never fails to soothe him, now puts him on edge.
He turns onto the gravel road leading down to the pasture and takes it at a crawl. Scanning his surroundings as he goes, trying to see if anything is amiss.
That strange light out there in the pasture is practically gone now, even harder to see with the Bronco’s headlights polluting the darkness, but it’s still there, just barely.
It doesn’t seem to have moved. Or spread.
With the pasture gate ahead of him, Martin stops.
He stares at it. Then, at that faint fleck of light out there in the night. The darkness is so profound, so all-encompassing he feels as if opening the door will let it come flooding in to drown him.
The gate is shut. Of course it is. As it should be.
But that means he has to step out there to open it.
There is nothing around him. The cattle are probably sleeping in their shed, thankfully far away from where whatever it was must have hit the ground.
He could turn around now. The cattle aren’t in this part of the field, so they wouldn’t have been hurt. And at this rate it doesn’t look like the fire, because it must be fire, is likely to spread.
He can see in the glare of his headlights that the grass is dewy and wet, glittering with moisture.
Still. Something urges him to continue. To get close. To look, just in case.
He opens the door slowly, letting the night air fill the cabin gradually.
Thankfully the darkness stays where it is.
“Here goes nothing.” He mutters to himself, before he swings his legs over the side and hops out.
He feels the prickle of anxiety on the back of his neck the whole time he’s struggling with the gate, but he gets it open.
Usually he’d jump out to close it behind himself, knowing how quick a herd of cattle can be when they decide they’d rather be elsewhere.
Now though, he leaves the gate open. Can’t bring himself to go out there any more than he strictly has to.
The source of the light is still a ways off into the huge pasture, but it grows nearer and nearer as he crawls along, even more careful now that the road has ended, mindful of rocks and holes he may not see in the dark before it’s too late.
By the time he’s about a quarter of a mile away from it, the light has mostly faded.
He can only really see it because he knows it’s there, but even then he loses sight of it more than once.
He stops the car what seems like a safe distance away, and grabs his cane from the passenger side foot well.
Stepping out and shutting the door behind him makes his skin crawl in a way he’s never felt before in his life, yet he ignores it. He’s come all the way out here. He’s not turning back around now, not until he’s made sure this weird phenomenon hasn’t caused any damage.
He hesitates at the edge of the reach of his headlights, before he doubles back to grab a flashlight from the glove box.
The further he gets from the safe haven of his car, the more uneasy he gets.
It doesn’t help that as he gets closer to the source of the light, it becomes obvious that what he’s looking at isn’t fire.
He stops. Dead in his tracks when he realizes there’s a shape out there, in the grass, right where that unnatural glow is coming from.
Every instinct screams at him to turn back, to run.
The longer he stares, the more confused he gets.
It’s as if the earth has been pushed up and out, scattered among the grass, leaving behind a dip in the ground.
An impact crater.
It’s not huge, barely big enough that the Bronco could fit in the radius of it. From where he’s standing it doesn’t look all that deep either.
He takes a careful step closer, as slow as he can.
Could it have been a meteor that struck his field? Some space rock spitting out heat and radiation? That would explain the strange light at least.
Once he’s close enough he peers over the edge, expecting to see a jagged piece of rock or metal-
It’s not. It’s not any of those things.
Martin stumbles back. He’d scream if he wasn’t choking on his own fear.
His heel catches on a stray stone and he topples backwards, hitting the dirt like a sack of flour, cane clattering out of his hand.
He’s up on his knees, scrambling away before he even fully registers he’s on the ground.
It’s only when the force of his fall catches up with him a few moments later that he stops, hands and knees scraped raw and a hip that screams in sharp agony with each kick of his legs.
He lays there, panting, heart in his throat staring up at the night sky but seeing only the thing in the crater seared into his retinas.
He’s losing his mind. He must be. There is no way he just saw what he did in that hole in the dirt.
This is it. He thinks, deliriously. His neighbors will find him here, dead in his own field, a few days from now. Killed by some kind of a medical episode he didn’t know he was having.
He’s not sure how long he lays there, waiting for the end to come. Thinking that maybe going out below a sky full of stars isn’t so bad, all things considered.
But all that happens is that the adrenaline flooding his system crashes. Leaving him exhausted and feeling every cut and scrape with vivid clarity.
He’s getting cold too, laying in the dirt like this.
It’s been long enough now that he’s well and truly starting to realize how ridiculous he’s being.
Whatever is wrong with him clearly isn’t going to kill him today. But it obviously must have fucked with his head somehow, because whatever fantasy it conjured up to mess with him just now, is too absurd to be anything but his imagination playing tricks on him.
Groaning, he gets to his knees. He’s aching all over, his hip especially is killing him, radiating pain all the way up his spine and down his leg.
It’s bad. He’s definitely going to be feeling this for the next few weeks, if not months.
He’s too old to bounce back like he used to.
The flashlight didn’t go too far in his mad scramble, and with it in hand, he manages to limp over to retrieve his cane, though bending to pick it up is almost too much.
He’s covered in dust. His hands are sore and there is blood staining the knees of his jeans. At least he didn’t hit his head.
When he pans the beam of the flashlight to re-orient himself, his heart lurches in his chest as it hits the edge of the crater.
Still there.
Anxiety creeps back in.
What if he hadn’t imagined it? What if-
He doesn’t even realize he’s stepped closer until he’s once again looking down into the shallow dip of the impact crater.
Fight, flight, or freeze. Isn’t that what they say your options are?
Martin is frozen in place. Even as his mind runs a mile a minute trying to make sense of what he’s looking at.
It’s the same thing he’d seen before.
Still losing his mind then, because there is a person at the bottom of the hole.
Unable to do anything but stare in complete and utter shock, Martin is left taking in the details.
They’re curled up. On their side, facing Martin, with their knees tucked up in front of them.
They’re pale, almost glowing.
They’re slight but not skinny, and their skin is far too pristine for where they’re laying. Surrounded by the dirt of Martin’s pasture.
Oh, and they’re completely naked.
No matter how many times Martin blinks, the scene remains the same.
He’s fully lost his mind.
For the first time ever, he wishes he owned a mobile phone. At least then he could call someone to come help him, because he’s clearly not fit to get himself back home.
At this rate he’s going to turn around to find his truck has turned into a pumpkin.
When the sound of his heart hammering in his chest is no longer loud enough to be deafening, Martin realizes he has a choice to make.
He can ignore this, and try to make it back to the farm to call for help. See if anyone is willing to come check on him. Maybe drive him to the hospital. He’s not sure, but he probably shouldn’t be alone right now.
It’s that. Or he can step into that crater.
Maybe if he gets closer it’ll break the illusion. Help prove to himself that there isn’t in fact a human person laying in front of him, naked and glowing, in an impact crater in the middle of his field.
He looks over his shoulder at his truck. It’s still there. Idling with the lights on. Not a pumpkin.
Further beyond it he can see the lights from the house. Warm and comforting and inviting.
His water is definitely boiling by now.
The dirt gives way as he scoots his boot down the inside of the crater.
The edge of it comes up to about knee height when he’s standing in the bottom.
The shape of the person is still there.
Unsure how to go about this, he picks his cane up and raises it towards the figure.
His hand shakes with the effort, until he has no choice but to lean in.
The tip of his cane hits lax muscle and pale skin. Not thin air.
Martin drops the cane.
He flinches at the sound as it hits the ground.
The figure doesn’t move.
“What on earth.”
Convinced his mind is still playing tricks on him, Martin does the only thing he can think of to snap himself out of this nightmare.
He kneels, grimacing at the pain of it, and then he reaches out to touch the apparition’s shoulder.
“This isn’t real.”
But it is.
Cold skin meets the raw heat of his palm. Real and soft and tangible under his touch.
Goosebumps break out across the body from the point of contact.
“Fuck. Okay.” Martin feels himself change gears completely.
Because yes, this is all still beyond absurd, but now the reality is starting to sink in.
There is a human person laying in front of him, naked and fighting hypothermia, and more than likely sick or injured in some way.
“Hey.” Martin shakes them gently. “Can you hear me?”
There’s no response.
Martin sheds his jacket and drapes it over them. Then he presses trembling fingers to the delicate skin beneath their jaw.
It takes him a second, a tense, horrifying moment of thinking he won’t feel it, but there it is, a pulse, faint and a little slow maybe, but it’s there.
“Okay. Come on, let’s get you out of here.”
He doesn’t fully know how to go about this, not with the way his body is refusing to cooperate, but after some awkward maneuvering and far too much skin to skin contact, Martin manages to get his arms under the person’s knees and back.
He’s about to heave them both up to standing when he sees it. The source of the strange glow.
With the person turned onto their back like this, it’s obvious that their lax fingers are slowly losing their grip on something they seem to have been holding onto.
It looks almost like glass.
There are three pieces, smooth and curved like pieces of a ring. Put together they’d be about the same radius as the plates Martin serves himself breakfast on.
The strange thing is that they’re emitting a faint glow, almost golden in color.
When Martin reaches out to take them from the stranger’s helpless hands, he subconsciously braces himself, like he half expects for them to burn him.
But the pieces feel cool and smooth against his fingertips, exactly like glass.
Getting the stranger all the way back to his car takes everything Martin has left in him.
He’s grateful for the old blankets he’s got tossed in the back and he uses them to bundle the figure up as best he can.
In the process of getting them comfortable, he can’t help but notice the person he’s dealing with appears to be a man.
Martin is quick to cover him properly.
As he lets the Bronco slowly creep back home towards the farm. Martin tries his best to not think about what comes next.
When he lifts the stranger out of the back of the truck, they feel worryingly cold to the touch. Even colder now than they had been before.
Martin hurries as best he can, stumbling up the front steps and through the door.
As he passes the kitchen he can hear the sizzling of his water boiling over. There’s enough humidity in the air to tell him most of the water for his coffee is now clinging to the window panes in the form of condensation.
He’ll just have to put some more on.
First though, there’s the matter of the very cold stranger weighing him down.
Martin works mostly on instinct, focus entirely on getting some warmth back into their body.
He ends up tucking them in under his duvet and then piling every quilt and blanket he owns on top of that.
It’s almost comical how many layers the poor bastard ends up buried underneath.
That done, Martin hobbles into the living room to get the fire going, throwing more wood on it than he usually would, just to make sure the temperature comes up quickly.
And then-
He’s not sure what.
He should probably call Casey. Her and Abigail would know what to do. Hell, Abigail is a nurse for gods sake, she’d absolutely know how to handle this.
He’s reaching for the phone when he stops himself.
Coffee. Coffee first. It’s still late, after all. He’s got this, he can deal with this himself until the morning.
Martin ends up standing in the door to his bedroom, staring at the sleeping stranger while his coffee goes cold in his hand.
He looks look young. Not a kid though, in his twenties maybe.
His hair is cut close to his scalp, just a layer of bristly brown stubble.
Even in sleep there’s an edge to his expression, eyebrows sharp and angled down, meeting in a crease between his eyes, almost enough to wrinkle his nose. Like even though he’s out cold, there’s anger there, under the surface.
Martin wonders how on earth he’d ended up in a hole in his field, naked, in the middle of the night.
Is he a criminal of some kind? Maybe he’d been dumped there to die.
Suddenly Martin is scared there’s an injury somewhere that he’s missed, but he hadn’t seen anything but pristine skin earlier when he’d been moving him. Not so much as a bruise. But he hadn’t gotten a good look at his back.
He really should call the girls.
And he will. Just, later.
He remembers then that he left the pieces of that weird glass object laying in the back of the truck.
If this guy is involved with something, then getting those stored away somewhere safe might be the best course of action.
Martin doesn’t fully know what it is, or if it’s important, but this guy looked to have been clinging to it for dear life, so at the very least it’s worth keeping around for now. Maybe he’ll want it when he wakes up.
Martin ends up stuffing the broken pieces into his gun safe. It’s the only place that seems fitting.
They’re still emitting that same odd glow when he shuts the door on them and locks it up.
A problem for another time.
Every now and then I'm tempted to write a Literal Fallen Angel AU where Martin finds this naked guy in his field after hearing a loud sound and seeing a flash of light one night.
And Noah, lacking most of his memories of how he ended up there, also doesn't fully know how to act like a real human being, or what's inappropriate or not. Earning Martin many a new grey hair.
Martin who misjudges and tries to take him into town for a meal and a lesson in how humans behave. Forgetting that he's the town's middle-aged bachelor hermit. Now suddenly showing up with a bald twink in tow, wearing clothes too big for him that are very obviously Martin's.
Somehow I pivoted completely and wrote angst instead?
At least it's something.
-
The Bronco being missing from its usual spot should have been his first clue.
Instead, it’s the front door that makes Noah freeze in his tracks.
It’s been eight months. Eight months since he last stepped foot on the farm. Eight months since the last time he heard the sound of Martin’s voice.
The tremble in it, as Noah shouted.
He’d been angry. Furious, about something he can’t quite put his finger on now, but Martin had been afraid. The terror written clear on his face as he realized this might be it. This might be the big one.
Noah had been blind to it then. Too selfish to notice the tremor in Martin’s hands.
He hadn’t been able to see it until later. Once the fire in his chest had died out. When he’d been running the fight through in his head, trying to justify his own reaction.
All he’d been able to see however, was the nuclear explosion triggered by a wrong step. One with good intentions behind it, but still, that had been enough.
The door creaks under the weight of his limp grip on the handle, and it brings him back to reality.
The door being open isn’t unusual. Martin hardly ever closes it this time of year. He’s never far, after all. Just popping over to the barn for something. Or walking down to the pasture. Maybe sitting on the bench under the old oak behind the house.
But somehow, this. It feels different.
Noah has heard stories of people coming home to find their house had been broken into. Realizing that something was off before even seeing the evidence. Just feeling a subtle wrongness in what should be nothing but familiar.
This isn’t a break-in, but the wrongness is there, like a lead weight in Noah’s throat.
It’s impossible to describe why, but when Noah pushes the door open, the house feels soulless. Like something vital has been removed from it. Ripped out by the root.
At first glance, nothing looks out of place.
The books are on the shelves, the picture frames on the mantel, the phone on the wall by the arch into the kitchen.
There’s a newspaper laid open on the dining table. Noah doesn’t need to look to know it’s the crossword puzzle. Probably half filled in and abandoned in favor of chores.
Waiting to be returned to.
No different to any other day, except completey.
“Martin?” He’s not sure why he bothers. Martin’s truck is gone, he’ll be in town, or with a neighbor, running errands.
But still he feels the need to call out.
His voice seems to echo in the space, bouncing back to him instead of finding its mark, as if to confirm there is no one here to hear him.
He’s trembling even before the fear really truly hits him.
The bedroom.
He rushes in there, where they’ve spent countless hours curled against each other, stealing moments in each other’s arms like they knew even then that they would have a finite number of those hours. Running out faster than they could ever truly comprehend.
The bedroom offers no answers.
Curtains left open to let the morning light in, window cracked open for air.
Noah stands, and stares.
It’s then that the small details start to creep into his awareness.
The windowsill is dusty. There are fine strands of spiderweb in the curtains.
Noah stumbles backwards into the living room, panic welling up in his chest now.
He has no idea how he notices the subtle crunch of something under his boot, but when he looks down it’s impossible to miss the tracks staining the floor.
Countless boot prints. Different sizes and patterns. Overlapping each other on the old wooden boards.
Tracking mud into the house.
Martin would hate that.
There’s a coffee cup sitting on the table in the living room. Stained around the lip. Abandoned, like Martin’s only just been here. A quick boost before heading back out.
It’s that cup that makes Noah fully realize that Martin hasn’t been here in a very long time.
No one has.
He’s tripping down the front steps a moment later.
It’s quiet out here. Quiet in a way a farm never really is.
He knows the barn will be empty before he throws the big doors open. The chicken coop is too.
The gate into Maeve and Achilles’ pasture is wide open.
The stalls are all empty. Not so much as a barn cat skittering across the aisle.
Noah feels like he’s choking. Like there are waves lapping at his face, about to pull him under.
The roar of static in his ears as he stares into the empty barn is only broken by the sound of gravel under tires.
There’s the rumble of an engine, as someone pulls up in front of the house.
The sound is so deeply familiar Noah almost sobs with relief.
His mind must have been fucking with him again. It’s been happening more often lately, these weird episodes. He’s been having trouble trusting himself. Knowing what's real and what isn't.
He’s kicking himself now for letting it happen here, where Martin might have seen.
Thinking the house was abandoned, just because the man himself hadn’t been there to greet him. So stupid.
Still, he’s grinning as he shuts the barn door. Giddy with relief.
He’s got so much he needs to say. So much he needs to make right. He’s never been good at apologies, but he’s willing to try, if Martin will let him.
His heart skips a beat at the sight of the gleaming red Bronco back in its usual spot, just as pretty as always, just a little dusty.
Then the driver side door swings open.
Noah stops.
He feels the scream welling up in his throat until it’s clawing at the back of his teeth.
Casey stares back at him. Face ashen, like he’s seeing a ghost.
"Noah-"
Noah knows then, with horrible clarity, why the house is empty.
Why there is dust on the windowsills and spiderwebs in the curtains.
Why the perpetually spotless floors are anything but.
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