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cw: 18 + 𝖒𝖉𝖓𝖎. ruffilo’s sister!reader, slow burn, first kiss, fluff, a little hurt/comfort, kissing, yearning, mention of cheating, light grinding.

wc: 4.2k

an: this has been in my drafts for so long that i just needed to get it out 🫣 inspired by an anon who suggested a ruffilo sister!reader, who always hooks up with noah whenever they’re in town, and this is essentially the ‘start’ to that idea. may expand on said hookups in the future for now pls enjoy a little slow burn thing <3

You’ll always remember the first time you saw Noah. When your eyes landed on this lanky, scrappy looking guy with the cutest face and a smile to match, overbite prominent, even when he talked.

peace-of-mind-is-less-than-never

Strangers

Noah Sebastian x ofc rating: explicit | warnings: explicit sexual content, oral sex, dirty talk, light degradation, safe sex (we love a responsible king), fluff at the end because i'm soft

part one & two

GUYS. sixty notes on part one?? i genuinely was not expecting that and i'm so grateful, thank you to every single person who read, liked, reblogged, commented, you have no idea what it means to me. 🥹 so here we are. Part three and four. The slow burn pays off (finally) and noah gets to redeem himself from the green room incident. as always this was a gift for the lovely @choillly who started this whole thing by writing the best fic of the year and inspiring me to try. Love you babe, hope this one lives up. 💕 Also, yes, I made the graphics in Canva. The images came from Pinterest, and I genuinely have no idea who the original creators are, otherwise I would have credited them. And one last thing: English isn't my first language, so if you spot any mistakes, no you didn't 😭 Reminder that this is a work of fiction. I have absolutely no idea what noah sebastian is like in real life and i don't know if he's anything like this. Please don't take this as a representation of him as a person. If you read this whole thing thank you, truly. Reblogs and comments feed my broke ficwriter soul more than you'll ever know, tell me your favorite line, scream at me in the tags, send me asks, i live for it. You can find all my fics on ao3 too → LittleMalkavian

tag list: @choillysblog, lowergroundfloor, gayfiretruck

Part three: the problem of living with your hot mistake

Three weeks before the venue incident, you had arrived in Los Angeles with a suitcase, a cardboard box, and the specific energy of someone who is starting from zero and prefers not to think too much about it.

The ad had appeared in a Facebook group for students in LA that you followed more out of paranoia than actual use. Room available, shared apartment, two other residents, no pets, no smoking inside, questions in the direct messages. The price was the only one in the city that hadn't made you laugh with that sad laugh of someone being charged for oxygen.

You had messaged in ten minutes.

Rania was a woman in her fifties with short gray hair and the energy of a person who has already seen everything and is no longer impressed by anything, which you had found comforting. She had shown you the apartment with the efficiency of someone who had done this tour many times: room, shared bathroom, kitchen, living room that no one uses but exists.

— There are two other residents — she had said, consulting her notebook — A girl, works at night, you'll barely see her. And a guy, musician, travels a lot. Disappears for weeks.

— Cool — you had said, because it was. You weren't there to make friends. You were there to work, save money, and eventually have a life that didn't look like it was about to collapse.

You had unpacked your box, organized the shelf, and slept the heavy sleep of someone too exhausted to feel homesickness yet.

In the following days you had learned the anatomy of the apartment through traces. The coffee mug on the drying rack that wasn't yours, a pair of huge sneakers near the door that definitely weren't yours, the muffled sound of something that sounded like guitar coming through the hallway late at night. The ghost of the back bedroom existed in evidence without ever materializing.

Until the note.

You had opened the fridge on a Tuesday morning and your strawberry yogurt had disappeared. In its place there was a post-it stuck on the shelf with large and slightly crooked handwriting:

Took your yogurt by accident. I owe you one. — N

You had stared at the note for a second with an expression that had no name.

You had taken the post-it, turned it over, and written on the back:

You owe me two. It was strawberry which is the best flavor.

You had stuck it back on the shelf and gone to work.

When you came back at night there was another post-it next to two yogurts.

Valid argument. Two strawberry yogurts. — N

You had smiled at the post-it alone in the kitchen at eleven at night like a completely normal person.

And it had been like that for weeks. Post-its in the kitchen. Traces of a person who existed in parallel to your life without ever really crossing. Once you had come home and the stove was slightly warm and smelled of something that had been cooked recently, and you had stayed in the kitchen for an irrational second as if the presence were still there.

It wasn't.

It's better this way, you had thought. You didn't come to LA to get distracted.

You had made your dinner and gone to your room and not thought about it anymore.

You had tried not to think about it anymore.

The day off fell on a Thursday like an unsolicited but very welcome gift.

Five weeks. You had counted. Thirty-six consecutive days of work between the regular job and the weekend freelance gigs, and your body was at that point of tiredness that goes beyond physical and starts to look philosophical.

But it was Thursday. You had woken up at ten — at ten, a luxury that bordered on obscene — and stayed lying down for another twenty minutes just because you could, looking at your bedroom ceiling with your brain wonderfully empty.

Then you had gone to the kitchen in shorts and a faded band t-shirt, hair in a bun that was more intention than execution, and put water on to boil with the placidity of someone who owes nothing to anyone on this day.

You were with your back to the hallway, waiting for the water, when you heard footsteps.

You had forgotten, momentarily, that other people lived there.

— Hi.

The voice arrived before you turned. Deep, a little hoarse, with that specific kind of someone who had just woken up and hadn't made peace with the world yet.

You turned.

The world did that annoying thing it sometimes does, a small leap out of place for half a second before reorganizing.

He was standing at the entrance to the kitchen with a wrinkled white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, his hair in the way hair gets when a person has slept and hasn't yet made any decision about it. Tall, very tall. With that long body you knew, hat had been kept in a specific place in memory you had made considerable effort not to visit.

He had the expression of someone who came to get coffee and found a situation that was going to require processing.

You too.

The two of you stood frozen for exactly two seconds that seemed considerably longer.

You knew that face. You knew that face in a very specific and very detailed way that had absolutely nothing to do with a shared kitchen at ten in the morning on a Thursday.

— Hi — you said, with a perfectly normal voice of a person who had never seen this man before in her life.

— Hi — he said, equally normal.

A half-second pause in which the two of you made a silent and simultaneous choice.

— You must be the new resident.

— You must be the musician roommate.

— That's right.

He crossed the kitchen toward his cabinet with the naturalness of someone who does this every day, which, technically, he did, and you turned back to the stove because the water was almost boiling and you needed something to do with your hands and with your eyes and with the rest of your nervous system.

You heard the cabinet open, close. The chair being pulled out. The comfortable silence of an early morning kitchen that shouldn't have been as deafening as it was.

— How do you take your coffee? — he asked.

— Black and strong.

— Same as me.

You didn't turn. But the smile appeared before you could do anything about it.

— Must be the only thing we have in common — you said.

— It might not be the only thing — he said, and there was something in the tone that was too casual to be innocent.

You finally turned with the two prepared mugs and put one in front of him before sitting on the opposite side of the small table. He was looking at you with an expression you recognized, that corner of a smile that didn't reveal anything but made everything understood.

You held the gaze.

— What's your name? — you asked, because it was the natural thing to ask a roommate.

— Noah — he said. — And yours?

You said your name.

He repeated it slowly, testing the weight of the word.

— Pretty — he said.

— Thank you.

Silence, coffee, the morning sun came through the kitchen window making everything look slower than it was.

— What do you do? — he asked.

— Freelance mostly, but I have a regular job too. Trips. I work at an agency, actually — You wrapped your hands around the mug — You're a musician, Rania told me.

— I have a band.

— What kind of music?

He looked at you for a second with an expression hard to decipher.

— Metalcore. We scream childhood and religious traumas.

— Cool — you said, with the neutrality of someone who had never been at a rock show at a venue that changed the course of her adult life.

— You into that style?

— Sometimes — you said. — When the sound isn't blown out.

He let out a low sound that could be agreement or contained laughter, and you drank your coffee looking to the side. The two of you knew, neither one of you was going to say it.

— You have the day off today? — he asked.

— First in five weeks.

He raised his eyebrows.

— Me too. First in three.

The two of you sat with that for a second.

— We work too much — you said.

— We work too much — he agreed.

His mug was almost empty. So was yours. Neither one of you stood up.

Inside the small kitchen of Rania's apartment, two financially fucked people with a rare day off and a story neither one of them had named yet sat at the table drinking coffee as if the whole day were exactly that.

Part four: the day that explodes everything

Life had returned to the impossible rhythm of the two of you. Him disappearing for days when he had a show out of town, you spending weeks leaving before eight and coming back after ten, and every time the schedules coincided it was a small window that ended too quickly.

But in the following days the traces changed quality. It wasn't just the mug on the drying rack and the sneaker at the door anymore, it was a message on the board that had stopped being about yogurt and become just conversation, it was him leaving a yogurt for you in the fridge, it was you leaving coffee made when you heard him come home late because it had become automatic without you having decided that it would.

Until that fateful Thursday. The day everything exploded. And which was also the day off.

Breakfast had turned into lunch without either of you making a conscious decision about it. It had started with eggs. His idea, executed with a concentration you had found disproportionate for the activity.

— Why do you make that face? — you asked.

— What face?

— Neurosurgeon.

— Scrambled eggs have to have respect.

— Scrambled eggs are scrambled eggs.

— That's a crime and I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it.

The two of you had eaten at the kitchen table with Thursday sun in everything, and the conversation had continued and unfolded and ended up in places that kitchen conversations don't normally go. Work, choices, the things you give up when you decide that something matters more than the comfort of not taking risks.

He had talked about the band with the kind of honesty people normally save for when they've known you for longer. You had talked with anger about the airlines that took away your peace with more sincerity than usual, including the parts that weren't glorious.

At some point you had migrated to the living room. At some point you had ended up facing each other on the couch. At some point the distance between you had decreased in a way that neither of you had consciously initiated but both of you had allowed.

Noah had his elbow propped on the back of the couch and his head in his hand, looking at you with that look, and you had reached a point where sustaining the fiction seemed more exhausting than simply stopping.

— Why didn't you say anything? — you asked.

He tilted his head slightly.

— Because you didn't say anything. And it seemed like you had a reason for it.

— My reason was that it was easier to pretend it hadn't happened.

— And now?

You looked at him for a full second.

— Now it's being very hard to keep pretending.

He didn't say anything. He just moved, slowly, without hurry, without any performative urgency, and put his hand on your face in a way that was simple and completely devastating at the same time.

— Then don't pretend — he said, very low.

The kiss was different from the first one.

The first one had been urgent, full of the energy of a night with an expiration date. This one was slow, the kind that builds before delivering. His hand on your face moving to your hair, you getting closer without conscious decision, the two finding a rhythm that seemed familiar in a way that shouldn't be possible in two people who had spent months pretending not to know each other.

You put your hand on his chest and felt his breathing faster than his calm voice suggested, and that made you want to smile in the middle of the kiss, he noticed and pulled back a millimeter to look at you.

He was looking at you in that way. The one you had learned to recognize over a few days and post-its and shared coffees and almost-moments in the hallway, firm and unhurried, like someone who has already made a decision and is simply waiting for the right moment to say it out loud.

You hadn't seen him without clothes yet. That was the first thought — clear and completely inconvenient — when he pulled his t-shirt over his head and threw it aside with no ceremony at all, like someone who has no awareness of the effect he's causing.

You stared.

He was thin in the way musicians sometimes are, not careless, just natural, the kind that carries its own weight well without needing to announce it. But the tattoos. You weren't prepared for the tattoos. Spread across his chest, his arms, going down his forearm with that quality of a collection built over time, each one with its story, and the sum of everything was anything but discreet.

— What is it? — he asked, with that tone.

— Nothing — you said, with the voice of someone who is clearly lying.

— You're looking at me in a very weird way.

— I'm processing.

— Again?

— You have a lot of tattoos.

— I do — he agreed, without any remorse.

— That's a problem.

— Why is it a problem?

— Because I already had enough of a problem with you clothed.

He let out that low laugh, and then he was kissing you again and the processing went to the same place all the other useful thoughts had gone that night.

You couldn't piece together a timeline between the living room couch and his bedroom. But when you noticed, the rest of the clothes were gone too. His, yours, without hurry but without hesitation, and when you finally ended up with nothing between you he stood looking at you for a second with that whole attention, from top to bottom and back to your eyes, lingering enough not to be discreet.

— Holy shit… — he started — You're definitely the prettiest girl I've ever had…

— Liar… — you said, feeling your cheeks burn.

You laughed, and he took the moment to pull you back to him, and the laughter went away immediately because the contact without clothes was new and overwhelming information to process all at once.

You already knew. You knew since the green room, knew since the lap on that old couch, but without clothes and with enough light to see there was a considerable difference between knowing and confirming and you confirmed, with your hand and then with your eyes, that the problem was exactly as big as your memory had registered.

He let out a sound that was half laugh, half something else, and pressed his forehead to yours for a second.

— You have no idea — he said, low — How much I wanted to do this the right way.

— Do what?

— This. — His mouth went to your jaw, your throat, the place just below your ear that made your breath catch — All of it. The first time, at the venue.

— You did plenty.

— Not what I wanted.

You felt the smile against your skin before you saw it.

— I wanted to eat you out — he said, simply, like it was a confession he had been holding for too long — That night. I thought about it the whole way back to home. About how I didn't get to taste you.

Your hand stopped on his shoulder.

— You're telling me this now?

— I'm telling you this now.

— Noah...

— What?

— That's information that could've been useful weeks ago.

He laughed against your collarbone, low and a little dark, and the laugh turned into teeth on your skin.

— The first day I saw you in the kitchen — he said, his mouth moving down your sternum — Fuck the coffee. I would've bent you over that counter and fucked you right there, with the water still boiling.

— Jesus...

— I thought about it for weeks. Every time you walked into the kitchen. Every time you left one of those fucking post-its. Every time I heard the shower running and knew you were in there.

— You can't say things like that...

— Why not?

— Because...

— Bad answer.

He kept going down, his hands warm on your hips, on your thighs, mapping you with the same patient attention he had brought to everything else except patient was starting to look like a different word now, something with more teeth in it. He paused at the inside of your knee, at the soft place above it, at your thigh, and looked up at you from there with an expression that wasn't shy at all anymore. It was hungry, and it was unapologetic about being hungry.

— Look at this fucking pussy — he said, almost to himself — I've been thinking about this for weeks.

You made a sound that wasn't a word.

— Is this okay?

You nodded because words were currently a complicated technology.

— I need to hear it, baby.

— Yes.

— Yeah?

— Yes, please...

The please did something to his face, you saw it happen.

— That's it — he said, low — That's what I wanted.

And he lowered his mouth to you.

The sound that left you was not a sound you had given permission for.

He was not careful in the way that means tentative. He was careful in the way that means he had been planning this for a long time and was going to take what he wanted. His hands stayed on your thighs holding you open with a firmness that left no room for negotiation, and the noises he was making against you — low, hungry, the occasional muffled fuck into the inside of your thigh when he came up for breath — were almost worse than what his mouth was doing, except nothing was worse than what his mouth was doing, because what his mouth was doing was the best thing that had happened to your life.

He paused once. Just long enough to look up at you, your hand half-buried in his hair, your other hand in the sheet, your whole body asking for something it couldn't name.

— You taste so fucking good — he said, with the seriousness of a man reporting a fact — I'm going to be eating this pussy for hours. You know that, right?

— Noah...

— Say it.

— I...

— Tell me you know.

— I know — you managed.

— Good girl.

You felt that in your spine.

He went back to what he was doing with renewed commitment, and now there was nothing patient about it. Now it was a man who had decided what he was going to do and was simply doing it, the rhythm relentless, his tongue exactly where you needed it, his hands holding you in place when your hips tried to move away from the intensity of it.

— Stay still — he said, against you, and it wasn't a request — Take it.

You tried to say his name and it came out as something else entirely. The ceiling of his bedroom became a fixed point you stared at without seeing because seeing required processing power you no longer had available.

When he hummed against you — low, satisfied, like he had found exactly what he was looking for — you felt it all the way through.

— Come on — he said, the words rough against you — Cum in my tongue, baby. I want to feel it.

That was all it took.

You came with your hand fisted in his hair and his name in your mouth for the second time, and he didn't stop, he stayed with you through every wave of it, pulling every last sound out of you with the focus of someone who had no intention of being done anytime soon. Only when your hips stopped trying to escape him, when your breathing started to remember what it was for, only then did he climb back up your body with a slowness that felt almost cruel after everything else.

He kissed you on the mouth before you could think about whether you wanted that and you tasted yourself on him, and he made sure you did, his tongue in your mouth with the same intention he had brought to everything else.

— I told you — he said, low, his face inches from yours — Worth the wait.

— I'm going to kill you.

— Later. — He smiled, that quiet certain smile, the one that meant he had already made his decision about what came next — I'm not done with you.

He reached over to the nightstand without taking his eyes off you, and the drawer opened with the familiar sound of someone who knew exactly where things were. The foil packet appeared between his fingers a second later.

— Responsible adult — you said, your voice still wrecked.

— Told you.

You watched him roll it on with the kind of attention you would deny later if asked. He noticed.

— Like what you see?

— Shut up.

— Make me.

You pulled him down by the back of his neck and kissed him to do exactly that, and he laughed into your mouth, and then he wasn't laughing anymore.

He started on top, and this time there was no green room, there were no clothes in the way, there was no lamp flickering creating artificial urgency. There were just the two of you with enough time and no reason to be in a hurry, and the difference was considerable.

He entered you slowly, slow enough that you felt every inch of it, slow enough that your hands closed on his back before you remembered making the decision to put them there. His forehead pressed to yours, his breath uneven against your mouth, and when he was finally as deep as he was going to get he stayed there for a second, not moving, just letting you both feel it.

— Fuck — he said, very quietly — You feel even better than I remembered.

— Noah...

— Yeah?

— Move.

— Yeah?

— Please.

He made a sound at that, low, a little broken, and started to move.

The rhythm built itself, deep and constant, the kind that doesn't let you think about anything else besides what's happening now. His mouth went to your neck, your shoulder, your mouth, and you felt when he stopped measuring and started simply moving, his weight on you exactly right, the tattoos under your fingers while you explored his back without hurry.

— Look at you — he said, his voice doing something to the skin behind your ear — Taking it so well.

You couldn't answer. He didn't seem to need you to.

— You have any idea — he said, between deep, deliberate thrusts that were making it actively harder to remember language — How many times I jerked off thinking about this exact moment? How many fucking times?

— Noah, oh my God...

— Every time. Every time you walked past my bedroom door. Every time I heard the shower.

— You can't...

— I can.

He punctuated it with a thrust that pushed every remaining thought out of your head, and you made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and something else entirely, and he caught it with his mouth.

— You okay? — he asked, low, his mouth in your ear.

— Very — you said, which continued being the most honest answer available.

At some point he rolled onto his back and took you with him, his hands on your hips anchoring you, and you settled on top of him with a deliberate slowness that made a sound come out of his chest before it could be held back.

— Jesus, fuck — he said, looking up at you with something close to reverence — Look at you.

— Stop looking at me like that.

— Like what?

— Like that.

— Get used to it.

His hands stayed on your hips accompanying without directing, letting you take what you wanted at the pace you wanted it. And you took. The rhythm you chose was slow at first, deliberate, watching him watch you, watching his jaw work when you came down on him in a particular way, watching the muscles in his stomach tighten when you held still and made him wait.

— You're killing me — he said, voice wrecked.

— You'll live.

— Baby...

— What?

— Faster.

— Ask nicely.

His hands tightened on your hips. Something flashed in his face that was new, not impatient, not exactly, but close to it.

— Please.

You gave him what he wanted because you wanted it too, and the sounds he started making then were not sounds he was trying to make, low and stuttered and entirely involuntary, his head falling back against the pillow, his hands moving up to your waist, your ribs, finding your breasts and staying there like he had been waiting for permission to.

— That's it — he was saying, half to you, half to nothing — That's it, just like that, fuck, you're so fucking pretty when you ride me...

Your climax arrived with you on top of him, your fingers pressed on his tattooed chest and his name in your mouth, and he stayed with you, his hands squeezing, until your hips slowed and your breathing started to come back.

You stayed quiet for a moment, collapsed forward onto his chest, his hand stroking down your back.

Then he flipped you onto your stomach, with his hands on your hip and a care that was anything but shy, and you barely had time to register the change of position before he was inside you again, deeper in this angle, his mouth on your back, your shoulder, the nape of your neck.

— Okay? — he said, against your skin.

— Yes.

— You sure?

— Noah, please...

He laughed, low and a little dark, and gave you what you were asking for. In this position there was nothing leisurely left in him. His hand went into your hair, not pulling, just holding, just keeping you exactly where he wanted you, and the other stayed on your hip with a grip you were going to find bruises from in the morning and not mind even a little. You buried your face in the pillow and let it happen, the sounds coming out without control because the bedroom was his and you didn't have to worry about anything else besides what was happening now.

— This pussy — he was saying, more to himself than to you — Fucking Christ. I knew it was going to be like this. I knew.

You made a sound into the pillow.

— What was that, baby? I can't hear you.

You turned your head sideways enough to breathe.

— Don't stop...

— Wasn't planning to.

The last time was with your leg on his shoulder, and in that position there was something different. More intense, more deep, more everything, and he went slowly at the beginning with his eyes on you, checking, watching your face for anything that wasn't yes and when you said keep going with a conviction that left no doubt he continued and stopped measuring completely.

— Look at me — he said, somewhere in the middle of it.

You opened your eyes.

— Stay with me.

— I'm here.

— Yeah you are.

He kissed you then, deep and a little desperate, and when he pulled back his face was inches from yours and he was watching you like you were the only thing in the room.

— You gonna come for me one more time?

— I can't...

— Yes you can.

— Noah...

— One more, baby. One more. I want to feel it.

His hand went down between you and you broke open under it the way you always did, the way he had figured out within minutes of touching you the first time and had been using against you ever since.

You came for the last time with him deep and your eyes closed and a specific clarity of someone who is exactly where she needs to be, and he came right after, his face going to your neck, a sound leaving him that was almost a word and almost wasn't, his hands on you as always as if he needed to hold onto something, as if you were the most solid thing available in the room.

He stayed next to you, his breathing coming back slowly, and you stayed looking at the ceiling of his room that had become familiar in a way you hadn't planned and no longer minded having planned.

The silence that came after was the good kind, the kind that doesn't need anything.

He rolled onto his side at some point, his head on the pillow next to yours, and stayed there just looking at you, not saying anything, just looking, with that quiet attention that had been the problem from the very beginning and was clearly going to continue being the problem.

— What? — you said, finally.

— Nothing.

— You're staring.

— I am.

— Why?

He took a moment before he answered. His finger traced the line of your collarbone, slow, like he was learning it.

— I kept thinking about you — he said, low — Many times. Since we met here at home.

You stayed quiet, waiting.

— No — he corrected himself — Before that. Since the venue. I kept thinking about you since the venue.

— Yeah?

— Yeah.

His finger stopped at the dip of your throat.

— That night was insane, by the way — he said, with a small laugh that didn't have a lot of humor in it — I wanted to fuck you so bad. From the moment you said the show was shit, honestly. But when you suggested… that. — He shook his head, still half in disbelief — I was not expecting it.

— You weren't?

— No. — His mouth pulled into a half-smile — I mean, I wanted you. Obviously. But I figured we'd just, I don't know, exchange numbers and try again another time. The fact that you just… offered an alternative.

— I was determined.

— You were terrifying.

You laughed.

— I went home that night and I genuinely couldn't process it — he said — I kept thinking, who was that? Who does that? Who looks a guy in the eye and says fuck me anyway?

— Apparently me.

He shook his head again, smiling now for real.

— I thought I was never going to see you again — he continued, with that defenseless honesty that was completely him — I left the bathroom, came back, and you were gone, and I was like…

He paused and started again.

— I was nervous for weeks.

— Nervous why?

He looked at you in a way that was too serious to be casual.

— Because I was afraid I had done something wrong to you. That I hadn't been careful enough, that you had left feeling bad and I would never know. I really hated not knowing.

Something in your chest did something complicated.

— You were perfect — you said — It was the most careful thing anyone has ever done with me.

You watched something in his face loosen, slowly, like a knot that had been held for a long time and was finally letting go.

— Yeah?

— Yeah.

He let out a breath he had clearly been holding for weeks.

— I kept thinking about you since that day at the venue too — you said, after a moment — Much more than I should have.

— How much more?

— A concerning amount.

— Tell me.

— No.

— Please?

— You're not getting that information out of me today.

He smiled at that, slow and pleased, and pulled you a little closer.

— Fine — he said — I'll get it out of you later.

— Confident.

— Realistic.

You laughed against his shoulder, and he laughed too, the sound low in his chest where your ear was pressed.

— It was the craziest experience of my life — he said, after a moment — An old couch, a flickering lamp, a stranger who had just told me my show was shit, and then proceeded to be the most unforgettable person I've ever met.

— That's a lot of weight on one sentence.

— I meant every word.

You went quiet, your fingers absent on his chest, tracing one of the tattoos there without really looking.

— The sound was shit, by the way — you said — The band is good. Important distinction. You said it yourself.

— You remember that?

— I remember everything.

He went quiet for a second. When he spoke again his voice was different, softer, with something underneath it.

— Me too.

The distance that remained between you was just formality now. You felt it close before either of you moved.

— You're gonna want to do that again — he said.

You raised your gaze.

— That a question?

— A statement.

— Confident.

— Realistic.

You laughed.

— You're not wrong.

— I know.

— But not today.

— No?

— No. I literally cannot move.

He let out a small laugh against your hair.

— Fair.

— Tomorrow, maybe.

— Tomorrow's good.

— Day after, definitely.

— Even better.

He went quiet for a second, his hand sliding down your back, slow.

— For tonight — he said, low — I just want to eat you out again.

You stopped breathing for a second.

— Noah.

— What?

— You can't just say things like that.

— Why not?

— Because I just told you I can't move.

— You don't have to move. That's the whole point.

You closed your eyes and his mouth went to your temple, to your hair, slow and unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. Which, you were starting to realize, he kind of did.

— Later — he said, against your hair — When you can move again. I'll do it right.

— You did it right the first time.

— I'll do it better.

You made a small sound that you would deny later if asked, he pulled you closer without ceremony, his arm settling around you with that naturalness that still caught you off guard. You let him. Your head on his chest, his hand stroking slow up and down your back, the breathing of the two of you finding the same rhythm and staying there.

Outside, Los Angeles crossed its own existence without paying attention to you.

You didn't pay attention to it either.

copper-locks

OFF SCRIPT 🚢👒

Image Credit: Cruise Ship: Norma Mazzucco Mazzucco (Pinterest); Noah and Davis: lily (Pinterest); Cruise lounge: Juanita Marchesani (Pinterest)

________________________________________________________________

Part 2 (You can find part 1 here)

Noah Sebastian X F!Reader [6916 words]

Summary: Fic based on this thought i had.

CW: swearing, use of alcohol, mentions of weed

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT (+18 only)

A/N: Hi everyone! Turns out, I can't really keep things contained, so that original idea expanded a bit too much and... here we are 😅. A multi - parts series. Hope you enjoy it ✨

PS. If I forgot to add someone to the taglist, or you'd like to be added for the first time, please let me know in the comments!

@runningincircl3s just published her fantastic first chapter for a similar fic "summerboy" so does @choillysblog with her oneshot "booked together" 💜

Disclaimer: These are fictionalized versions of the band members. Their actions and personalities in this story are entirely products of my imagination and are not intended to represent the real people in any way.

inthedarkofmyroom

sunny.skiffle.skies

inthedarkofmyroom

fantastic four

#wow #gagged #noah sebastian #nick ruffilo #nick folio #jolly karlsson #bad omens

silent-stories

credits: sunny.skiffle.skies, imightcryangeline, cindy_dakin and on the pics

#POOKIE #noah sebastian #bad omens

inthedarkofmyroom

I’m going insane over these smiles

runningincircl3s

since the first chapter of hedonist was posted i’ve had countless requests for car sex with mechanic!noah and i was thinking last night about how much i miss their dynamic in the beginning of the story so i’ve just decided to write this, which takes place around the time reader asks noah to stop sleeping with other girls 🤭 it’s not proof read and since it came to me like a vision and i just need to write it and get it out there!!

warnings: NSFW and it’s kinda short :/

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“You getting in?” Noah asked, rolling down his window as he pulled up beside you.

“No.” You answered, not even looking up.

“Cool.” He said as he lifted the handbrake with a grunt, parking the car before getting out. He then walked around and opened the passenger door for you. “Get in.” He said, looking down at where you were sitting on the curb.

leosunshine

OMFGGG😫😫😫😫😫

#now im FERAL #need him soo baaad 😓#i missed them

dress-a-blade-up-in-red

Come Undone

Noah Sebastian x fem reader

Summary: You and Noah discover a new kink that he’s really into..

Content Warning: Established relationship, smut (unprotected p in v), heavy on the breeding kink/creampie, talk about birth control, teasing, light joking/spanking, Noah trying to keep it dom but he’s kinda pussy whipped hehe

Masterlist Taglist

18+ MDNI