Master list
Updated:02/19/2025
Hey guys. I got my brain cells together to make a master list.
FANDOMS
Bad Omens
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Monterey Bay Aquarium

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

Kiana Khansmith
hello vonnie
wallacepolsom
will byers stan first human second

ellievsbear
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
tumblr dot com
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
styofa doing anything

titsay

blake kathryn
Cosmic Funnies

JBB: An Artblog!

No title available

shark vs the universe

⁂
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from Philippines
seen from Australia
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from Belize
seen from United States
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@thepeoplesblogs
Master list
Updated:02/19/2025
Hey guys. I got my brain cells together to make a master list.
FANDOMS
Bad Omens
PLEASE DONT LEAVE ME
Part 2
Warnings: angst, the use of the word self harm.
The tour bus hums around him, a constant, monotonous vibration that should have been lulling him to sleep. But sleep won't come. It hasn't for seven nights. Not since he left you. Not since he watched your face crumble in the living room, a scene that keeps replaying in his head like a nightmare.
His bandmates are already asleep in their bunks. Nicholas is snoring softly, a rhythmic, annoying sound that usually Noah finds comforting. Tonight, it just feels like another reminder that he's trapped here, moving forward when all he wants to do is go back.
He rolls onto his side, pulling his phone out from under his pillow. The screen glows too brightly in the dark bunk, illuminating the planes of his face, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes. He shouldn't do this. He knows he shouldn't. Listening to it once was torture. Listening to it again is another version of self-harm.
But his thumb hovers over the voicemail icon anyway. The little red circle with the number 1 inside it, mocking him. He'd saved it. He couldn't bring himself to delete it, just like he couldn't bring himself to delete your number or the hundreds of photos of you that live on his phone.
With a shaky breath, he taps the screen. He puts his headphones on, needing to hear it in his ears, alone, without the risk of any of the guys waking up and hearing the sound of your voice breaking for him all over again.
The voicemail starts. The automated voice, the beep, and then... you.
“Noah, please. Please pick up. I know you're not going to get this until later but God, Noah, please don't do this. Please don't leave me.”
Your voice is shaky, trying to hold back sobs but failing miserably. He can hear the desperation you so badly didn’t want to show.
“I know you said you can't handle it, but we can figure it out. We can. I can be better. I won't be needy, I swear. I can handle it. Just call me. Please just call me and we can talk about this. You can't just you can't just end it like that. Not over packing. Not with a stupid bag and a... a sorry. It's not fair. It's not fair. I love you. I love you so much, and I know you love me too, you said you did, you said it just last night. Please, Noah. Please don't go. Please don't leave me here alone. I'll do anything. I'll wait forever, I don't care. Just... just don't go. Please... please..."
The voicemail ends. The automated voice comes back to tell him the message is from seven days ago, but he doesn't need the reminder. He lives it every day.
He rips his headphones off, the sound of the bus rushing back in. His eyes burn, but no tears come. He's all cried out. He's been crying since the moment he walked away, since he packed the last of his bags and realized he'd packed away the best thing in his life along with his t-shirts.
He was so sure. So convinced that letting you go was the right thing, the noble thing. He thought he was protecting you from the inevitable disappointment of being with someone like him, someone who's always leaving, always putting his music first. He thought he was being strong.
But listening to your voice, trusting him, loving him even when he was giving you nothing, he realizes he wasn't being strong. He was being a coward. He was choosing the easy way out, choosing a life on the road without the complication of loving you, without the guilt of leaving you behind.
He looks at his phone again, at your name at the top of his recent calls list. His thumb hovers over the button, the one that would connect him to you. He could call you right now. He could tell you he was wrong, that he made a terrible mistake, that he's miserable without you.
But it's 3 AM where you are. And what would he even say? That he's sorry? That he loves you? That he's been listening to your voicemail on repeat like a masochist, torturing himself with the sound of the happiness he threw away?
He locks the phone and tosses it to the end of the bunk. He can't call you. Not yet. He has a show to play tomorrow. Another city, another stage, another night of pretending his heart isn't shattered into a million pieces.
He closes his eyes, but all he can see is your face. All he can hear is your voice, telling him you'll be there, telling him he can do this.
And he knows, with a certainty that feels like a physical weight on his chest, that he was wrong. He can't do this. Not without you.
The first show is in Salt Lake City. It was sold out show, a room buzzing with an energy that used to feel like a drug to him. Now, it just feels like noise. He stands backstage, the familiar weight of his microphone in his hand but it feels foreign, like he's wearing someone else's skin. Nicholas claps him on the back, grinning. "Ready to tear it up, man?"
Noah forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Ready."
He walks out onto the stage, and the roar of the crowd hits him. It's a wall of sound, a wave of adoration that should be grounding, that should make him feel alive. But as he looks out at the sea of faces, all he sees is the empty space where you should be. He sees the ghost of your smile in the front row, the way you used to mouth the words to every song, your eyes locked on him like he was the only person in the room.
He starts to play the role of rockstar. The music is there, the notes are right, but the passion is gone. He's going through the motions, a puppet on a string. He sings the words, but they're just sounds, just syllables. The meaning has been stripped away, leaving only the hollow shell of the song.
He gets to the bridge of the third song, a quiet, introspective moment where it's just his voice. The crowd falls silent, their phone lights creating a galaxy around him. And in that silence, your voice comes back to him, clear as day.
“ Please don't leave me here alone. I'll do anything.”
His mouth fumbles on the words, a sound that makes its way through the arena. A few heads turn, a few murmurs ripple through the crowd. He recovers quickly, his professionalism kicking in, but the damage is done. He's exposed. He's not the rock god they came to see. He's just a man who made a mistake, a man who is unraveling in front of a thousands people.
The rest of the show is a blur. He sings, he bows, he walks off stage. The applause is deafening, but all he can hear is the sound of his own heart breaking. Backstage, the band is buzzing with adrenaline, high on the energy of the crowd. They're laughing, slapping each other on the back, already talking about where they're going to get a late-night drink.
But Noah just grabs his bag and heads for the bus. He needs to be alone. He needs to drown out the sound of your voice with the hum of the engine and the silence of his own regret.
He's sitting at the little table in the front lounge of the bus, staring at his phone, when Nicholas comes and sits down across from him.
"Tough night?" Nicholas asks, his voice gentle.
Noah shrugs, not looking up from his phone. "Just tired."
Nicholas is quiet for a moment. "You know, you can talk to me, right? Whatever's going on with you with her. You don't have to carry it alone."
Noah finally looks up, his eyes raw and vulnerable. "What if I can't fix it? What if I fucked up so bad that there's no going back?"
Nicholas sighs, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "Then you deal with it. You show up every day and you try to be better. You don't get to just check out because you're hurting. That's not how it works."
Noah nods, his throat tight. He knows Nicholas is right. But knowing and doing are two different things.
After Nicholas goes to bed, Noah picks up his phone again. He opens his contacts, his thumb hovering over your name. He's been doing this for days, a sick, repetitive ritual of self-torture. But tonight is different. Tonight, something in him has shifted.
He's not just sorry anymore. He's determined.
He opens a new message, his fingers flying across the screen.
I'm an idiot. I'm a coward. And I'm miserable without you. I know I don't deserve it, but I need to talk to you. Please call me when you get this.
He hits send before he can talk himself out of it. The message delivers, a little check mark appearing next to it. And then he waits. He waits for the three dots that will tell him you're typing, for the buzz of his phone that will tell you've called.
But an hour passes, and then two. And his phone remains silent. He finally gives up, tossing it onto the seat beside him and closing his eyes. He's done what he can. The ball is in your court now.
He doesn't know if you'll ever call him back. He doesn't know if you'll ever forgive him. All he knows is that he can't do this anymore. He can't pretend he's okay when he's not. He can't be the man they need him to be on stage if he's not the man you need him to be off it.
He's on a bus to Denver, but he's already on his way back to you. He just has to hope you'll be there when he arrives.
A/n this is where shits about to get interesting and the story is broken up in alternate timelines
TAGLIST
@itsfarbettertolearn
Ahh I need a part 2 to Please don't leave! Except it's reader moving on And Noah comes back from tour assuming they just pick up where they left off
I have a few endings in mind
PLEASE DONT LEAVE
A/N heavy gasp immmmm backkkk. Did you miss me because I missed you. Just a heads up this story will not end happy.
Warning: this is fanfiction. Cursing and angst.
The afternoon sun slanted through the blinds, casting long, dusty stripes across the living room floor. The only sounds were the distant hum of traffic and the rhythmic, heavy thump of Noah’s boots as he moved around his bedroom. I was curled on the couch, pretending to read a book, but my eyes kept drifting toward the hallway where his duffel bag lay open, a dark mouth ready to swallow him whole for three months. The air already felt different, thinner, like he was slowly being erased from the space around me.
"Hey," his voice called out, rougher than usual. "Can you come here for a sec?"
My stomach tightened. It wasn't the warm, easy tone he usually used. This was clipped, business-like. I dog-eared my page and walked down the hall, stopping in his doorway. He was standing with his back to me, rifling through a stack of t-shirts in his closet, his shoulders a rigid line of tension. He didn't turn around.
"I need to talk to you," he said to the wall of clothes.
"Okay," I whispered, my heart starting to pound against my ribs. "Everything alright?"
He finally turned, and the look on his face was one I’d seen a few times before, but never directed at me. It was the look he got before a particularly hard show, or when he was trying to let someone down easy from the label. It was closed off, pained, and utterly final. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, avoiding my eyes.
"No," he said, his voice cracking on the single word. "No, it's not." He took a deep breath, and the words came out in a rush, like he was ripping off a bandage. "I don't think I can do this. I don't think I can handle a relationship on the road. Not this time."
The floor seemed to drop out from under me. The striped sunlight on the hardwood blurred. "What?" It was a stupid, useless word, the only one I could form. "But we talked about this. We said we'd make it work. You said you wanted me to fly out.”
"I know what I said," he cut in, his voice strained. He finally looked at me, and his eyes were full of a desperate apology that was somehow worse than anger. "And I meant it. I thought I could. But I'm just looking at this bag, and I'm thinking about all the cities, and the late nights, and the pressure and I can't. I can't ask you to wait around for me while I'm off doing all this. It's not fair to you."
He stepped closer, his hands reaching out to grab my arms, his grip firm but not painful. "It's not fair to me either. I need to be 100% in this, for the band. My head needs to be in the game, and I know if I'm out there worrying about you, worrying about us. I'll screw it up. I'll be a shitty boyfriend and a shitty frontman. I can't be either of those things."
Each word was a carefully aimed punch. I could see the logic in it, the cold, practical sense of his reasoning, but it didn't stop the sharp, searing pain that was radiating through my chest. He was preemptively breaking my heart to save himself the trouble later. He was choosing the tour over me. He was choosing himself.
"So that's it?" I managed to say, my voice shaking. "You're just ending it? Just like that? Before you've even left?"
His face crumpled. "God, no, don't say it like that. It's not 'just like that.' This is the hardest thing I've had to do in a long time." He let go of my arms, his hands dropping to his sides as if they were too heavy to hold up. "But yeah. Yeah, I guess it is. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
He turned back to his bag, grabbing a handful of shirts and shoving them inside, a frantic, messy energy taking him over. The conversation was over. He had said his piece. I stood there in the doorway of his room, watching the man I love pack his bags while throwing me away with his old t-shirts he no longer wants. The silence that fell between us was heavier than any of the words he'd just spoken, filled with the sound of zippers and the final, crushing thud of a future that was never going to happen.
The first tear was a betrayal, a hot, salty drop that escaped before I could even register the emotion behind it. It traced a path down my cheek, and I wiped it away angrily with the back of my hand, as if I could physically erase the hurt. But then another followed, and another, until a silent, steady stream was flowing. I wasn't sobbing, not yet. It was worse than that. It was a quiet, hollow collapse, the sound of a dam breaking inside me with no one to hear it but the man who had just detonated the charge.
Noah stopped his frantic packing. The sound of his movements ceased, and the silence that filled the room was suddenly deafening, broken only by the ragged sound of my breathing. I could feel his eyes on me, but I couldn't look at him. I stared at the worn floorboards, at the dusty stripes of sunlight, at anything but the source of this agony. I felt his hand hover near my back, hesitant and unsure, before he let it fall to his side again.
"Don't," I choked out, the word barely audible. "Don't touch me." I finally lifted my head, my vision swimming. "Please don't touch me."
He looked wrecked, his own eyes glistening, but his hands remained clenched at his sides. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, the words useless and hollow. "I'm so sorry, baby."
The endearment, the one he knew was my undoing, was the final blow. It shattered what little composure I had left. A raw, broken sob tore from my throat, and I covered my face with my hands, my shoulders shaking with the force of it. I cried for the future that was now gone, for the promises that didn’t mean anything, and for the boy I loved who was standing right in front of me but was already gone.
My sobs subsided into ragged, hitching breaths, the energy completely drained from my body. I stood there, motionless, a statue carved from grief, as Noah watched me. His face was a mask of torment, the apology in his eyes warring with a desperate need to escape the scene he had created.
Finally, he moved. Not toward me, but to the duffel bag on the floor. He zipped it up with a sharp, definitive pull, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the suffocating silence of the room. He grabbed his guitar case from the corner, his movements stiff and robotic. He was methodical now, a man completing a grim task. He slung the bag over his shoulder and picked up his guitar, his keys jangling softly in his hand.
He paused at the doorway. Then he was gone. I heard his heavy footsteps retreat down the hall, the soft click of the front door, and the definitive thud of it closing behind him.
The silence that rushed in to fill the space he left was absolute. It was heavier than sound, a physical weight pressing down on me. The room suddenly felt cavernous and cold. The striped sunlight on the floor seemed to mock me, highlighting the empty space where his bag had been, the empty space where he had stood. I sank to my knees on the hardwood floor, the world tilting violently, and pressed my forehead against the cool wood. He hadn't just left the room. He had erased our entire world, and I was left alone in the rubble.
I don't know how long I stayed there on the floor, my cheek pressed against the cool, unforgiving wood. Time had lost its shape, stretching into a single, endless moment of pain. The sun shifted, the stripes of light crawling across the floor like a spider but I didn't move. The air in the room grew stale, thick with the scent of his cologne and the taste of my own tears.
Eventually, a different kind of pain began to register a deep, aching stiffness in my knees and back. The cold seeped through my jeans, a sharp, physical reminder of the world outside my grief. With a monumental effort, I pushed myself up, my body trembling. I felt ancient, hollowed out.
My eyes fell on the spot where his bag had been. The floor was scuffed there, a faint, semi-circular mark from where it had rested. It was the only evidence he'd been there at all, aside from the gaping wound in my chest. I stumbled out of his room, my hand trailing along the wall for support. The whole apartment felt wrong, alien. The living room was too quiet, the kitchen too clean. Everywhere I looked, I saw the absence of him.
My gaze landed on the couch, on my abandoned book. Next to it, on the end table, was his coffee mug, a dark ceramic one with a chip on the rim that he always used. He must have made coffee before he started packing. I reached out and touched it. It was cold. So cold.
That small, mundane detail was what finally broke me completely. The cold coffee. The unfinished morning. It was the proof that life had been happening, normal and sweet, just an hour ago. And now it was over. A guttural, sound tore from my throat as I swept the mug off the table. It shattered against the hardwood, the pieces exploding across the floor like tiny, sharp stars. I stood amidst the wreckage, my chest heaving, my hands shaking. I was alone in the silence, surrounded by the pieces of a life that was no longer mine.
The sound of my own ragged breathing was the only thing that broke the silence. I stared down at the ceramic shards scattered across the floor, glittering like tiny, cruel stars in the fading light. For a moment, I had the insane urge to drop to my knees and try to piece it back together, to find every fragment and glue them into some semblance of a whole. But I knew it would be useless. It would always be broken.
My gaze drifted past the wreckage, past the couch, to the small bookshelf tucked in the corner of the living room. And there they were. Tucked between a dog-eared novel and a stack of vinyl records was the bag of candles he'd bought for me. It was a stupid, sentimental thing we'd laughed about. "So you don't forget what home smells like," he'd said, his voice light and teasing, just last week. "Burn one every night. Then you can imagine I'm there."
A fresh wave of nausea rolled through me. The memory was so vivid, so full of a warmth that now felt like a searing brand against my skin. I walked over to the shelf on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else. I pulled the bag out. It was crinkly and full, a promise of fifty nights of comfort he was never going to keep. I could smell the faint, sweet scent of vanilla and sandalwood through the plastic.
I looked from the bag of candles in my hand to the broken mug on the floor. One was a promise of presence, the other the proof of absence. The irony was so sharp, so brutal, it almost made me laugh. Instead, a choked sob escaped my lips. I clutched the bag to my chest, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet room, and sank to the floor amidst the sharp, glittering pieces of the mug. I was surrounded by the ghosts of our life together the coffee he'd never finish, the candles he'd never see burn, the home that was no longer a home. I was holding a future that had been cancelled, and I didn't know how to let it go.
The floor was cold against my skin, the sharp edges of the ceramic mug digging into my palms. I clutched the bag of candles, a tangible link to the life that had just been amputated. The silence in the apartment was a physical presence, a crushing weight that was suffocating me. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. All I could do was feel the gaping, raw hole where my future used to be.
My phone was on the coffee table, its screen dark. It felt like a mile away. With a groan, I pushed myself up, my body aching in protest. I stumbled toward it, my fingers fumbling as I picked it up. The screen lit up, blinding in the dim room, and my thumb hovered over his name in my contacts. It was still there, right at the top of my favorites list. Noah ❤️.
My vision blurred with fresh tears as I pressed the button. I didn't even think about what I was going to say. I just needed to hear his voice, or at least the sound of his voicemail picking up. The phone rang once, twice, three times. Each ring was a tiny hammer blow against my ribs. Then, it clicked.
"You've reached Noah. Leave a message."
The sound of his voice, even the cool, distant recorded version, was like a match to a gasoline-soaked rag. The dam broke completely.
"Noah," I sobbed, the word torn from my throat. "Noah, please. Please pick up. I know you're not going to get this until later but God, Noah, please don't do this. Please don't leave me." My words were a torrent, a desperate, pathetic stream of consciousness. "I know you said you can't handle it, but we can figure it out. We can. I can be better. I won't be needy, I swear. I can handle it. Just call me. Please just call me and we can talk about this. You can't just you can't just end it like that. Not over packing. Not with a stupid bag and a... a sorry. It's not fair. It's not fair. I love you. I love you so much, and I know you love me too, you said you did, you said it just last night. Please, Noah. Please don't go. Please don't leave me here alone. I'll do anything. I'll wait forever, I don't care. Just... just don't go. Please... please..."
I trailed off into incoherent weeping, the phone slick with my tears. I must have stood there for a full minute, just sobbing into the receiver, before the automated voice cut in. "To delete this message, press 7. To save it, press 9." I fumbled, my thumb slipping, and hit a button. The call ended.
I stared at the screen, at the duration of the call: 2:47. Two minutes and forty-seven seconds of pure, undignified begging. A wave of hot shame washed over me, so intense it almost eclipsed the grief. I had just laid every last shred of my dignity at his feet, and he wouldn't even hear it until he was hundreds of miles away, already gone. I threw the phone onto the couch, and it bounced onto the floor, landing screen-down, as if it couldn't bear to witness my humiliation either. I was truly, completely alone.
I just read the next chapter of the Noah fic and I need you to write more plz also I’m sorry about your grandma
It’s ok friend
Pleasee make more Y/n and her friends back story dory seems cool. Also can we get a what does Dory look like inspiration
Im working on some stuff rn
“can mutuals dm you?” my mutuals can fire me from a cannon through a brick wall, looney tunes style. as long as we’re all having fun
Literally
writers, you can and should be proud of your fic even if you personally are not satisfied with it. because even if you think it's "not good", you can be proud of the fact that you wrote it and it's something you created. you can be proud of the fact it's not ai.
repeat after me, it's something you put your soul and dedication in — and that's something ai could never achieve.
I have to remind myself this all the time
same here <3
You are such a a good writers mads
Imagine hating on me and I’m over here getting stared at by this big guy
Yes it’s a mgk porch goose
writers, you can and should be proud of your fic even if you personally are not satisfied with it. because even if you think it's "not good", you can be proud of the fact that you wrote it and it's something you created. you can be proud of the fact it's not ai.
repeat after me, it's something you put your soul and dedication in — and that's something ai could never achieve.
I have to remind myself this all the time
Hey guys I’m working on some new stuff but prob won’t be posted until after Tuesday. Most of it is super fluffy.
Any 5sos fans on here want 2 free tickets to the June 9th show? I upgraded and I don’t know anyone else that would want to go
NICK FOLIO fic
A/N: here’s what I could do for sweet folio. Sorry it took so long I kept giggling the entire time bc my ex could’ve been folios twin.
I remember those early days with Nick so clearly, before Bad Omens became the phenomenon it is today. We were just young people in love, navigating the exciting but challenging world of local music scenes and empty venues.
Nick was already so dedicated to his music even back then. He'd spend hours practicing with the band, and driving to whatever small club or dive bar would have them. Those early tours were brutal cramped vans, questionable motels, and shows where sometimes there were more band members than audience members.
While I was incredibly proud of his passion and talent, I won't pretend it wasn't lonely. There were weeks when he'd be gone, playing string of festivals across different states. I'd count down the days until his return, our brief phone calls becoming my lifeline. The nights were the hardest coming home to an empty apartment, scrolling through social media seeing pictures of him living his dream while I was just waiting.
What made it bearable was knowing how much he missed me too. He'd call me after shows, exhausted but excited, telling me every detail about the performance. He'd send me little things from the road, a drum stick, a photo of the venue, sometimes just a text saying "thinking of you." Those small gestures reminded me that even though we were apart, we were building something together.
Those lonely nights taught me patience and gave me a deeper appreciation for the moments we did have together. Looking back now, I realize those struggles were just part of the journey that led us to where we are today. Like the time at Sonic Temple
Sonic Temple. I should have been proud, watching the band's name on the festival poster, but all I felt was this cold, hollow ache. He called me from backstage, and the noise was a physical assault through the phone a wall of sound that immediately put a barrier between us.
"Hey," he said, his voice tight and distant. "Just wanted to say we're about to go on. It's insane here."
"Insane," I repeated, the word tasting like ash in my mouth. "I bet. I'm sure it's a real thrill."
I heard him sigh, a sound of pure exhaustion that wasn't physical. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong?" I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. "Nothing's wrong, Nick. I'm just sitting in our silent apartment, staring at your toothbrush next to mine, wondering if you even remember what I look like. Don't let me interrupt your 'insane' time."
"Jesus, not now," he hissed, and I could picture him turning away from the crowd, his hand pressed to his forehead. "I can't do this right now. I have to be on in five minutes."
"And I have to be alone for another five days," I shot back, my voice shaking with a rage that was born from pure desperation. "Five minutes, five days, what's the difference? I'm always just waiting for you, aren't I? Just some pit stop you call between shows to feel grounded before you fly off again."
"That's not fair," he said, but there was no fight in his voice, just a weary resignation that somehow hurt more than if he'd yelled back.
"Fair?" I was crying now, hot, angry tears I couldn't stop. "You want to talk about fair? It's not fair that I pour every piece of myself into supporting you, and in return, I get a few rushed phone calls where I can barely hear you over the sound of your real life. Your real life that doesn't seem to have much room for me in it anymore."
"You knew what this was," he said, and that was the dagger. The cold, hard truth that I had, in fact, signed up for this ache.
"I knew I was dating a musician," I choked out. "I didn't know I was dating a ghost."
The line went dead. He didn't even hang up on me properly; the call just ended, swallowed by the chaos of his world. I stood there, phone in hand, my entire body trembling. I hadn't just lost the argument; I had lost my place. I was just noise now, another piece of static he had to filter out to get to the stage.
Tags
@aranza17
MOTHERS DAY
A/N I had this cute idea to write about Y/N first Mother’s Day. This takes place in the angsty Noah fic world
Warnings: mentions of death, but over all just cute. Also this is just a work of fiction.
Your first Mother's Day began in the quiet stillness of dawn, with Keaton's soft whimpers pulling you from sleep. As you lifted him from his bassinet, his dark brown eyes that are so much like Noah's had blinked open, and you felt that overwhelming surge of maternal love mixed with the ache of his absence. The tour had started only days before, forced by industry obligations despite his protests.
Just as you settled back against the pillows with Keaton nursing, your phone buzzed. Noah's face filled the screen, his hair messy from sleep but his eyes bright and focused on you.
"Happy Mother's Day," he said, his voice warm despite the awful quality of the speaker. "I wish I was there to say it in person."
"Thanks love," you replied with a watery smile. "We miss you."
"I miss you both so much," he said, his gaze softening as he watched Keaton. "Let me see him properly." You adjusted the camera so Noah could see Keaton's tiny face, his lips working rhythmically against your skin. "He's getting bigger already, I swear."
"Noah, he's three months old. He can't have changed that much in four days."
"I see it," he insisted. "Hey, I have a surprise coming for you. My mom always said Mother's Day calls for a proper brunch, even if it's just for two. I love you so much baby." Your heart clenched at the casual mention of his mother, gone for years now, but you knew this was his way of creating traditions for your new family.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. You shuffled to the door with Keaton still in your arms to find a delivery person with a spread from your favorite brunch spot eggs benedict, avocado toast, fresh fruit, and even a single mimosa in a chilled flute. The card read: "For my favorite mom. Love, Noah & Keaton."
You FaceTimed him again as you arranged the feast on the coffee table. "You didn't have to do all this," you said, though your voice was thick with emotion.
"Of course I did," he replied, and you could see the genuine effort behind his smile. "First Mother's Day is important. My mom would have wanted you to be celebrated properly."
After the call, the day settled into its rhythm of feedings, diaper changes, and quiet moments. You attempted to take a selfie with Keaton propped against your shoulder, but he kept turning his head to gum at your collarbone, resulting in a series of blurry photos that made you laugh despite your loneliness. Keaton, ever fascinated by textures, kept grabbing at the locket Noah had given you, the one containing tiny photos of all three of you. His fingers, impossibly small, traced the engraved pattern on the back as you rocked him gently and hummed one of Noah's softer melodies.
That evening, Keaton fell asleep against your chest, his breath warm and steady against your skin. You traced the downy hair on his head, marveling at how someone so small could contain so much of Noah and yet be entirely his own person. The loneliness hadn't vanished, but it had transformed into something else a fierce, protective love that felt both brand new and ancient, as if you'd been waiting your whole life to be this person for this child.
I’m taking request for fanfic ideas. I need to get my juices following again
ANGSTY NOAH FIC
side quest 2
A/n here’s a little thing I wrote about you getting sick after having the baby and Noah watches him.
Warnings: sickness
The fever had left you feeling hollowed out, a deep ache settling in your bones that no amount of sleep seemed to touch. Keaton, just a few weeks old, was a bundle of needy energy, his cries piercing through the haze of your illness. Every time you tried to sit up, a wave of dizziness would force you back against the pillows, the simple act of reaching for him feeling like climbing a mountain.
Noah found you like that, propped up against the headboard with a cool cloth on your forehead, trying to soothe a fussy Keaton against your chest. He took one look at your pale face and the exhausted slump of your shoulders, and his usual playful demeanor softened into serious concern.
"You look like you're about to shatter," he said, his voice low as he gently took Keaton from your arms, the baby instantly quieting at the familiar scent of his father. "When did you last eat something? Or actually sleep?"
You managed a weak shrug. "It's all a blur. He's been so fussy, and I just, I can't seem to get ahead of it."
Noah rocked Keaton slowly, his gaze moving between you and his son. A thoughtful expression crossed his face. "Okay, here's the plan," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You are going to stay right here in this bed. I'm going to make you some tea, find you some crackers, and then I'm taking this little guy with me to the studio."
You started to protest, but he cut you off gently. "No, listen. Michael and Jolly are there. They've been asking to meet him properly anyway. It'll be good for him to get some fresh air, and it'll be even better for you to get some actual, uninterrupted rest. Four hours. Maybe five. Just sleep. Please?"
Seeing the earnestness in his eyes, you relented, a wave of relief washing over you so strongly it almost brought tears to your eyes. "Okay," you whispered. "But call me if he needs anything. Anything at all."
"I will," he promised, leaning down to kiss your forehead. "He'll be fine. He's got his uncles with him."
True to his word, Noah bundled Keaton up in his car seat and headed out. The silence that fell over the apartment was immediate and profound. You slept, deeply and dreamlessly, for the first time in weeks.
NOAH POV
The studio hummed with a low, creative energy when Noah arrived, Keaton's car seat carrier bumping against his leg. Michael was hunched over a mixing board, his brow furrowed in concentration, while Jolly was sprawled on a couch, absently plucking at an acoustic guitar, a melody taking shape in the quiet space.
"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," Jolly drawled, looking up. His expression shifted from teasing to genuine surprise when he saw the baby carrier. "Noah, you didn't tell me you were bringing a collaborator today."
Noah set the carrier down on the empty couch, unbuckling a still-sleeping Keaton. "Emergency backup," he explained quietly. "She's sick. Needed a few hours of actual sleep, so I'm on dad duty. Hope you guys don't mind."
Michael turned from the board, a wide grin spreading across his face. "Mind? Are you kidding? Bring the little guy over." He carefully washed his hands at the small sink before approaching, peering into the carrier. "He's got your lungs, I can tell. Look at the size of him."
For the first hour, Keaton remained the sleeping studio mascot. They worked, falling into their familiar rhythm, but with a new, softer layer of awareness. Noah would glance over every few minutes, a silent check-in. The usual clatter and raised voices were muted, replaced by a more focused intensity.
Then Keaton woke up, not with a cry, but with a series of soft, inquisitive coos. Jolly was the first to notice, setting his guitar aside. "I think someone's ready for his soundcheck." He scooped the baby up with surprising ease, cradling him against his chest. "Hey there, Keaton. Welcome to the chaos. This is where the magic happens, or at least, where we make a lot of noise trying to find it."
Keaton stared up at Jolly's face, his tiny fists unclenching. Noah watched, a warmth spreading through his chest. It was one thing to see his son in his arms, but another entirely to see him in the arms of his brothers.
The real test came when they decided to run through a new, heavy track. The driving riff kicked in, and Michael looked at Noah, a question in his eyes. Noah just nodded. "Let's see what he thinks of the family business."
As the music swelled with guitars, punchy drums, and Noah's signature guttural vocals filling the room. Jolly started a slow, gentle bounce, a human shock absorber. He walked Keaton around the room, pointing at the glowing lights on the equipment, murmuring explanations over the wall of sound. "See that? That's the bass. You can feel it in your bones, can't you? And that's your dad, making all that noise. Pretty cool, huh?"
Keaton didn't cry. He didn't even flinch. His eyes, wide and alert, tracked the movement, his head bobbing slightly with Jolly's rhythm. When Noah came to the mic for a particularly aggressive vocal section, he looked over and saw his son watching him, utterly captivated.
It was a strange, beautiful juxtaposition: the raw, visceral power of their music and the fragile, perfect innocence of the baby in the center of it all. When the song ended, the silence felt heavier, more meaningful.
"He's a natural," Michael said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Not even a flinch."
"Told you," Noah said, his voice thick with an emotion he hadn't expected. "He gets it from me."
Jolly handed Keaton back to Noah, and the baby immediately nestled against his father's chest, letting out a contented sigh. In that moment, looking around the studio at his bandmates. Noah felt the different parts of his life click into place. The musician, the father, the partner. It wasn't about balancing them anymore. It was about them all existing together, in this loud, messy, perfect harmony.
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