Heaven isn´t quite what it seems

*Depression. Anxiety, Borderline * 35 + * *Music lover* loves to get lost in good fanfiction *

[mrslumi]

** Masterlist **

Well here we go and I am setting up my masterlist. Not that I have written that much but for th story I am posting at the moment it might be a good idea.

Series Light can only shine in the darkness *One* - *Two* - *Three* - *Four* - *Five* - *Six* - *Seven* - *Eight* - *Nine* - *Ten* - *Eleven*

One Shots The one that got away

White nights

[silent-stories]

x

[morticiaadm]

[dress-a-blade-up-in-red]

Just Pretend: Chapter 1

Noah Sebastian x OFC Sophia

Summary: When Bad Omens' first headline tour is abruptly cut short by the COVID-19 pandemic, Noah Sebastian reluctantly turns to therapy to navigate a future he never saw coming. Fallon Villa has dedicated her life to helping others, never expecting one client to challenge everything she believes about herself and the career she's worked so hard to build. Over the course of years, the two form a connection neither of them intended. One that forces them to confront impossible choices, blurred boundaries, and the painful truth that sometimes timing matters just as much as love.

Content Warning: (eventual) unethical relationship dynamics, mentions of trauma and mental health struggles (will be updated by chapter)

Masterlist Taglist 

Prologue

It was 9am on a Monday, the typical time Fallon had her weekly supervision meetings with Talia. She had spent the last hour going through her recent session notes and formulating questions, noting to discuss the new referral she saw in her inbox. She unplugged her laptop, grabbed her process journal, and headed down the hall to her office. Talia greeted her with a smile, turning the sign on the door to In Session and clicking it shut behind them.

Talia plopped down on the couch across from Fallon.

“So. Notable sessions this week?”

“I’m seeing a lot of progress with Melanie. I’ve been incorporating DBT skills to help her with managing the school avoidance and she’s gone the full week for 3 weeks in a row now.” Fallon explained, her face lit with pride.

“Distress tolerance is powerful stuff” Talia concurred.

The conversation continued in much the same way, moving from client to client as they reviewed treatment plans, celebrated small victories, and worked through the inevitable setbacks. Talia offered suggestions where needed, challenged Fallon to consider different approaches when she found herself feeling stuck, and reminded her, as she often did, to be mindful of the weight she carried home with her. By the time they reached the end of Fallon's caseload, the folder in front of Talia was nearly closed. 

“Oh! Yeah, one more thing. I saw in my email the new client that you referred to me?” Fallon remembered.

“Yes! I think I know which one you’re talking about. Noah S. Davis?”

“Yup that’s him,” Fallon confirmed, checking the form on her laptop.

“I know you have a pretty full caseload right now, but when Dr. Brooks and I were thinking of who to assign him to, something about his case immediately brought you to mind. Plus I think it’s a good one for you to take on from a professional standpoint based on the form.” Talia explained.

Fallon nodded, contemplating. She knew Talia believed in her abilities, but she was already stretched pretty thin, and her caseload typically consisted of lower profile clients. Still, something about the referral caught her attention. Convincing herself she could manage it with the right support, she accepted the assignment and returned to her office to begin reviewing his intake paperwork.

Over the next several days, the office buzzed with conversations that had little to do with therapy. Schools began closing, appointments were canceled or rescheduled, and uncertainty seeped into nearly every session. What started as discussions about hand sanitizer and social distancing quickly became agency-wide meetings, contingency plans, and hastily learned telehealth platforms. Within a week, the hallways that had once been filled with clients and clinicians sat empty. Fallon continued her sessions at home, her chubby tabby cat keeping her company on her lap.

________________________

An email notification from his phone pulled Noah’s attention away from the game on the computer screen. His heart dropped. Maybe it was management saying they rescheduled the tour, maybe they were able to cut a deal with the merch company. He couldn’t help but cling to that hope. He sipped a glass of wine as he typed the passcode in on his phone.

An email from West Grove Counseling Center.

Hi Noah, My name is Fallon Villa, and I'm a therapist with West Grove Counseling Center. I was recently assigned your referral and wanted to reach out to introduce myself and schedule your initial appointment. Due to recent changes related to COVID-19, our office has temporarily transitioned all sessions to a secure telehealth platform. While we had originally planned to conduct new client intakes in person, we'll be meeting virtually until it is safe to resume office visits. If you're still interested in beginning counseling, I'd be happy to schedule a 60-minute intake session at a time that's convenient for you. I currently have availability on: Tuesday, March 31 at 3:30 p.m. Wednesday, April 1 at 2:00 p.m. Thursday, April 2 at 11:00 a.m. If none of these times work for your schedule, please let me know what days and times generally work best for you, and I'll do my best to accommodate. Once we confirm an appointment, I'll send you the secure video link along with a few forms to complete beforehand. I look forward to meeting you! Best, Fallon Villa, MA Licensed Professional Clinical Counselor

His heart dropped. He wasn’t sure if it was from disappointment or nerves. He hadn’t been to therapy in years, but he recognized that things were getting bad again. It was for the best. Noah closed out of his game of Fall Guys and opened the email on his monitor. He clicked the link to the website and spent a moment clicking around until he found a staff directory.

Fallon Villa. He clicked on her name.

Her professional headshot filled the screen beside a short bio. Jet black hair cascaded down her shoulders with streaks of purple and blue peeking through. Hints of tattoos peaked out of the black blouse she wore in the headshot. A ring sparkled on one side of her nose. Noah felt a certain warmth from her photo, she looked easy to talk to, like she would understand.

He let out a deep sigh and navigated back to the other tab, clicking reply on the email. Tuesday, March 31st he’d go back to therapy.

________________________

Fallon clicked through the intake forms on her screen.

Client Information Full Name: Noah Sebastian Davis Preferred Name: Noah  Preferred Pronouns: He/Him Date of Birth: October 31, 1995 Age: 24 years  Employment Status: Employed Occupation: Musician Marital Status: Single Reason for seeking counseling: I've struggled with anxiety and depression for a long time, but it's gotten noticeably worse over the past few weeks. My band's tour was canceled unexpectedly because of COVID-19 and I'm having a hard time adjusting. I don't feel motivated, I'm constantly on edge, and I'm having trouble sleeping. I figured it's probably time I talked to someone. Social History Resides with: Joakim, Orie, Jesse, Michael (Friends/bandmates) Education: Some High School Social Supports Parents: N/A Siblings: N/A Relationship: N/A  Friendships & Other Supports: Several close friends, grandmother, management team Lifestyle and Habits Hobbies: Writing music, watching anime, video games Religious Involvement: N/A Stress Management Techniques: Music, running

She reviewed all of the relevant information before clicking onto Zoom to start the session. She entered the room and took a calming breath, waiting for Noah to answer the call.

Session 1

Noah entered the call after a few moments. Fallon took in his appearance. He had long brown hair that rested just past his shoulders, and soft almond shaped eyes to match. Tattoos kissed his jawline and disappeared under the collar of his hoodie. He adjusted his headphones with ink covered hands. LED lights casted a blue glow around the room from behind a bedframe. Tour posters and tattoo flash sheets covered the wall behind him. Fallon took note. She often believed you could learn a lot about someone from their space.

She started the session with a brief introduction, giving her spiel of informed consent and confidentiality. Then, it was time for their work to begin.

She spent the next several minutes guiding Noah through the routine questions that accompanied every intake; clarifying pieces of his history, reviewing his support system, and filling in the gaps left on his paperwork. He answered politely, if somewhat reserved, speaking matter-of-factly about experiences that most people would struggle to summarize so casually. Losing both of his parents, navigating much of his adolescence on his own, moving across the country to pursue music before most people his age had figured out what they wanted to do with their lives. Fallon made a few notes, careful not to interrupt more than necessary.

When the last of the intake process was behind them, she closed the form on her screen and offered him a small smile.

"First of all," she began gently, "I just want to acknowledge that you've had to navigate a lot of difficult circumstances long before everything happened with the pandemic. Going through your history, it sounds like you've spent a long time adapting and figuring things out on your own."

Noah gave a small shrug.

"I guess."

"So, with all of that in mind," Fallon continued, "what was it about these last few weeks that made you decide now was the right time to reach out?"

Noah looked away from the camera for a moment, his fingers absently tugged on the strings of his hoodie.

"I've always kind of managed," he admitted quietly. "No matter what happened, I could usually throw myself into music and keep moving." He let out a humorless laugh, "And then all of a sudden... there wasn't anywhere to move."

Fallon nodded, allowing the silence to work for a moment.

“There was always so much noise, traveling and playing shows, doing press, all of it. Now that I’m home, now that it’s all gone, there’s still a lot of noise. Just…not the good kind.”

Fallon nodded thoughtfully. "One thing that stood out to me while we’ve been talking is that every challenge you've described was immediately followed by what you did next. You lost your parents, so you learned to take care of yourself. You wanted to pursue music, so you moved across the country. Every obstacle seems to have been met with another goal."

He looked away from the camera for a moment.

"I never really thought about it like that."

"It sounds like you've spent a long time surviving by continuing to move forward, would that be accurate to say?"

There was a long pause before Noah spoke again.

"Yeah... I guess I have."

Fallon leaned back slightly in her chair. "So let's explore what changed. You've overcome a lot in your life. What was it about these last few weeks that made you decide that you need a different approach?"

Noah exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I've always had something to work toward," he admitted. "Even when things sucked, I could throw myself into writing or touring or whatever was next. There was always another city, another show, another goal."

His eyes drifted off-screen for a moment.

"And without it...there's not much else."

The room fell quiet.

"I keep waking up feeling like I'm supposed to be somewhere," he continued. "Like I've forgotten something important. But there's nowhere to go. Nothing to work on. I don't..." He let out a frustrated laugh. "I don't really know who I am when I'm not doing that."

Fallon let the silence settle before responding.

"It makes sense that everything feels so overwhelming right now," she said gently. "The pandemic didn't just interrupt your career, it took away your routine, your sense of purpose, and the structure you've relied on for years. That's a tremendous loss, even if it doesn't always feel like one you're allowed to grieve."

Noah looked back at the camera, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly.

"I hadn't really thought of it that way."

"You don't have to figure it all out today," Fallon said with a small smile. "For now, maybe we can just start by understanding what this loss has meant for you and work forward from there."

For the first time since the session began, Noah returned a faint smile of his own.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'd like that."

The remainder of the session was spent discussing what therapy might look like moving forward. Fallon explained her approach, answered the few questions Noah had, and together they settled on meeting once a week for the time being. As the hour came to an end, she confirmed their next appointment before offering him one last reassuring smile.

"It was nice meeting you, Noah. I'll see you next week."

"You too."

The screen flickered, and his square disappeared from the monitor.

For a moment, Fallon remained where she was, hands resting quietly on her keyboard as the silence settled over her apartment. Then, with practiced familiarity, she opened his chart and began documenting the session.

Presenting concerns: Anxiety, difficulty adjusting to recent life changes, sleep disturbance. Clinical impression: Engaged. Thoughtful. Guarded, though receptive. Insight appeared good. Rapport established.

She reread the note once, saved the chart, and closed the laptop. Another intake complete.

________________________

Session 6

"How many hours did you sleep last night?"

Noah dragged a hand down his face, already looking tired. "I went to bed at 4 am. Soo," he counted silently on his fingers, “five, maybe?”

"Maybe?"

He shrugged. "Jolly wouldn't shut up. He kept knocking on my door at like two in the morning about some mix he hates now."

Fallon raised an eyebrow. "So Jolly kept you awake until four?"

Noah hesitated.

"...No."

"No?"

"I mean-he started it," Noah said, a little defensive. "But then I was already up, so I figured I might as well work."

Fallon's mouth curved slightly. "Of course you did."

He huffed out a quiet laugh. "What was I supposed to do, just lie there?"

"That was one option."

"That sounds miserable."

"It usually does when you're not used to it."

Noah leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes.

"I got stuff done, at least."

"I'm sure you did," Fallon said lightly. "But you didn't really solve the sleep problem."

He exhaled through his nose.

"...Yeah."

"You just gave it a different excuse."

That earned her a look.

"Wow. Okay."

"I'm not saying Jolly didn't disturb you," she added, a hint of amusement in her voice. "I'm saying you didn't have to turn it into a four-hour writing session."

Noah shook his head, but there was a reluctant smile there.

"When you say it like that, it sounds bad."

"It sounds accurate."

He let out a quiet laugh, glancing away from the camera.

Fallon leaned forward slightly, her tone softening.

"I'm noticing a pattern," she said. "Whenever something disrupts your routine, or you feel anxious, you don't really stop. You just pivot. One thing turns into another, and suddenly you're busy again."

Noah stared at something off-screen for a moment.

"...Yeah."

"Touring became writing," she continued. "Writing becomes emails. Emails become cleaning. Somewhere in there, you're telling yourself you're resting."

He let out a breath.

"I never thought about it like that."

"I know." Fallon smiled gently. "That's why we're talking about it."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, just thoughtful.

"So," she said after a moment, "this week I don't want you to fix it."

Noah glanced back at the screen.

"That's new."

"I just want you to notice it," she clarified. "Every time you feel that urge to fill the space, whether it's because you're anxious, bored, or just uncomfortable, pause long enough to recognize it."

"...And then what?"

"Nothing," she said simply. "That's it."

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"That feels like a trick."

She laughed softly. "It's not. Awareness comes first."

Noah leaned back again, considering.

"...Alright. I can do that."

Noah and Fallon continued discussing his work life, how lockdown impacted their work and the ways the music industry had adjusted to continue on.

“Chris told me he’s still doing a set for download fest since it's happening virtually now.”

Fallon raised an eyebrow. “Chris?”

“Yeah, you know, Motionless in White?” he responded as if it would be obvious.

“How do you know that's something I would know?” she interrogated jokingly.

“C’mon it’s pretty obvious you listen to our type of music. You’re covered in tattoos, have dyed hair and piercings, and you literally have a Motionless vinyl on the wall behind you.” He said, his face lit with a smile.

Fallon turned around quickly, surveying the display behind her desk.

“Guilty,” she laughed.

“Yeah we’re tight, he is my coworker after all. Him and all the other bands you listen to” Noah gloated sarcastically, failing to stifle his laughter.

Fallon smiled at her lap and shook her head. “Okay, rockstar.”

By the end of the session, Noah seemed lighter than when he'd logged on. They reviewed his “homework” for the coming week, confirmed the same time next Tuesday, and exchanged their usual goodbyes before the screen faded to black. Fallon sat quietly for a moment, staring at the now-empty Zoom window. Before she realized it, she caught herself smiling.

He'd laughed more today.

She reached for her keyboard, shaking her head with a quiet, amused exhale as she opened his chart. Progress, she reminded herself. That's all this was. She documented the session, saved her note, and moved on to the rest of her afternoon.

________________________

Time seemed to pass by quicker than usual being stuck at home. Fallon spent most of her time in her desk chair in front of the computer in session or completing notes. What was happening in the world had a huge impact on her clients in so many ways. It was hard not to feel burned out.

Eventually, a much needed day off came around. Fallon lounged on the couch, dressed in a comfy matching set, and worked her way through a pint of ice cream. Reality TV sounded through the room and her friend spoke through the speaker of her phone on Facetime.

“I mean at least you get to talk to people all day, I’m so lonely here.” Michelle sighed dramatically.

“Well it’s not really talking to people, they’re my clients. I’m giving them therapy. There's really  nothing in it for me per se. Don’t get me wrong, I love my job, it's just not the same as talking to like…friends.” Fallon explained.

“So there's NOTHING entertaining about it? Nothing juicy? No hot guy clients? No nasty fights between couples? C’mon.”

Fallon's cheeks flushed, and she was suddenly glad the camera wasn’t aimed at her face. Any hot guy clients? She instinctually wanted to scream NO, but a second later a face had popped into her head. She swallowed down the thoughts and internally panicked. They had always taught in grad school that attraction was okay, normal even, as long as the clinician worked through it and managed the case ethically.

“Theres...Even if there was, I couldn't tell you. Confidentiality.” Fallon replied defensively. 

Michelle rolled her eyes on screen.

After the call, Fallon sat silently. Thinking. She turned on the TV and let her thoughts melt away.

________________________

Noah forced himself to close Logic and tear the headphones from his head. His ears were fatigued from listening to the tiniest of details in the mix he was working on, his throat scratchy from recording so many vocal takes. His stomach ached with hunger after neglecting all other signals from his body besides the creative parts of his brain. He was putting so much into this new album. Noah envisioned it; restrictions lifting, the new album releasing, a huge headline tour. He couldn’t slow down, he had to keep working, keep doing something. Fallon’s words filled his head.

Fallon.

Noah looked forward to Tuesdays every week, now. He got to dump out all of the stress, all of the worries. Not only did she listen, she cared. She pushed against his stubbornness. After a few weeks she could already read him like a book. It was something he had never truly experienced before.

Noah stood up from the desk chair and stretched, then walked out of the studio into the kitchen. Jolly was singing to himself, piecing together a sandwich. He turned around, startled by Noah’s presence.

“Holy shit you’re alive.” 

Noah gave him a puzzled look.

“You’ve been in there for like 8 hours, I forgot you were even here.”

Noah wasn’t sure what to say, he was too busy thinking about how he had pushed himself to the limit once again. Pause long enough to recognize it she had told him. He took a breath and continued on.

After eating for the first time in hours, he went upstairs to his room. His thoughts urged him to pick up a guitar, work out that one bridge, or finish the drum track he needed to send to Folio. He didn’t let himself. Noah looked around the room. He searched for anything enticing, any possible purpose for him trapped within the confines of the house. His attention turned to the game controller on his desk, then he powered on his PC.

Opening the search engine, he typed in Twitch. He’d keep himself busy, but this would be purely for fun.

________________________

Session 11

“I reached my sub goal like 2 weeks early this month.”

“I’m not gonna pretend that I know what that means, but you seem excited about that, so that’s really great” Fallon responded with a laugh.

“Yeah, I guess I didn’t know if anyone would even watch, but it’s turned into a great way to connect with the fans and share band stuff without being able to tour or do a lot of press or anything.”

“Interacting with fans. That sounds like something really important, yeah? I mean the whole notion of having ‘fans’ that is. What's that experience like for you?”

Noah went on about how happy he was that anyone cared to listen to their music, let alone support them in other ways. He felt so lucky. Sure, it was overwhelming sometimes, but it came with being a musician.

“Actually- a few weeks back, I streamed while I did the vocal takes for one song on the acoustic album I told you about” he said excitedly. 

“That’s awesome, a little behind the scenes.”

“Yeah… thinking about the lyrics the other day, it kind of made me think of therapy.”

“How so?” Fallon asked, tilting her head inquisitively.

“It talks a lot about having someone there for you in your darkest time, and that’s what I feel yo-” he stopped himself, “what I feel therapy has been for me. I mean a lot of my music in general talks a lot about my feelings. It makes it a lot easier to work through them.”

Fallon nodded, letting him process the thought.

“You should listen to it. It’s called ‘If I'm There’.” He said plainly, looking down to avoid her gaze. 

"...Actually,” he rubbed the back of his neck, "...Would that be weird?"

Fallon furrowed her brow. "What?"

"You. Listening to it.”

Fallon thought about it for a moment, deciding it might be beneficial material to explore during a session.

“No… no not at all. We’re about at our time for today but yeah, I’d be open to it next session!” Fallon said sincerely. The call ended shortly after.

________________________

That night, Fallon paced back and forth in her lonely apartment, bored out of her mind. She walked into her bedroom and grabbed her earbuds from her nightstand, fitting them into her ears before plopping onto her bed. She laid staring up at the ceiling, letting the music fill her head. The next song shuffled on.

Another Life. 

Motionless in White.

Noah.

A smile spread across her lips, recalling their earlier session; how he just knew she liked heavy music, the way he'd proudly talked about the acoustic album, and his parting words asking her to listen. Fallon wrestled with herself for a moment before picking up her phone from beside her and opening Spotify. She typed Bad Omens into the search bar.

She hesitated.

What exactly was she doing? Trying to understand her client better? Trying to analyze his lyrics? Trying to make herself a better therapist?

With a quiet sigh, she held down the backspace key until the name disappeared from the screen.

"No," she murmured to herself. Not everything had to be clinical.

She spent so much of her life being Fallon the therapist that she'd almost forgotten there was supposed to be a Fallon underneath it all. A woman who loved loud music, spent too much money on vinyl records, and occasionally disappeared down internet rabbit holes in various emo band fandoms.

She typed Bad Omens into the search bar again.

This time, she didn't offer herself an excuse.

She clicked on the artist profile and pressed play. Not as a clinician trying to understand a client, but as Fallon- a woman who happened to enjoy heavy music and had permission to simply listen.

Author's Note: Words cannot describe how hard I worked on this chapter. I think I wrote then deleted parts a thousand times, it was two chapters then turned to one, it challenged the SHIT out of me but i'm SO PROUD of it so I really hope this story lives up to your expectations. If you need me I will be writing and thinking about Noah holding a sword during Dethrone. -XOXOXO LILA <3

TAGLIST: @platespaghetti @r3prise @branika182 @itsfarbettertolearn @nixsxxx @takeme1st @sleepycactus-omens @icybansheesoul @anything-morethan-human @fear-its-beauty @mapsychoticimagination @anonymousspirit @copper-locks @novainpolaroids @amelia-acero @pinkpunkdynamite @silentglassbreak @babeomens @booksnchaos @chey-h @foliosdrumstick @heavilyfadingpower @nikki-plum @lowergroundfloor

[theomensarchive]

BAD OMENS AT GREENFIELD FESTIVAL

source: greenfieldfestival

[bad-o-mens]

x

[silent-stories]

𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐒

Pairing: noah x reader

Summary: The rumors about creatures living deep in the woods turn out to be true when you cross paths with Noah.

Tw: au, injury, blood

Your house stood where civilization ended, and beyond it, there was only forest. Ancient pines stretched toward the sky, their branches weaving together so tightly that sunlight often struggled to reach the ground, moss blanketed fallen logs, wildflowers grew wherever they pleased, and narrow paths disappeared into an endless sea of green.

Most people couldn't imagine living there, especially not alone.

Whenever you mentioned where you lived, you were always met with the same concerned and shocked expression.

"You live out there? By yourself?"

"Aren't you scared?"

"Why don't you move into town?"

You were used to these kind of questions, and you always smiled and shrugged when you had to answer them.

Because to everyone else, it was an isolated cabin on the edge of a dangerous forest, but to you, it was home.

It had belonged to your grandmother long before it belonged to you, and she had loved this place more than anything.

She loved waking up before sunrise to water her garden while birds sang overhead, collecting herbs from the forest edge, and sitting on the porch with a cup of tea as rain drummed softly against the roof.

Even after all these years, her vegetable garden still occupied the sunny patch behind the house.

It wasn't nearly as beautiful as it had been when she cared for it, as she had somehow managed to grow enormous pumpkins, sweet tomatoes, fragrant herbs, berries and beans.

You were considerably less talented, but you still tried and, every spring, you planted seeds anyway. Because giving up on the garden somehow felt like giving up on a piece of her.

The forest helped in its own way, because the soil was rich, the air was fresh, and the rain always seemed to arrive exactly when it was needed.

Despite living so far from town, you weren't isolated. The drive into the town wasn't particularly long and you went a couple of times a week, for groceries, shopping, coffee with friends, and running errands.

Sometimes you spent an entire afternoon wandering through little boutiques before meeting your friends for lunch.

You enjoyed the bustle of town, but by evening, you always found yourself looking forward to driving home. As the buildings disappeared in the rearview mirror and the road narrowed into a winding dirt path beneath towering trees, something inside you relaxed.

The silence out here always felt comforting.

Most people couldn't understand that feeling.

Especially because of the stories.

Everyone had heard them. Children grew up hearing them whispered around fireplaces, hunters repeated them over drinks, and older people swore they were true because of some story that started with "one night, when I was young..."

According to them, something lived in the woods.

They were not wolves, and they were not bears.

They were something else. Something older. Monstrous.

People spoke of enormous creatures glimpsed between the trees late at night, of figures that ran on four limbs with impossible speed, of eyes that reflected gold in the darkness.

Livestock occasionally disappeared.

Sometimes deer were found torn apart in ways no ordinary predator could manage.

Every few years a hunter failed to return.

When search parties eventually found the body, the stories always spread faster than the facts.

"His rifle was snapped in half."

"Half of him was missing."

"Whatever killed him wasn't human, and it wasn't a wolf!"

With every retelling, the monsters became larger, crueler, more terrifying. Some people refused to enter the forest after sunset, others insisted on carrying firearms even during daylight hikes.

Many believed the government knew something and kept it quiet.

You had never shared their certainty, because wild animals existed, accidents happened, and people exaggerated. You always assumed the stories had simply grown over generations until no one remembered where they had begun.

Your grandmother had disagreed. She believed every single word.

She never called them monsters, but she said that there were creatures in the woods.

When you were little, you'd laugh whenever she warned you not to wander too deeply into the woods.

"Are they going to eat me?" you had teased once.

She had smiled without looking up from the herbs she was hanging to dry.

"Probably not."

You remembered frowning.

"What does that mean?"

"They're not mindless beasts."

You tried to understand.

"They've lived here far longer than we have. If you don't disturb them..." She tapped your forehead gently. "...they won't disturb you."

At the time, you'd dismissed it as another one of her old stories, the same kind of folklore grandparents loved to tell, a lesson about respecting nature wrapped inside a fairy tale.

But still, even years after her passing, you found yourself remembering those words whenever you walked beneath the trees.

The afternoon was quiet.

The sun had already slipped behind the towering pines, leaving the sky washed in soft shades of amber and blue. The light wasn't gone yet, and you liked that time of the day.

Behind the house, you were kneeling in your grandmother's vegetable garden. One hand brushed away stubborn weeds while the other gathered ripe tomatoes into an old wicker basket resting beside you. The scent of damp earth clung to your clothes, mingling with the fragrance of basil and rosemary growing nearby.

The air was peaceful. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves overhead, and somewhere in the distance a blackbird sang its evening song.

Then...

A sound ripped through the forest. You jerked upright so suddenly you nearly knocked over the basket.

The cry echoed between the trees, loud, raw, and painful, and you were sure it wasn't a wolf. It wasn't a deer. It wasn't anything you had ever heard before.

The sound carried something horribly human within it, even without words.

After its echo, the noise stopped, and silence crashed down over everything.

Your heartbeat suddenly sounded far too loud.

You remained frozen in the garden, staring toward the tree line only a few yards beyond the back fence.

"What the hell...?"

You waited for a moment, without moving.

You almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it.

Then, a second sound drifted through the woods, quieter this time, like a low, ragged growl.

It sounded more broken than threatening, as though whatever had made it no longer had the strength to scream, and it ended in a strained, almost choking sound.

Something was hurt.

Badly.

Every sensible thought told you exactly what to do: go inside, lock the door, and call someone.

If it was a wounded bear, getting close would be suicide, and if it was an injured hunter, professionals could find him.

And if, somehow, all those ridiculous stories about creatures in the forest held even the smallest grain of truth... then walking toward that sound was the worst decision you could possibly make.

You should have listened.

Instead, before you had fully thought it through, your feet were already carrying you toward the woods.

You left the basket forgotten among the vegetables, pushed open the old wooden gate, and atepped beneath the first line of towering pines.

The air changed, and it immediately felt cooler.

The familiar scent of your garden gave way to damp moss, pine needles and rich earth.

You paused for a moment, listening.

Nothing.

Only your own breathing.

"...Hello?"

Your voice sounded strangely small beneath the trees.

You got no response.

You took another step, then another.

The narrow trail disappeared almost immediately, forcing you to weave between ancient trunks and tangled undergrowth.

With every step, your house grew farther away, and soon you couldn't even see its roof through the trees.

The forest closed around you, the silence became heavier, and your pace slowed.

An uneasy feeling settled low in your stomach.

The stories you'd spent years dismissing surfaced uninvited in the back of your mind, and you found yourself thinking about golden eyes, creatures that walked on four limbs, and hunters who never came home.

You shook your head.

Stop it.

You're letting old ghost stories get to you.

Then something caught your eye.

A dark stain against the forest floor.

You frowned, and stepped closer.

It was blood. Fresh.

Bright crimson splashed across dead leaves and exposed roots.

There was another stain several feet ahead.

Then another.

Whatever had been injured was moving, or at least, it had tried to.

Your pulse quickened.

You should turn back now. You knew that.

But instead, you found yourself following the crimson trail deeper into the forest, each step carrying you farther from the safety of home.

The blood became heavier.

Branches had been snapped clean in half.

Deep gouges scarred the trunks of nearby trees, as though something with enormous strength had clawed at the bark in desperation.

The ground was torn apart, leaves scattered, and soil churned.

The trail rounded a cluster of ancient oaks before opening into a small clearing.

And there, a massive steel bear trap lay clamped shut around something caught inside.

Its jagged teeth had clamped around the lower part of a leg.

The chain attached to it had wrapped itself around a fallen log during the struggle.

The creature trapped inside looked like nothing you had seen before.

He seemed human and animal and the same time. Long ears, clearly animal, flattened tightly against his head, and dark hair fell over his eyes. He looked taller than the average man but from his position, you couldn’t really tell. His hands looked almost human, until you noticed the black claws extending from every finger. His face was human enough to recognize fear, but animal enough to make every instinct scream at you to run.

Golden eyes snapped toward you.

His lips curled back immediately, a deafening snarl ripped from his chest, and rows of long canine teeth gleamed.

He lunged.

The chain yanked him backward, and metal clanged violently as the trap crushed deeper into his leg.

A horrible cry tore from him, and he collapsed onto all fours, panting.

"...Oh my God..." you whispered to yourself.

He growled, and then dragged himself backward despite the trap, trying to make distance.

His breathing came in frantic bursts, his chest was rising and falling rapidly, and he kept looking at you with wide eyes.

He wasn't preparing to attack now.

He was trying to get away.

He was scared of you.

"...Hey."

His ears pinned flatter.

"I won't hurt you." You tried, even if you weren’t sure he could understand your language.

Another growl was the answer you got. But it felt shakier.

His claws scraped desperately at the earth as he stared at your hands.

You wondered if he was searching for weapons.

You slowly raised both palms.

"Nothing."

His nostrils flared.

He smelled you. Probably every herb in your garden, probably your fear, but he didn't stop trembling.

You looked at the trap again.

They must have placed it here recently. Some hunter must have left it for the wolves, even though they were illegal there.

"You'll die if I leave you here."

You took one slow step, and the reaction was immediate.

A violent snarl exploded from him and he slammed both arms into the ground, claws extended. His ears disappeared against his head.

"It's okay."

You stopped.

"You don't have to trust me."

His breathing remained fast.

"But that thing..." You nodded toward the trap, "...isn't letting go."

He looked at it just for a second, then back at you.

His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his head lowered.

You thought it was probably not in surrender, but in exhaustion.

You waited a moment before speaking again.

"I have to get closer."

A weak growl, barely audible.

You took another step.

He bared his teeth again.

You took another one.

He didn't lunge, but simply watched, every muscle rigid.

You could see him really shaking now.

You crouched several feet away.

The trap looked even worse up close, its steel teeth had sunk deep into flesh.

"...This is going to hurt."

His ears flicked.

He watched you reach for the mechanism, and instantly, his entire body jerked backward.

A frightened bark-like snarl burst from him.

You withdrew your hand.

"It's okay."

He kept staring.

Then, very slowly, his eyes flicked to the trap. Then back to you. Almost questioning.

"I have to touch it."

His breathing quickened again.

"You can hate me after."

Silence.

"...But let me try."

He didn't move and you took the fact that he stopped trying to retreat as a win.

Very carefully, you reached toward the steel jaws.

The moment your fingers touched the cold metal, his claws dug into the dirt, every muscle locked.

His lips peeled back again.

"I know." You whispered, "I know."

The trap required force. You knew that those traps were very hard to open, though not impossible, because their design relied on the fact that animals lacked opposable thumbs and the ability to use the right grip, rather than on sheer strength.

You planted both boots, grabbed the springs, and pushed.

Nothing.

Again.

Your arms trembled, and the steel barely shifted.

"Oh, come on..."

You gritted your teeth.

Again.

Again.

The creature let out another pained sound, somewhere between a growl and a whine despite trying to hold it back.

"Almost..."

Metal groaned, and one side moved.

Not enough.

You repositioned, and pulled with everything you had. The spring finally gave, and the jaws opened.

He reacted instantly, moving away.

He ripped his mangled leg free and stumbled backward so fast he nearly collapsed.

The trap snapped shut again with a deafening CLANG. He landed several yards away on three limbs, chest heaving violently.

His injured leg hovered off the ground, and blood streamed down into the leaves.

You remained exactly where you were, hands visible, breathing hard.

Neither of you moved for a moment.

He looked at you like he couldn't really understand why you helped him.

His ears slowly lifted, just a fraction, and he took one limping step backward, still watching you.

Then another.

He was leaving.

Then, his injured leg buckled, and he hit the ground with a muffled cry.

He tried to stand again, and failed.

His frustration came out as a hoarse growl. He couldn't put weight on it.

"...You won't make it."

His head whipped toward you.

You didn't move.

"I have bandages."

Silence.

"Water."

Another silence.

"And food."

His eyes narrowed.

You could almost see the battle happening inside him.

"I live close."

You nodded toward the direction of your cabin.

"You don't have to come."

His ears twitched.

"But if you stay here..."

You looked at the blood soaking the forest floor.

"...someone or something will find you."

That caught his attention.

"I'm walking home."

You turned your back deliberately. It was the most vulnerable thing you could do.

"If you decide to follow, I'll help you. I mean it."

You started walking away, listening.

No footsteps.

No growls.

Nothing.

Perhaps he had vanished. Perhaps he'd chosen death over trusting a human.

By the time your cabin came into view, disappointment settled quietly in your chest.

You opened the front door.

Fetched clean bandages, boiled water, and prepared everything, as the sun dipped lower, just in case.

After some hours, that late evening, you heard a faint crunch coming from outside.

Not on two feet. On four.

Slow, uneven, and limping.

You looked toward the window. And between the shadows of the trees, golden eyes watched you from the edge of the clearing.

He was there.

For several long seconds, neither of you moved.

The only sounds were the insects singing and the quiet rustle of leaves stirred by the early night breeze.

His golden eyes never left yours. Then, slowly, painfully, he shifted his weight onto his three uninjured limbs.

His body trembled violently from the effort as he took one limping step. Then another.

His injured hind leg barely touched the ground before lifting again with a visible twitch of pain.

Every few steps he paused, lowering his head as though trying to steady his breathing before forcing himself onward again.

You walked to the front door and stepped onto your porch.

The distance between the tree line and your porch wasn't very far. Normally it took less than a minute to cross, but for him, it felt endless.

Halfway across the clearing, his forelegs suddenly buckled.

His chest hit the ground with a dull thud, and a strained growl escaped him before he clenched his jaw shut, refusing to make another sound.

When he pushed himself back onto his feet, his entire body shook so hard you wondered how he was still conscious.

"...Easy," you murmured quietly, more to yourself than to him.

He lifted his head.

Those gold eyes met yours again.

There was no aggression left in them, only exhaustion.

He reached the bottom step of your porch before stopping completely, looking at the stairs.

He didn't move.

"You don't have to come inside," you said softly.

His gaze immediately returned to you.

"I can help you out here."

Silence.

He continued staring, and then, very slowly, he lowered himself onto the ground. Not gracefully, more like his body simply gave up.

His chest rested against the cool wooden boards at the edge of the porch while his injured leg remained stretched awkwardly to one side.

Only then did you finally step closer.

His head lifted again, and a low warning rumbled somewhere deep inside his chest.

"I know."

You stopped several feet away.

"I'm just getting the bandages."

His eyes followed every movement as you crouched beside the small bucket of clean water you'd prepared earlier.

You soaked a cloth, picked up the roll of bandages and the small bottle of antiseptic.

When you looked back at him, he hadn't taken his eyes off you once.

"I need to see your leg."

His ears flattened, and very slowly, he shifted, and his injured leg slid a few inches closer.

This was the first tiny piece of trust.

"...Thank you." You whispered.

His ears twitched.

You knelt beside him.

The wound looked bad. The steel teeth had torn deep through muscle, the edges were packed with dirt.

You exhaled quietly.

"This has to be cleaned."

His nose wrinkled.

He clearly understood enough to dislike what those words probably meant.

"I'm sorry."

You soaked the cloth before gently pressing it against the wound.

His entire body went rigid.

His claws dug into the porch hard enough to leave grooves in the old wood, and a sharp growl vibrated through his chest.

"I know."

You kept your voice low.

"I know it hurts."

He bared his teeth.

His breathing became uneven, almost panting.

"I'm almost done with this."

Another growl.

His ears flattened so tightly they almost disappeared beneath his dark hair.

Still, he didn't pull away.

You carefully rinsed away the remaining blood until you could properly examine the injury.

"It doesn't look broken."

His eyes flickered toward you.

"The trap crushed the muscle more than the bone."

He watched your face, as though trying to understand every word.

"That's... actually good."

You reached for the antiseptic.

"This part is going to sting."

The moment the liquid touched the wound, his entire body jerked violently.

A strangled sound escaped him before he bit down so hard his canines scraped together.

"I'm sorry."

You worked as quickly as you could.

"I'm so sorry."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

When the antiseptic was finally done, you began wrapping clean bandages around the injured leg in several careful layers, firm enough to stop the bleeding, loose enough not to cut circulation.

"There."

You tied the final knot.

"That should help."

Neither of you moved. He continued watching the fresh white bandage wrapped around his leg.

Slowly, he sniffed it. Then looked back at you.

"...You're strange."

His voice was rough but not too deep.

You blinked, and your head snapped toward him.

"What?"

"You..." He paused, clearly searching for the right words, "...smell like human."

Another pause.

"...but you don't act like one."

You stared, "You... can talk."

One ear flicked, "...Obviously."

Despite everything, you couldn't help letting out the smallest laugh.

"I wasn't expecting sarcasm."

His expression remained perfectly serious.

"I wasn't trying to be amusing."

"...Right."

"Are you?" He asked again.

"Human? Yes, I am."

You stayed quiet for a moment, then added, "And you? What are you?"

You waited, several long seconds passed, but he remained silent.

"My grandma..." you began quietly, "...used to believe there were beings living in these woods."

You leaned back against one of the porch posts.

"She just called you... creatures."

After a moment, he asked, "...Do you?"

You looked at him.

"I mean..." He searched for the words, "Do you think that's what I am?"

For a second, you genuinely considered the question, then you gave a small shrug.

"Aren't we all?"

"What?"

"Creatures. Aren't we all creatures?"

He didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he simply looked at you.

The evening light had almost disappeared now, leaving only the warm glow spilling from the open doorway behind you. It caught the gold in his eyes, making them seem almost molten against the darkness gathering around the porch.

He tilted his head slightly.

"...Humans don't usually say that."

You smiled faintly.

"No?"

"They make themselves something else." His voice remained quiet, "Separate. Above."

He lifted one clawed hand just enough to gesture vaguely between the two of you.

"Humans."

"And..."

He glanced at himself.

"...everything else."

You looked down at your hands.

"I don't think we're above anything else."

Silence settled again. Crickets chirped beneath the porch, leaves whispered overhead, and somewhere deeper in the woods something called once before falling quiet.

He seemed to be listening to all of it, every sound, every shift in the wind. His ears turned almost constantly, reacting to noises you couldn't even hear.

"...Do you always hear this much?" You asked, genuinely curious.

"I hear your heart."

You looked back at him.

"...What?"

"It slowed. When you stopped being afraid."

Your eyebrows lifted, "You can hear that?"

Another nod.

"You were frightened."

"I was."

"You aren't now."

"...Not really."

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, "Why?"

You thought about it, because, objectively speaking, perhaps you should have been afraid.

There was an unknown creature lying injured on your porch, e had claws capable of tearing through solid wood, teeth that could probably crush bone, and he was stronger than you by an impossible margin.

Yet...

"I don't know."

You laughed quietly at yourself.

"I think..."

You looked down at the blood still staining the porch boards.

"...it's difficult to be afraid of someone who's hurt and who trusted you enough to come closer and let himself be helped."

He didn’t speak for a moment.

"...Why?"

You frowned.

"Why what?"

His eyes met yours again.

"Why did you help me?"

"I saw someone in pain. I felt like it was the right thing to do."

"But you don't know what I am." He said.

"No."

"You don't know what I've done."

"I don't."

"What if I've killed people?"

You held his gaze, "Have you?"

His eyes didn't leave yours, "...Sometimes."

Your heartbeat skipped. He noticed.

"I heard that."

"I figured."

You drew in a slow breath, "Were they trying to kill you?"

He was quiet for a moment, "Yes."

"Were they hunters?"

A nod.

"Did they attack you first?"

"...Yes."

You exhaled softly, "I don't think defending yourself from someone who thinks you don't deserve to live makes you a monster."

For a long moment, he simply looked at you.

Then, almost hesitantly, he spoke again.

"You saved my life."

His voice was so quiet you almost missed it.

"If you hadn't helped me..." His gaze drifted toward the bandaged leg, "I would've died toay."

He looked back at you, "Thank you."

The sincerity in those two words caught you off guard.

You offered him a small, gentle smile, "You don't have to thank me."

"I do." His answer came without hesitation, "I owe you my life."

You didn't answer, and there was a long pause before you spoke again.

"Do you have a name?"

His expression became strangely distant, as though the question had taken him somewhere else entirely. Several long seconds passed before he answered.

"Noah."

The name caught you by surprise.

It sounded so... ordinary. Warm.

"...Noah."

He looked at you.

"I like it."

His ears twitched once.

"You do?"

"I do."

He looked away, almost uncertain how to respond to that.

For someone who seemed to understand silence better than conversation, compliments appeared to confuse him more than anything else.

The two of you sat quietly for a while. Night continued settling over the clearing.

You could hear the distant rush of water from the creek somewhere deeper among the trees now.

Eventually, he spoke again.

"Do you go into the forest often?"

You nodded.

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"Mostly for herbs."

You gestured vaguely toward your garden.

"Berries, mushrooms when they're in season... things like that."

"You hunt?"

You immediately shook your head, "No."

"I've never liked hunting. I usually stay near the edge anyway."

You pointed vaguely toward the trees bordering your property.

"I know the paths around here, but not farther. My grandma used to, but I don't remember them anymore."

Noah slowly nodded.

"There is one place I used to love, though, near the center of the forest. There are these flowers..."

You searched for the right words.

"They're purple. A deep violet. I've never seen them growing anywhere else. They were so pretty. My grandmother used to take me to see them when I was little."

"You haven't gone back?"

You shook your head, "Not for years. I stopped knowing the way."

A soft breeze drifted across the porch.

"And going alone that far never seemed like the smartest idea."

Noah remained quiet for a moment before adding, "They bloom where the light reaches the old stones."

"So they are still there?"

"Yes."

A genuine smile spread across your face.

"I'm glad."

He watched that smile for a second longer than necessary and that was the moment you realized his eyes were now more brown than gold, warmer. You wondered if the change was caused by the fading adrenaline and fear.

Then he shifted his weight, the movement was slow, careful.

He lowered himself further onto the porch, stretching his forelegs out in front of him before curling slightly around his injured hind leg.

The position reminded you so strongly of an exhausted dog settling down to rest.

Except, dogs didn't have clawed hands, or human eyes.

As he adjusted himself, a sharp wince crossed his face.

"Careful."

You leaned forward instinctively, then stopped.

"I'm okay." He said quickly.

"Do you need anything?"

He looked at you, "No."

"Water? Food?"

A small shake of his head.

"You've lost a lot of blood."

"I know. I'll be fine."

"Not even a pillow?"

That earned you a puzzled look, "What is that?"

You laughed quietly, "Never mind."

For a couple of minutes, you kept quietly talking.

You told him about the fox that occasionally stole from your garden, about the squirrel that had somehow learned how to open the lid of your compost bin, and about how terrible you were at growing pumpkins compared to your grandmother.

He never interrupted, he simply listened.

Sometimes his eyes followed the movement of the trees, sometimes he gave a quiet, thoughtful hum that made you think he was still paying attention.

"...And every year," you continued, "I tell myself that this time the tomatoes won't get eaten by insects."

No answer came.

"...Then, by July, half of them are gone."

Still nothing.

You glanced toward him.

"...Noah?"

His breathing had changed, it was slower now, steadier.

His head rested on his folded forearms, his ears, always moving, had finally gone still, his eyes were closed.

For a moment, you simply watched him.

He had fallen asleep.

And the thought that he felt safe enough to do that, made you happy.

Very carefully, so you wouldn't wake him, you stood.

The night air had grown noticeably colder. You stepped back inside the house, quietly took the thick wool blanket from the back of the couch, and returned to the porch.

For a brief moment you hesitated, wondering whether touching him would startle him awake, and thinking that he didn't care at all about blankets, since he lived in the forest.

But you gently unfolded the blanket and draped it over his shoulders and back anyway.

One ear gave the faintest twitch.

A soft, sleepy exhale escaped him, but he didn't wake.

You smiled to yourself, gave him one last look and slipped back inside the house.

The next morning, you woke up to sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting pale golden lines across your bedroom ceiling.

For a few sleepy moments, you simply lay there, listening to the familiar sounds of your little house settling around you.

Everything felt... normal.

Then your eyes widened.

Noah.

You sat upright so quickly the blankets slipped into your lap.

For one ridiculous second, you wondered if you'd dreamed everything.

The forest, the trap, the creature with golden eyes, the blood on your porch.

It all felt strangely unreal in the light of day.

You hurried downstairs, your bare feet tapping softly against the worn wooden steps.

The house was quiet.

You reached the front door and pulled it open: the porch was empty.

The blanket was there, resting on the ground.

Your eyes drifted across the porch and that's when you noticed a small bundle of deep violet flowers rested carefully beside the blanket.

You bowed and picked them up.

They were freshly picked, their delicate petals still shimmered with tiny drops of morning dew, the ones that only grew deep in the heart of the forest.

The ones you hadn't seen since you were a child.

A slow smile spread across your face, and you stayed on the porch a little longer, as the morning breeze stirred the petals gently, carrying their faint, sweet scent toward the house.

Noah taglist pt 1: @mushrumink @sullyselena @buttercupbabyyy @pathion @pipidoll @missduffsblog @vibecops @myexistencesucks @overmydeadbodysblog @margocos-blog @heyitsjay316 @sallyba3 @bartxnhood @lacy1986 @iamamatus @dream-machine-love @amoursims @suessmausnici @whimsicaldiamonds @imyourliquor-youremypoison @punkprincess1999 @bored-rato @thepeoplesblog @dxthrone @illmakeyousaywow @xmads-omensx @sikowitzbitch @tosoundlessdarkistare @sadbitchenergy @flowery-mess @anything-morethan-human @lekyswixexx @english-fucker @follow-me-down-to-wonderland

[takeme1st]

It escalated

AN: Just a lil blurb based on this ask because it was just so cute I couldn't get it out of my mind! This is part of the SDTL-universe. ♡ This was so fun, I'm more than open to writing more blurbs for this story, please send an idea my way if you have one! ♡

Words: 559

Noah wasn’t sure where it all started. But somewhere between another festival in Germany and Switzerland, he spotted one. A tiny little thing. Impossibly small. White, adorned with what he guessed was traditional folk patterns, and the name of the city he was in across the chest. He wasn’t sure why, but it made him stop in his tracks. 

He entered the tiny store. Different souvenirs littered the shelves. Tiny snow globes with a cathedral in it, keychains, bottle openers. One rack was filled with the classic I heart- shirts. And in the back, a selection of clothes so small it was hard to imagine someone could ever fit in them. 

Noah reached for the one he’d seen in the window. White cotton, adorned with little red traditional folk patterns. It was labeled for six month olds. Six months? Noah frowned. If this was for a six-month-old… just how tiny was a newborn?

After that, it just kind of happened. Whenever he found a souvenir shop with a onesie in the window, he’d buy it. Noah got one from Leipzig and one from Derby the day after they’d played Download. He picked one up in Milan, one in Warsaw, another one in France. Jolly insisted that he’d get one in Stockholm. He rounded out the whole thing by buying one in Helsinki. 

It wasn’t until Noah started packing after the final show that he realized he’d somehow bought eight onesies in less than a month. A tiny smile played across his face. He was sure of two things. The first one was that you’d laugh at him, even though he was certain that you would secretly love it. The second one was that his little Blueberry would look ridiculously cute in all of them one day. 

When he got home, Noah insisted that he could unpack his bag by himself. You, however, insisted that he couldn’t. And that was how you found yourself picking up a small, blue paper bag. 

”What’s this?” you asked.

”Oh…” a tinge of pink flushed his cheeks. ”Don’t laugh, but it kind of just… escalated.”

You raised an eyebrow at him and opened the bag. Your heart ached in your chest when you realised what it was. 

A tiny beige onesie with a little wooden sailboat on the front. A small Swedish flag fluttered from the stern, blue waves curling around the boat. Across the chest, it simply read Stockholm.

”Jolly insisted I’d get that one too.”

”Too?”

He smiled sheepishly at you. 

”Look in the bag.”

You did. And then you pulled onesie after onesie out. Some adorned with different motives, others simply sported the name of a city over the chest. 

”Honey…” you whispered. 

”Yeah?”

”Did you get one in every county…?”

He gazed down at the pile of onesies on the bed. 

”No… not every county,” he said. ”Just… most of them?”

You laughed softly at him, brushing your fingertips over the printed castle on one of the onesies. 

”Look at this one,” he said, pulling one from the pile and holding it up in front of him. ”It’s my favourite. Look at the little cow!” 

And you did. You looked at it. But mostly, you looked at your boyfriend. He held the tiny onesie up between the two of you, smiling so brightly it was impossible not to smile back.

[morticiaadm]

[morticiaadm]

[siphappens]

https://www.tumblr.com/siphappens/823618179500851200/noah-does-not-seem-as-the-type-to-listen-to-what?source=share

but it's not enough to blacklist her

Well, guess what happened to Poppy in the pop scene before she moved into metal lol

Ahem. May I please receive another MLA-formatted essay in my inbox detailing what happened while she was pretending to be a pop star? For... academic purposes, of course. 🤓

[siphappens]

Noah does not seem as the type to listen to what people say. He seems more the type that if you try to push your OPINIONS onto him, he will be petty about it because you are not going to convince him what he should sing like, do music like, who he hangs out with, or who he works with. Sumerian is a label, but I really do not think they forced him to do anything with Poppy. He was a fan of her "art" and music before VAN (he's talked about it in his stream and had her songs on Spotify playlist), and she already had accusations during that time. They were both in the scene and I'm sure he was aware of the Titanic and Margo situation. Whether people like it or not, he did not mind working with Poppy and didn't mind complimenting her or listening to her music with all that went on with her. He is cool with her. He doesn't want people to think they are more than that, and that is why he keeps his distance from her on stage, but he also does not dislike her. And you know what, the fans may not like her but it's their music, their choice, and VAN did fairly well. What are you going to do?

I honestly don't think it is that big of a deal. She's controversial and isn't the greatest artist, shes done some messed up stuff, but it's not enough to blacklist her, as we can clearly see. Labels drop artists that are too controversial all the time. Sumerian supports her and clearly so does Bad Omens. It is what it is.

Listen, if you want to criticize the guys, that's your prerogative. I'm not their keeper. I was just giving my opinion based on what I've observed over the years.

And yeah, I absolutely think Noah can be petty. 😂 But I also think he's an adult with bills to pay who knows when to bite his tongue and when it's smarter to keep things professional instead of creating unnecessary problems for himself and everyone around him.

I don't really care that he liked her music before they worked together. Plenty of people did. Hell, I liked one of her songs years ago before I knew about the controversies. People's tastes and opinions change.

That said, I also don't think being civil to a coworker automatically means you're best friends or personally endorsing every decision they've ever made. Most adults are capable of working with people they wouldn't necessarily invite over for dinner.

As for V.A.N., music is subjective. If you enjoyed it, awesome. If you didn't, that's also fine. Personally, I think the instrumentation carries the song more than the vocal performance, but that's just my taste.

And you're right about one thing: the entertainment industry is full of controversial people who continue to work. That's not unique to her. Whether someone should be dropped is a completely different discussion from whether they will be.

I just don't understand why some people expect Noah to become the spokesperson for every controversy involving someone he's professionally associated with. From everything we've publicly seen, he's acted like a coworker; professional, cordial, and then moved on with his day.

Now... go eat a Snickers. You're sounding a little hangry, Anon. 😂

[ourforgottensouls]

[silent-stories]

[deathless]

now you've got nowhere to run

[cagoule-omens]

🤫

[coasttocold]

Right Girl, Wrong Time

Noah Sebastian x Isabella Alexander (oc) Word Count: 3.7k Warnings: angst, heartbreak, almost wedding

[NOAH’S POV]

"You're done," the bartender said, slipping my bourbon from my hand.

I leaned against the bar top. "D’ya know who I am?"

He rolled his eyes at me. "Unfortunately."

"I’m the reason you had a packed bar tonight," I slurred.

"Yeah, sure. Sounds good, bud,” the bartender muttered and continued on.

The guys cackled in the booth behind me.

"Nick!” I yelled petulantly. “Tell him."

Nick didn't even look up from his beer before saying, "I think he's making excellent decisions for you."

Traitor.

Instead of sticking around since I was clearly not going to be served any more, I made my way outside.  I pulled my hoodie up over my head, pulling the strings tighter as I walked. The Chicago air was damp from a spring storm that had swept through earlier. Neon lights blurred across puddles as I dug through my pockets. I stopped to flag down a cab.

Wallet. Check.

Dead phone. Check.

No idea how to get back to the motel we were crashing at for the night? Double check.

I kicked the parking meter that was in front of me and I threw my head back and groaned. "Fantastic.”

"You look stressed," came a calming, quiet voice.

I turned and spotted the soft voice that had spoken and she was clearly not impressed.

The dark haired beauty that stood before me was wearing black slacks, a cream blouse with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and sneakers that clearly didn't belong with the expensive leather overnight bag slung over one of her shoulders.

She was beautiful, in a way that showed she was not trying to be. Her dark hair was twisted into a messy knot and gold hoops dangled on her ears. She even wore a tiny silver cross around her neck. She looked like she'd walked out of a board meeting and accidentally wandered into the wrong neighborhood.

"You talking to me?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I don't see anyone else attempting to negotiate with an empty street."

She let out a laugh. "I have a cab."

"So do I."

"No..." She nodded toward the empty curb. "You had a cab."

Touché.

"I can split it," she offered.

"I'm not sure your parents raised you to pick up drunk musicians."

"My parents raised me to avoid them."

"And yet..."

She winked. "And yet here we are."

She told me her name was Isabella Alexander.

Not Izzy.

Not Bella.

Isabella.

Her parents came from old money, had brought her up in the suburbs of Chicago, but she lived in Wisconsin now, a way to distance herself from her family’s political dynasty.

“I’ve spent my whole life correcting people,” she said, arching her brow at me in the back of the cab that night.

She taught high school English outside Milwaukee and was in Chicago for a conference.

"Exciting stuff," I’d teased.

Isabella smiled at me and shrugged. "You'd be surprised."

"I sincerely doubt that."

She scoffed. "You make music."

"I do."

"I make teenagers believe books aren't torture."

I let her words sink in as I considered that.

"...You might actually have the harder job."

She smiled at me and it felt like victory. The cab rolled through the city while rain tapped against the windows.

"So what do you teach?" I asked.

"Mostly American lit."

"What’s your favorite book?"

She lit up. "East of Eden."

I shrugged. "I’ve never read it."

She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "I know."

I laughed. "You know? You just met me!"

"You looked horrified when I mentioned literature."

I gasped. "I looked interested!"

"You got this constipated look on your face when I said it."

I laughed so hard the driver glanced back in the mirror. Nobody had recently talked to me like that. Certainly not women who knew exactly who I was.

She hadn't asked for a picture and she hadn't mentioned the band. Which yeah, sure, we weren’t big time yet, but she had been hanging outside the bar, it wasn’t typical for someone to be around after a show that didn’t recognize me.

She hadn't so much as flirted.

It was... Refreshing.

[Isabella’s POV]

I had spent twenty-four years doing exactly what was expected of me by my family, by society’s standards.

Catholic school.

Honor student.

College.

Master's degree.

Teaching.

Sunday dinners with my parents who still believed I'd eventually marry someone with a law degree.

I was even dating one.

Daniel.

Successful.

Reliable.

Predictable.

I'd been trying to convince myself for the last few months that predictable was enough.

Then I spent twenty minutes in a taxi with a man who looked like trouble wrapped in tattoos and had laughed more than I had in months.

It was dangerous.

He was dangerous.

"Well," Noah said quietly as the cab stopped outside my hotel.

"Well."

Suddenly, Noah looked shy. "This is where normal people exchange numbers."

"You assume I'm normal."

 He scoffed. "You teach teenagers Shakespeare voluntarily."

I giggled. GIGGLED! "That's fair."

He held out his phone to me before remembering it was dead.

"...Right."

I laughed again.

"Goodnight, Rockstar."

"You know who I am."

"I figured it out eventually."

"You never said anything."

"You looked relieved."

He was.

I exited the cab and started toward the hotel.

"Isabella."

I stopped and turned, hiking my bag up my shoulder.

"What?"

"Come to our show tomorrow in Milwaukee."

"I have meetings."

"Skip them," he practically begged.

"I can't."

"You'll regret it."

I smiled over my shoulder and shrugged, walking through the hotel doors. "Maybe."

[NOAH’S POV]

The next night, I couldn't stop looking toward stage left as a few hundred people were screaming my name. The band sounded perfect.

But between every song, every crowd interaction, I found myself searching the crowd for Isabella like an idiot.

She wasn't coming. Why would she? She had even said she wasn’t coming! She was sensible. She had a career. Probably a boyfriend. She had better judgment than spending time with a rockstar whose reputation could be summarized by one word.

Disaster.

Halfway through the encore, Nick leaned over toward me. "You lose something?"

I shook my head, my hair flopping around. "No."

"You've looked in the same direction fifteen times."

"I'm concentrating."

"On the brunette standing in the back?"

I froze and whipped my head in the direction he mentioned. "What brunette?"

Nick grinned. "So she did come."

My heart thumped hard enough to hurt and I carefully rubbed at it. I found her instantly standing near the back.

Her hair was down tonight and she was wearing a leather jacket over a simple black dress.

No VIP pass. No backstage badge.

She was just another face in the crowd.

Except she wasn't.

She wasn't singing every lyric or recording me with her phone. She was simply...watching as though she wanted to figure out who he was when nobody else was looking.

The guys started up the next song in our setlist and I forgot the next line.

Everyone noticed.

Isabella smiled at that just a little.

Like she knew she'd off centered me. And somehow... That was far more dangerous than if she'd thrown herself at my feet. For the first time in years, I wanted one woman to look at me the way the rest of the world never had. Not as the rockstar I'd become, but as the man I was.

I just had no idea that wanting her would become the easiest part. Keeping her would be my ruin.

[Isabella’s POV]

The first six months felt impossible in the best way.

I spent weekdays teaching sophomore English in a small Wisconsin town and weekends tucked into the back of tour buses, grading essays while the band argued over setlists.

"You know he's kind of a big deal?" Folio teased one afternoon.

I didn't look up from the stack of papers in my lap.

"He still leaves wet towels on the floor."

Noah groaned from the tiny kitchenette. "I liked you better before you knew me."

"No you didn’t," I smiled. "You liked that I didn't know you."

There was a difference. I loved the man who sang to himself while making frozen waffles at two in the morning, who stopped to pet random dogs. Everyone else loved the rockstar version of Noah.

I fell in love with the man who existed after the lights went out.

[NOAH’S POV]

Success came faster than anyone expected. Our next album exploded and small venues became arenas. Sleeper buses became long haul flights. A couple months on the road turned into years long tours.

Everywhere I went, someone wanted something from me. Another interview for a magazine. Another radio appearance. Another meet and greet. Another encore.

The label kept reminding us to stay visible.

"Fans have short memories," our manager warned.

I’d rolled my eyes. "We're literally playing sold out shows."

"And you need them to buy the next record, too."

The industry chipped away at my soul one commitment at a time.

At first, I complained about every interview or I’d roll my eyes at photo shoots.

I hated posting on social media. But then I started checking the streaming numbers before I even got out of bed.

I started to read every review, every fan comment, every comparison to the bands I’d grown up idolizing.

"They don't know you," Isabella whispered over the phone one night, after one particularly harsh comment in a magazine I grew up reading.

"I know."

"So stop reading it."

I shrugged, even though she couldn’t see me. "I can't."

[Isabella’s POV]

It started with little things after I moved to LA. Noah would miss dinner because the band had been invited to a label party. He’d cancel weekends home because a festival offered a last minute slot. He started answering emails in the middle of dates. Oftentimes he would answer calls from management during movie nights.

He was always promising, “Just one more tour.”

I tried to understand. I really did. Music wasn't just his career, it was his dream. Eventually I stopped asking when he'd be home, because the answer was always the same from Noah.

"Soon."

[Isabella’s POV]

The first crack wasn't a scandal, it was a rumor.

Someone uploaded photos from a bar after a show where Noah had an arm around a fan while they laughed for the camera.

The comments filled in the rest. I mostly believed him when he said it was innocent.

The second time was harder.

A fan posted a blurry video from the band's VIP afterparty.

Noah was drunk and a woman sat on his lap while the room was immersed in someone telling a story. The girl had kissed his cheek and he didn't stop her. By morning, the clip had spread through fan pages.

"I'm sorry," he whispered through the phone, shame lacing his words.

"I know," I said softly.

"It didn't mean anything."

"I know."

"But?"

I looked at him on the screen from my phone for a long moment.

"I won’t be the kind of woman who has to explain away things that shouldn't have happened."

Noah went silent at that.

[Noah’s POV]

I promised Isabella I’d do better and for a while I did.

Until another tour. Another sold out arena. With another room full of people telling me I could do no wrong.

Fame wasn't what changed me. The attention had.

Every roar of the crowd made me feel invincible. The line of fans waiting after a show always seemed to remind me someone would always want a piece of me and I craved it.

Eventually, the compliments drowned out the quiet voice telling me to go home.

[Isabella’s POV]

I couldn't compete with a life that never stopped applauding. Eventually, I had to stop trying.

The night everything fell apart was supposed to be a celebration. The bands first sold out show, had sold out in minutes.

I had decided to surprise him after parent teacher conferences, hopping on a plane late in the afternoon with only a small backpack full of essentials.

I snuck in and waited backstage while the crew packed equipment. I never got the chance to surprise Noah though. One of the crew I’d remembered from several shows in the past looked uncomfortable as he handed me his phone.

"I thought...you should probably see this."

It was a video from earlier in the night. Noah was in the VIP room after the show laughing as a woman straddled his lap while everyone around them cheered.

His hands were resting comfortably on her waist. He wasn't pushing her away. It made my stomach roll. I closed my eyes and handed him his phone back, before walking off to find Noah.

I found him outside that VIP room from the video.

I wasn't crying and somehow, that hurt more.

"Tell me I misunderstood," I whispered.

Noah opened his mouth but nothing came out. He knew what I was talking about though, I could tell from how pale his face had gone There was nothing to explain. Maybe he hadn't planned for it to happen. Maybe he'd been drunk. None of it mattered though, because he'd still let it happen.

"I skipped school today," I said quietly. "I wanted tonight to be special."

"Isabella…"

"I kept believing I was different."

Noah’s voice was pained as he choked out, "You are."

He reached for me but I took a step back and I watched as Noah recoiled at my move.

I shook my head. "Not enough."

I turned and walked away, leaving him standing there in that empty hallway. Noah stood there speechless when all I had wanted was for him to chase after me.

[Noah’s POV]

Our breakup stayed mostly private.

Friends took sides.

Fans noticed that Isabella disappeared from backstage.

People on Reddit guessed what had happened.

Neither of us ever commented.

A month later, when I returned home between shows, I came home to a shell of the place I left. I could see where she was missing from in every inch of our apartment. Just up and left her class in the middle of the year, which I knew broke her heart.

I’d heard through the grapevine, before I begged my friends to stop telling me updates about her, that her parents welcomed her back home, set her back up in her childhood room in the Chicago suburbs, and she was spending her days volunteering and helping with her fathers next campaign instead of teaching.

I’d even heard she’d started dating, which sent a knife through my chest. But she deserved to be happy, and I had to live with the part I played in breaking her.

[Noah’s POV]

I tried filling the silence Isabella’s absence left but it never worked.

There were countless women after shows. Meaningless, short relationships with people who loved the idea of dating the lead singer of a famous band.

None of them looked at me the way Isabella had before I gave her a reason to stop, so none of them stayed.

It caused a shift in our music, less loud, not as in your face, and shifted to something heavier.

Fans called the band's new album our best work yet, and new fans poured in.

Only me and the band knew that every track was rooted in something I should have dealt with two years earlier.

"You going to call her?" Nick asked one night.

I stared at his phone in my hand, the weight enormous. "I don't deserve to."

 Nick clucked his tongue. "No, you don’t."

I hissed. "I ruined everything."

"You did."

"Wow, way to not pull any punches.”

“That’s not our friendship,” Nick pointed out.

“So what's the point?"

"The point," Nick said, "isn't getting her back." I looked up at him. "It's about finally becoming the man who wouldn't lose her in the first place."

[Isabella’s POV]

Eventually, I moved out of my parents house and welt back to teaching. I got my own place, just outside of Milwaukee and adopted an aging golden retriever named Snoop. I learned that peace sounded an awful lot like the birds outside my kitchen window.

I heard every new Bad Omens song, not because I sought them out, but because they played in grocery stores, on the local rock station during my drive to work. My students even wore old tour shirts to school.

Sometimes I'd catch a lyric that sounded painfully familiar.

The little diner near our old apartment. The ache of missing someone, something you once held tightly to. Whispers of the conversation where I'd admitted I was terrified of living someone else's version of happiness.

It seemed Noah had remembered all of it, he'd just realized what it meant too late.

Which was fine, I continuously reminded myself. I had moved on. It had been over a year. I had moved on, moving forward.

Well…kind of. A few months after returning home, my ex Daniel had reached out and we had rekindled what we had before Noah entered the picture.

The passion, the fire, wasn’t like it had been with Noah, but after being burned, it felt safe. So when he asked me to marry him, of course I said yes. It was time I left Noah behind.

[Isabella’s POV]

Six weeks before the wedding, I sat across from Daniel at our kitchen table and admitted the truth I'd been trying to outrun.

I loved him, but not the way he deserved. Daniel deserved certainty. I could only offer affection hidden by someone else's ghost. So we ended things quietly.

No drama.

No spectacle.

Just two good people choosing honesty over resentment.

[Noah’s POV]

When I learned Isabella had called off her engagement, I fought everything in me to reach out to her. Some apologies had to be earned before they were spoken.

October arrived with cold mornings and roads lined by gold leaves, and the kickoff of another tour.

We were heading back from Canada to Chicago for our next show, when the driver of the tour bus stopped off at an old diner just outside the Illinois border.

The guys and I clamored off the bus and into the diner, noise and mayhem following behind us.  The bell above the door chimed.

"You've got to be kidding me,” came a voice I had only dreamed about recently.

Isabella looked up from a corner booth and slowly blinked.

I stopped short and actually laughed. The guys instantly went quiet and slowly dispersed.

I held my hands up. "I swear I didn't know you were here."

"I stop here after visiting my parents."

For a second, neither of us moved. Then Isabella carefully pointed toward the empty seat across from her.

"You can sit."

I shrugged. "I wasn't sure you'd want me to."

"I'm not sure either."

I slid into the booth silently but it wasn't awkward. Just...unfamiliar.

“You cut your hair,” she said softly.  I nodded.  "So," she said.

"So. I heard you scrapped half your last album.”

"I did."

"That doesn't sound like you."

"It isn't."

She studied me.

"What changed?"

I smiled faintly. "It didn’t feel real enough." Her expression softened. "I used to think if I became successful enough..." I admitted, "I'd eventually feel like enough."

"And?" she asked softly.

"It turns out fame is really loud." She waited. "But it's a terrible substitute for peace."

She turned to look out the window at trucks rolling down the interstate.

"I almost married Daniel."

"I heard."

"I loved him." I nodded, a choked sound getting caught in the back of my throat at hearing her say it out loud. "But not the way he deserved."

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

Another quiet moment settled between us. Finally she looked back at me.

"Why did you sit down?"

"I stopped making excuses."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only honest one I have." I rested both of my hands on the table and leaned in. "I spent two years thinking about what I'd say if I ever saw you again."

"And?"

"I don't think words can fix what I broke."

Her eyes sharpened. "They don't."

"So I'm not asking you to forgive me."

She raised an eyebrow. "No?"

Steadily, I said, "I'm asking you to know that I finally understand it. I chose attention over intimacy. I let strangers matter more than the woman I loved." Isabella stayed quiet. "I kept waiting until I became the man you deserved."

A sad smile crossed her face.

"And?"

I shook my head. "I finally realized you never asked me to be perfect. You just asked me to be honest."

The corners of her mouth lifted. "That's true."

"I should've told you I was scared."

She shrugged, stirring her coffee. "You should have."

"I should've chased you."

"You definitely should have."

"I should've called."

"You really should have."

"I was an idiot."

She laughed around some choked tears. "Now that...is the most believable thing you've ever said."

We both laughed and the tension eased. I looked at her for a long moment.

"I still love you."

She didn't respond right away. Instead, she reached across the table and turned the coffee mug that was in front me over. The tiny gesture made something in my chest ache.

"I know," she whispered.

"I never stopped."

The noise of the café picked up as we sat there and let the moment sink in. I didn’t know what tomorrow would look like.

I didn’t make any grand declarations sitting there. We were just two people who had finally become honest enough to try again.

When it was time to hit the road again, we left the diner together. I walked Isabella to her car, with the promise that she answered when I called her that night. She agreed, although reluctantly.

It felt right, for the first time in two years, not because the love we still clearly had for each other erased my past mistakes, but because after everything, we were finally walking toward the same future instead of away from it.