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concretejunglefm · 24 days ago

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Will you wait me out?

Summary: You were once the best of friends—maybe a little bit more—and maybe, if life hadn’t gotten in the way, things could be different now, but instead, a decade after you once knew Noah, you see his face again and find yourself chasing ghosts in the form of old memories, before finally coming face to face with the past.

Part 1 here

Pairing: Noah Sebastian x f!reader.

CW: includes mentions of old feelings, soft reunions, fluffy moments, protected sex (p in v), fingering & oral (f receiving).

WC: 6.8k.

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

The first time Noah receives a postcard, the other guys laugh and admittedly, he does too. They’re no strangers to odd fan mail. Letters declaring undying love or detailing how much the band means to someone are typical, normal even, but a postcard that essentially mirrors his own words back to him? That’s a little strange. Most people use email these days, so a postcard feels out of place. Peculiar, even, especially one unsigned, and yet, the longer he stares at the handwriting scrawled across it, the more familiar it feels, though he can’t quite place it.

Weeks go by before a whole pile gets dumped in his lap. They’ve been on the road, touring on and off, and a quick trip back home to California gave them a chance to swing by their PO box—Davis, at least.

“More?” Noah asks.

Davis just shrugs with a quiet, “I guess so.”

More laughter erupts from the rest of the guys, followed by a comment from Jolly. “I think someone’s got an obsessed fan,” the Swede remarks.

Noah laughs in agreement, brushing it off, until he starts reading them. One by one, he flips through the postcards and it’s the details—small, intimate details—that start to hit him. Mentions of places, shared memories, little ideas he once spoke of, but only with one person in mind. That’s when the realization hits him, these aren’t just any old fan mail, they’re from you.

Admittedly, it’s a little insane to assume you’re out there, somewhere, sending him these postcards. Postcards that contain oddly specific details from conversations you once had.

He remembers when you confessed your fear of rollercoasters after a senior class trip was announced for Six Flags. You didn’t want people to think you were scared of the rides—even though you knew you were, and Noah had agreed, without hesitation, to stay back with you the entire trip. Later, you’d made a promise: you’d conquer the fear together, after graduation, but after that, you left.

You both made a lot of promises back then—some spoken, some not—but plenty of them stuck. With each read-through of the postcards, Noah still doesn’t know how to feel. Happy? Sad? Angry? Why reach out now, after all this time? You left, didn’t you?

Or maybe it was him.

The details from a decade ago have blurred at the edges, both of you swept up in teenage hormones and diverging dreams.

“It was her. I’m sure of it,” Davis tells him one night—referring to the girl who supposedly showed up at a show and left early, bumping into him on the way out.

“You’re sure?” Noah asks, skeptical, but maybe now, it’s his turn to go a little insane with the idea of finding you.

Searches across social media turned up almost nothing. Either you’d changed your name completely or disappeared off the grid. Either way, he drove himself halfway to madness trying to find you. A couple of LinkedIn profiles came close, but no pictures, no details concrete enough to know if they were really you.

It’s like chasing ghosts, searching for someone who’s been leaving a trail just for him to follow, only to vanish the moment he gets close. All it’s done is stir the memory of you that once lingered quietly in the back of his mind. Now, it’s no longer a fleeting thought, but something he carries every day, wondering when—or if, another postcard will arrive.

Gradually, your face becomes the one he looks for in the crowd. Every night. Hopeful that maybe, this time, he’ll spot you among the sea of strangers and each time the chords to Just Pretend begin, it’s like tearing open an old wound. When he wrote it, he thought he was past it, past you, past the unspoken weight of everything that once lingered between you, but now, it’s all come flooding back—resurrected. Everything he buried instead of confronting, all the what ifs echoing too loudly in his head.

Between the relentless touring, the quiet obsession of chasing your ghost, and the burnout from overworking and writing new music, he’s slowly becoming a cliché. The performing monkey, doing what he’s told, when he’s told—wearing the familiar mask everyone’s grown to love: the sweet, shy frontman, but behind closed doors, he’s unraveling. People keep telling him to take a break, to slow down, to stop putting so much pressure on himself, but the truth is, it never sinks in. He doesn’t stop. Even when he pretends to.

Even now, sitting at the back of the bus, he’s scrolling through yet another batch of profiles—every possible variation of your name, your nickname, anything that might lead to you—and still, nothing. Every search turns up empty.

It’s like you really are a ghost.

When he hears your voice say your name for the first time in a decade, Noah has to convince himself he’s not hallucinating. He looks up and sees you. Your name rolls off his tongue with practiced ease, as if it had never left his lips.

Noah glances over at Matt, torn between slipping away and silently apologizing for holding everyone up, but then his gaze returns to you, and instinctively, his hand reaches out to grasp yours. It’s an unconscious motion—part disbelief, part grounding. You feel solid beneath his touch. Real. Warm. Your skin is softer than he remembers, and his hand feels larger now, enveloping yours with ease. You might’ve felt embarrassed by how clammy your palm is—if his weren’t just the same.

“Do you have to go?” Noah asks.

“Uh…” You hesitate, because no, you don’t have to go anywhere, but you didn’t exactly plan what to do if he actually wanted to see you.

“She can wait with me,” Davis offers, stepping out from behind the Bad Omens banner erected behind them. Your mouth opens—an apology on the tip of your tongue, or maybe an excuse, but before you can speak, Noah is already nodding.

“Yeah. Go hang with Davis. I won’t be much longer,” he tells you, guiding you around the edge of the table. His grip tightens slightly, reluctant to let go, and truthfully, you’re not ready to either.

When your eyes meet his, it’s there—the flood of things left unsaid, the echo of the hope and dreams you once shared as teenagers. Somehow, that spark still lingers. You feel it in his touch, in his gaze. He never stopped caring.

Behind him, Jolly leans toward Nicholas, whispering a question. Nicholas murmurs something back, both of them giving you the space to have this moment, even with fans still in line and crew buzzing around.

“I’ll be over…” you start, gesturing vaguely, your eyes unwilling to leave his face.

“Yeah…” Noah nods, his voice softer now, as he finally lets go of your hand and the weight of Davis’s hand on your shoulder pulls you back into the present.

You murmur an apology—you’re not even sure what for. For bumping into him at the concert? For showing up now? For holding up the meet and greet? Your thoughts are spinning, but Davis seems to sense it. Gently, he suggests stepping outside, offering a reprieve—a quiet place to gather yourself.

“So… postcards, huh?” Davis says, leaning beside you as your back meets the cool surface of the brick wall.

You take a deep breath, inhaling the fresh air in an effort to steady yourself. Tilting your head toward him, you shrug, heat rising to your cheeks as your gaze drops to the ground.

“You know he’s been going crazy over them ever since the first one.”

“Really?” you ask, your voice soft—unable to hide the flicker of hope in your tone, as if maybe this could fix everything, as if it could erase ten years of silence and missed chances.

Davis glances over at you, his tone gentle, free of judgment. “What made you do it?” He sounds genuinely curious. Not prying. Not skeptical. Just trying to understand.

You briefly consider telling Davis the truth—how it all started when you came across that magazine. How everything spiraled from there. It hadn’t been entirely intentional. More like some strange twist of fate. A coincidence, maybe, but somehow, everything that led you to this moment doesn’t feel like coincidence at all. It feels inevitable. Like the pull between you and Noah had always been there, quietly waiting, ready to snap you back into each other’s orbit.

You open your mouth to answer, but the fire exit creaks open, cutting you off.

Noah steps out and his eyes lock onto yours immediately, wide and disbelieving. For a second, he just stands there, stunned. Like seeing you again is something he still hasn’t convinced himself is real. He looks at you like you’re a dream he’s been chasing, one he’s terrified might vanish the moment he blinks.

You barely catch Davis slipping past you both, heading inside—too caught up in the sight of Noah slowly approaching.

“Is it really…”

You see Noah’s hands trembling as he reaches out for you, his palms gently cupping your face, cradling you as he gazes down in awe—like you’re some unholy treasure he’s unearthed. You swear you see the shimmer of tears in his eyes.

“It is,” you whisper, nodding softly as you look up at him. Your hands reach for him in return, your fingers threading through his now much shorter hair. “You cut your hair.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles—soft, gravelly—and it stirs a warmth inside you. You’ve missed his laugh. You’ve missed him, probably more than words could ever really convey.

You look at him like you’re trying to commit him to memory. Comparing the boy you once knew with the man standing in front of you now. He’s changed in subtle ways—beyond the haircut, beyond his features. There are more tattoos on his skin; he’s a walking piece of art, and yet, the way he looks at you—like he wants to kiss you, like he’s desperate to hold onto you and confirm this is real—that hasn’t changed.

“Are we going to stand here all day?” you tease, laughing softly, glancing around the alleyway behind the building he met you outside of, after you’d slipped out for some air.

Noah pulls back just enough to look around, but his hands never leave you. They slide from your face down the sides of your neck, resting on your shoulders before he wraps you in a full embrace—a big, warm bear hug that tucks you beneath his arm, snug against his chest.

“Only if you promise you’re coming with me,” he mumbles, his mouth pressed against the top of your head. You exhale a soft sigh, content with the idea that he still wants you close. You’re not sure you could’ve handled him sending you on your way—as if a five-minute reunion could ever be enough.

“Promise…” you whisper, but there’s a hollowness in your voice, a quiet ache as memories stir. You think back on all the promises you once made to each other. Part of you wonders if he hears it too—if he can sense the guilt, the shame, the weight of everything left unkept between you.

Room service becomes the meal for your reunion, as you order everything you can from the basic menu, enough to keep you both satisfied, because the idea of leaving the hotel room he’s invited you back to isn’t one either of you wants to consider. You’re both content to shut the world outside out.

Neither of you are tired, too buzzed on the adrenaline that finding one another has ignited. Despite the bags beneath Noah’s eyes, he fights any attempt sleep makes to take over him the later into the night you talk—catching up, reminiscing, just being in each other’s presence.

“Best international artist,” you tease, a grin stretched across your face. Noah ducks his head, bashful, hiding it in the crook of your neck, mumbling something almost unintelligible.

Your bodies fit close to one another—like two pieces of a puzzle. His leg slips between yours, keeping you drawn close as your arms wrap around one another, clinging as though letting go would cause the other to disappear. You’re back to being those two kids you once were—secretly in love and finding any excuse to stay close.

Some moments, it feels like no time has passed at all, and he’s still the same guy you once knew. Other times, you’re reminded of the lifetime that has passed—how he’s already lived multiple lifetimes in the past decade alone.

“So why LA?” you ask, curious for the answer. For a guy who often complained about LA, calling it a ‘piece of shit city’, he seems to have found himself a home there.

Noah tugs you a little closer, watching as your fingers trace the fresh tattoos on his arms—the ones you never stuck around to see. For a brief second, he contemplates telling you the truth. His eyes flick up to your face, searching yours for a moment until your own flicker back, causing his to flint away again.

“There wasn’t really anything left in Virginia for me anymore,” he shrugs, his voice a little cracked, a little pained. Suddenly, it stirs a whirl of guilt inside you.

You don’t blame yourself—not entirely. Your family kept you up to date with things that happened over the years. Sad news travels fast through a community, even one in a city that big, but you know the truth behind his words—home stopped being home when you were no longer there. You know this because that’s how everywhere since has felt for you. Every place you’ve been, every attempt to find somewhere to settle, there was always something missing—someone missing.

Now, you can’t help but worry that you’re too late.

Neither of you want the spell to break, but with the early signs of morning sunrise creeping in through the gaps in the curtains, the new day threatens to do precisely that. Noah has obligations, and you have… nothing. You’ve spent so long being a nomad that your responsibilities aren’t as set in stone as his, but you also have no plans going forward. You never thought about what would come after—when you both said your peace, whether that would be a goodbye or a reunion.

Before you can drown in the upcoming storm, it’s as though Noah detects your silent distress, throwing you a life preserver before you crash into the waves threatening to pull you under.

“You should stay.”

“What?” Not because you didn’t hear him, but because you can’t believe what he’s suggesting.

“Noah, I can’t just—”

“Stay? You can. We have a couple of shows left. You should come—since you walked out of the last one you were at.” He raises a brow at you, as though to say he knows all about that, but the grin on his face tells you he isn’t upset by your choice to walk out.

“Noah, I don’t…” you trail off, unsure whether it’s a good idea—not when you already feel the slow, growing dependency on him reemerging. You spent so much of your time together hanging onto him, onto his every word, looking at him like someone who hung the moon and stars—completely unaware he looked at you the same way, and now, you feel like you’re inserting yourself into a life you no longer belong to as being part of.

“Please?” He steps toward the bed, running his fingers through his ruffled hair. Even after not sleeping, he still manages to look good—the shadow of his facial hair is more prominent in the morning hours. He always had a baby face, but there’s an unmistakable shade of stubble. As he draws closer, you lift your hand to cradle his face, feeling the prickly sensation beneath your fingers.

“Just for the last two shows, and then you can continue on to whatever it is you had planned.”

You don’t know how to tell him you have nothing planned after this—that you’ve been traveling, walking through life feeling like a ghost, and finding him has brought some form of life back into you; that he’s revitalized you just by knowing he was out there.

“Okay…” you say softly, an unmistakable grin breaking out across his face—wide, prideful, like a kid who’s just been told he can have ice cream for dinner.

You stroke his cheek, your thumb tracing the outline of his lips, of his smile, wanting to commit it to memory, wanting to commit him even more to memory. Every second of this, of being with him—you don’t want to forget it.

It’s magnetic, like second nature, the way Noah’s hand instinctively reaches for yours as you sit together, walk together, spend your time with the band and crew—his friends. Each time he takes your hand in his own, you’re pulled back from the thoughts you’ve been ruminating on—the ‘what ifs,’ the things left unsaid all those years ago—because right now, he’s treating you like none of that matters. Like the time spent apart is a void easily filled and forgotten, no longer the ache that once resided in your chest.

You agree to stay for the show—the last two shows on the tour—with the strict instruction to sit in at the sound booth with Matt. You’re being babysat, Davis nearby looking like the guy who’s just kept on the payroll to hang out with his friends.

“So you’re the one Noah’s been pining after all this time?” Matt’s question takes you by surprise, mostly because you hadn’t anticipated Noah had been pining after anyone—let alone you.

“He’s not—”

“Come on, you haven’t seen him. Ever since he got that first postcard, he’s been mumbling about you, on his phone day and night, probably searching for you.”

Your cheeks heat a little, though you wonder if the tech should even be saying this—as his friend, especially—but Matt continues to rattle on, his focus on the soundboard in front of him, moving smoothly across it as though it’s second nature—by now, you suppose it is.

Towards the end of the set, Davis slips up behind you, gently urging, “Come with me. You can meet him backstage after the show.”

You feel like some kind of VIP getting special treatment, especially the moment you take your spot at the side of the stage, watching the final roar of Dethrone as Noah falls to his knees, looking both fearful and like a god. It’s hypnotic, though arguably the whole show has been, your eyes glued to him the entire time, onto the way he moves, the way he sings, everything coming together perfectly.

The moment he steps off the stage, you charge toward him, his arms quickly enveloping you and lifting you off the floor in one large swing. You throw your head back with a giggle, demanding he set you down, and when he does, you hover for a moment, your gaze fixed on him.

The urge to kiss him right now is palpable, the way his eyes sparkle, the feeling of his heart racing, and there’s a huge surge of pride blooming in your own chest. Last time, you’d been too preoccupied with your own thoughts and emotions to appreciate the performance, but now you’re seeing the grandmaster on stage—the performer you always knew Noah could be—albeit with a little confidence and a push.

“Ew, you’re all sweaty.” The tension between you breaks as your hands move down his chest, feeling the sweat soaking his tank top. Instead of being offended, he just scoops you back up, dipping his head and shaking it like a dog as he nestles against the side of your neck with a playful, “Yeah? Am I?”

You giggle, and he laughs, you attempting to pull away as his arms tighten like an anchor, holding you to him as he walks. It’s like you’re teenagers again, the familiarity of your former friendship resurfacing like no time has passed at all. You like it. You like the familiarity of him, how complete it makes you feel to be around him, even in these goofy moments.

“Will you two get a room already?” Folio calls out, a cheeky grin stretched across his face.

Your eyes roll, opening your mouth to refute him, but Noah silences you as he turns his head, his arms still wrapped around your shoulders, holding you from behind.

“Just ’cause you’re jealous,” he retorts to Folio.

“Soooo jealous,” Folio chuckles, quickly moving out of the way when Noah reaches a huge paw in his direction, using Nicholas as his shield.

“Dick,” Noah grumbles, but there’s a sly grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

His attention falls back to you as he presses a faint kiss against the side of your head, proud as a peacock, as though he’s somehow defended your honor. In a way, it mirrors the times he did back in high school, when guys tried to make snide comments, they were quickly shut down whenever Noah barked in their direction. Granted, he was skinnier and a lot less threatening looking, but somehow he had enough presence to silence them and protect you.

Suddenly, you’re mortified by the fact that the notion of getting a room together—despite technically already having one in the form of his hotel room, sounds like a good idea. You can’t lie and say the idea of kissing him—and possibly more—hasn’t crossed your mind since you finally reunited.

Back at the hotel, you’re left to your own devices, and your own thoughts, as Noah takes a shower, washing off the sweat and the show. To your surprise, when he steps out of the bathroom, he’s wearing just a pair of boxer shorts, and your mouth goes dry at the sight of him shirtless, water still trailing down his tatted chest. You don’t know where to look, but Noah clearly has no shame—even when he tosses the towel in your direction, chuckling.

“For your drooling.”

You gasp, narrowing your gaze at him. “I was not drooling.”

“No, but you were gawking.” He teases, the bed dipping beneath his weight as he joins you.

“No, I wasn’t—I was just…” you stumble over your words, struggling to find an excuse while Noah hits you with a raised eyebrow—skeptical.

“You just look different, that’s all.”

“Good different?” he asks, his hand reaching out toward you as he strokes his fingers along the outer part of your thigh.

“Yeah… good different.” You smile softly, feeling goosebumps rise across your skin.

Noah pulls you onto his lap. You don’t know what prompts him, but you slip easily and seamlessly, fitting like two puzzle pieces all over again. His hands settle at your hips, fingers just skating the hem of your shirt, while your own hands fix their purchase on his shoulders, one hand slipping around the back of his neck, playing with the ends of his damp hair.

“I wanted to kiss you, you know. After the show.” You whisper your confession, a soft hot breath between you, your forehead pressed to his.

Noah doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch—just asks, “Why didn’t you?”

You shrug. Scared, you think to yourself, but the word doesn’t come. His fingers slide beneath the hem of your shirt, trailing softly along the dip of your back as he shifts around.

“I wanted to kiss you back in the alleyway after first seeing you again.” Noah’s confession makes you draw back slightly, your eyes searching his, as though they hold the answer to your next question.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to ruin things.”

You can attest to that, so many times you were afraid that kissing him, giving in to your desires back then, would’ve been the end of everything, and yet now, nothing feels more right.

“I want you to kiss me,” you offer, your fingers curling into the ends of his hair.

“Don’t say that. Not if you don’t—”

“I mean it, Noah. Please… kiss me.”

You inch closer, your forehead resting against his, his mouth so close to yours there’s barely an inch between you. His breath feels warm against your lips. He hasn’t even kissed you yet, and still, a shiver ripples through your body—the closeness of him setting you on edge, your senses heightened, your body thrumming, receptive to every movement, every touch.

When his mouth finally brushes against yours in a soft, tender kiss, something warm bursts low in your belly. His fingers tighten on your hips, drawing you in, holding you flush against him. You’re pulled forward by a magnetic force, your bodies fitting together so seamlessly it steals the breath from your lungs. It’s everything you ever imagined, and yet somehow more—more real, more consuming. Every second of anticipation feels worth it, every moment you fantasized about this.

It’s quick to descend into something hungrier—deeper, more need spilling through than either of you intended, but it’s you who pulls yourself closer, your hips pressing down against him as though trying to erase the space between you, needing more.

For a brief moment, you fear he might pull away, declare this a mistake, but then he’s following your lead, giving in, unleashing his own desire. Soft, breathy sounds spill into the kiss, and in a swift motion, he switches your positions, rolling you beneath him with practiced ease.

Layers are shed—mostly yours—and you feel the heat of his hands against your bare skin as they travel along your sides. His head dips to your chest, leaving fervent kisses, worshiping you with soft whispers against your skin as your fingers tangle in his hair. You’ve thought about this more times than you’d ever dare to confess, back when he was still in your life, and in the lonely nights since, when solo relief was your only comfort, but no fantasy you ever conjured comes close to this, to the way he makes your body burn and tremble with barely a touch.

“Noah…” His name slips from your lips like a prayer—soft, reverent, like it belongs there. Like you’re claiming him, just for yourself, and truthfully, you are.

You’ve wanted him for as long as you can remember.

When his mouth closes around the peak of one nipple, your back arches, a hissed moan escaping your parted lips. His other hand cups your other breast, caressing gently, taking his time, entirely focused on your pleasure—on the way your body responds to him, even as his own arousal presses hard against the front of his boxers, the thick heat of it nestled between your thighs. He’s so close that you know, just one shift of your hips could give you both the friction you’re aching for.

But he doesn’t give in.

Instead, he growls softly against your chest, dragging his hands down to grip your thighs, pinning you to the bed. “Stop. Do you have any idea how hard you’re making this?”

“I have a little idea,” you breathe, a teasing smirk tugging at your lips as you squirm beneath him, trying to lift your hips toward his.

You expect it to break the tension, his laughter, the way he pauses, but instead, it only fuels him. Slipping his hands beneath your thighs, he tugs you closer with ease, and you feel him sink between them, the unmistakable size and heat of him pressing firmly against your panties, making your breath hitch and your heart race.

“You really are a little minx,” he taunts, dipping his head to tease his mouth along the column of your throat, letting his teeth graze over the more delicate areas.

“And you’re a tease.”

That earns you a sharp bite, and you hiss in response, Noah making it abundantly clear he’s more than happy to mark you, to leave behind a reminder of himself etched into your skin. The thought only deepens the ache between your thighs.

“Tell me what it is you want,” he whispers against your neck, his lips brushing kisses over the same spot he bit into moments before.

“You.”

You say it without hesitation, confident and open. You’re done holding back, especially now, especially with your hands roaming over his broad shoulders, squeezing at his biceps, feeling the way he hovers above you like he owns the space between your bodies.

“You have no idea how long I’ve thought about this, how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmurs, his lips trailing across your throat, along your jawline, and finally back to your mouth. You can’t even whine your impatience, only melt into a soft moan at his words.

“I’ve thought about you so many times. How it would feel to finally have you beneath me like this.”

“Then take me,” you breathe, gasping as his fingers slip beneath the edge of your panties.

“You’re not going to rush me, baby. Not when I’ve waited this long. I want to take my time with you—I want to savor every second of this.”

His mouth meets yours again in a heated, claiming kiss, and you moan into it, your body arching to meet his. Your hips lift instinctively as he eases your panties down, sliding them off completely with practiced, reverent care.

Every kiss is drawn out, like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, his tongue exploring your mouth with deep, languid strokes. His touch follows suit, unhurried and deliberate, exploring every inch of your skin, and when his fingers finally slip inside you—thick and skilled—you feel just how soaked you truly are.

The moment he sinks his index and middle finger into you, you clench around him, your back arching in response. They’re longer, stronger, more purposeful than yours ever could be, curling just right, finding spots you didn’t even know existed, sending sparks through your core that make you feel like you’re seeing stars.

He’s gentle but thorough, driving you steadily higher with each stroke, each slow thrust. He whispers praise and filth in equal measure against your lips, your jawline, your ear, his mouth touching every bit of you he can reach as he begins to trail down your body.

He kisses his way lower, worshiping every inch as if your body is a map he never wants to stop exploring. By the time he settles between your thighs, his mouth replaces his fingers, latching onto your clit with aching precision.

You’ve had sex before. You’ve been fingered, eaten out, but nothing compares to this, to Noah. The way he devours you is almost reverent, as if the act itself is sacred. Each groan he releases vibrates against your clit, sending aftershocks through your entire body. His tongue moves slowly, purposefully, savoring your taste like he’s waited years for it.

Your thighs twitch and try to close around him, overwhelmed by the sensation, but his strong hand catches one and pins it down easily. Then, gently, he reaches up and grabs one of your hands, guiding it down to the top of his head. Your fingers thread into his damp hair instinctively. A moment later, he catches your other hand too, intertwining your fingers together as he continues working you over—anchoring you to him, body and soul.

It’s sensual—intimate in a whole new way. You feel him guiding you, lifting you into the pleasure that’s steadily blooming in your stomach, a heat that rips through you and erupts with a moan as your body trembles beneath him. He’s quick to hold you still, to keep a firm grip on you as you ride out your high, his name falling from your lips in the softest, weakest breath as you begin to come down.

“Are you back with me, baby?” he whispers.

Your eyes flutter open to find him hovering above you, his fingers stroking gently through your hair as he presses a soft kiss to your lips.

“That was… more?” you ask, your voice still shaky, eyes softening into a quiet plea as your hands slide down, tugging at the waistband of his boxers.

Noah can’t deny you, not when he’s painfully hard, straining against the fabric. He quickly shoves his boxers down, kicking them aside, and reaches for his wallet on the nightstand, pulling out a condom.

“Please don’t tell me that’s your lucky condom from when we were teenagers,” you say, raising a brow at him.

“What? No, it’s been replaced since then!”

You scoff, lightly swatting his chest. “Don’t make me think about you fucking other girls while we’re about to have sex!”

“I’m sorry, I’m still a virgin—is that what you wanted to hear?” he teases, tilting his head with a smirk.

“Yes, it is. Good boy.” You giggle, cupping his face and pulling him into another kiss, already addicted to how it feels to have him this close. “Let me,” you whisper against his lips, taking the condom from his hand.

With a tear of the wrapper, you slip the condom out and reach down between you, watching as you slowly roll it onto his cock. Your hand strokes along the length, feeling how it throbs beneath your touch.

“God, you’re so big…” you murmur under your breath, and his hand wraps around yours, helping to guide himself toward you.

“We’re gonna go nice and slow, okay?” he says softly, using his free hand to slip beneath your chin and tilt your face up to his. Your eyes lock onto his as you nod, not daring to look away. His fingers squeeze yours, silently asking for trust, and you respond in kind, gripping the shaft with him as he angles himself forward.

With a slow, deliberate press, he drags his cock along your soaked slit, drawing a soft sound from your throat. He begins to push forward, inch by inch, sinking into you, and you hold his gaze, lips parting as you adjust to the stretch.

“Do you feel that? Fuck… fuck, you’re so—” His words dissolve into a deep, guttural groan. His head drops back, eyes fluttering shut, overwhelmed by the way you clench around him as he continues to sink in.

The moment he bottoms out, your hands fall away and his fingers intertwine with yours once more. He lifts them to press a kiss to the back of your hand, while his other hand settles at your hip, holding you in place with a firm, grounding grip.

He draws his hips back slowly, his cock dragging against your walls, and you squirm beneath him, gasping and moaning at the intensity of each movement, especially with how sensitive you already are. Noah’s breath catches in his throat as his head drops to the crook of your neck, his hips finding a steady rhythm, chasing the slow, exquisite build of his own release.

When it comes to the heat blooming in your stomach, it feels like chasing after a train you’ve already missed—you can’t quite find your way back. Maybe it’s because your first orgasm has already passed, leaving you floating somewhere in the afterglow, but it doesn’t stop you from savouring the feeling of him inside you, the slow roll of his hips, the drag of his cock between your walls, the way you clench around him, pulling him deeper with every movement. Each thrust draws a soft sound of pleasure from his lips, and you drink them in like they’re meant for you alone.

Cradling the back of his head with your free hand, you pull him down into another kiss. Your mouths move in tandem—hot, slow, sensual—punctuated by soft whimpers and moans, a perfect echo of the rhythm between your bodies.

The air is filled with those quiet, reverent sounds: whispered names, gasps, and the faintest rustle of sheets as your bodies move together. His pace builds steadily, and you cling to him, legs wrapped tightly around his waist, as if keeping him close might somehow draw him even deeper.

“Fuck, you just feel so… I never could’ve imagined it,” he groans, thrusting deeper, and your breath hitches as the sensation stretches through you.

“Keep going, baby. It feels so good. You feel so good,” you croon in his ear, and you feel the way your words make him shiver against you.

There’s no denying your own climax isn’t building the same way—it’s not a sharp, roaring wave or a tightly coiled spring about to snap. It’s quieter than that, a soft hum of pleasure rippling beneath your skin. Not overwhelming, but still so good. Still everything.

“I can’t… I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna cum,” Noah gasps, and you turn your head, pressing soft kisses along his jaw as your fingers stroke through his shorter locks. You’d briefly missed the longer hair, but now, you find yourself loving the slightly overgrown look, the way it feels between your fingers as you curl them into it, tugging gently, coaxing him closer to release.

Part of you wishes he could’ve come inside you, the thought sending a flutter of butterflies through your stomach. Maybe next time. You can’t help but consider the idea of there being a next time—even though there’s so much to think about, so much that could complicate things, but you won’t let yourself spiral into worry, not now. Not when you can feel him falling apart inside you.

Noah’s hips begin to buck faster, chasing the tight coil of heat winding through his stomach. He’s so close he can taste it, and you feel it too, the way his cock throbs inside you, just before he finally spills over. Your name falls from his lips in a ragged breath—half a moan, half a plea—his fingers tightening around yours, the other digging into your flesh, leaving marks you know you’ll find later, but you won’t mind, not one bit.

Even in the aftershocks of his orgasm, he trembles, his cock still twitching inside you as your walls clench around him—milking him, holding him there. You feel the warmth blooming in the condom, and the sudden awareness of what it might’ve felt like without it overwhelms you. The idea of him filling you up, dripping from you—it’s a fantasy you didn’t expect to crave this badly.

“Next time, I’m gonna fill you up nice and full,” he murmurs against your jaw, and you smirk, turning your head to brush your mouth against his.

“Is that a promise?” you whisper.

You know it is, feel it in the halfhearted kiss he gives you in return, tender and spent, still savoring every second of this moment.

Neither of you could recall when you’d fallen asleep, both wrapped in the warm afterglow, Noah’s arms tight around you, but when he wakes, it’s to the sight of you admiring him like he’s a piece of artwork, your fingers gently tracing over his tattoos, moving between the old ones you remember and the newer ones he’s collected.

“I can give you a tour if you want,” he murmurs, his voice gruff and heavy with sleep. It startles you, making you jump slightly within his hold.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You can look,” he chuckles, gesturing for you to continue. He stretches out a little, adjusting himself and tucking one arm behind his head to prop it up as he gazes down at you, still curled up against his side.

“You just have so many more now, it’s… wow,” you breathe, still amazed by how beautiful he is, how somehow, with every new piece of ink, he manages to look even more ethereal.

“Did this one hurt?” you ask, gently brushing your fingers over the tattoo on his neck—the apple, the snake, the hand.

“Like hell.”

You giggle at the irony, at the symbolism of Eve’s apple and all the religious undertones. “It’s beautiful,” you whisper, and a soft, tired smile spreads across his face, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Yeah…”

When you catch him staring, a familiar surge of butterflies rises in your stomach, but you can’t quiet the nagging voice at the back of your mind—the same one that stirred the moment you woke this morning, still wrapped in his arms, your bodies naked and pressed together like they belonged.

You try to fight the urge to ask, but the moment Noah cradles your cheek and you instinctively nuzzle into his palm, the question slips out.

“What is this, Noah? What are we doing?”

“What we’ve both clearly wanted for a long time,” he replies without hesitation. He says it with such certainty, like he knows—truly knows—that this is everything he’s ever wanted, and truthfully, it is. He’s spent so long thinking about you, wishing for you. Now that the moment is finally here, he doesn’t feel foolish for giving in to it.

“We’ll figure it out, baby. We always do, don’t we?”

You nod softly, your hand coming up to cradle his against your cheek, because he’s right. You’ve always figured things out—somehow, and he’s never let you down before.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @swissy23 @i-love-the-smell-of-your-blood @kenjipepsi1 @birdie-in-arcadia @blackcherrywhiskey @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconic-taurus @flowery-mess @jesuisunchaton @bloody-spades @bluestdai

#bad omens fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfiction #noah sebastian fanfic #bad omens fanfic #noah sebastian angst #bad omens angst #noah sebastian fluff #bad omens fluff #noah sebastian smut #bad omens smut #noah sebastian x reader #concretejunglefm fics

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sweetlikelace · 2 months ago

Text

MY HANDS ARE TIED, MY SLEEVES ARE TORN

PART ONE | wandanat x reader

pairing(s): wanda maximoff x reader, wanda maximoff x natasha romanoff, natasha romanoff x reader

content warning: talk of smut, legal age gap, praise, reader is a brat but what’s new

word count: 2.1k

A/N: happy easter !! here’s a bit of a backstory on the readers relationship with natasha and wanda! i’m not sure how long to make each part?? so if you guys want longer content let me know!! i’m hoping to have the next part out within the week

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

you were officially a graduate. a career-ready member of the workforce. except... ready for what? that's the question that screams in your head every morning, louder than any alarm. what are you even ready for? and more importantly, what do you even want? your friends seem to have it all figured out, meanwhile, you're sitting here, staring at your inbox, which is a graveyard of rejection emails and vague LinkedIn invitations. "we appreciate your interest, but..." has become your new mantra.

you feel like you've been playing a constant, losing game of job application bingo, desperately searching for that one magic phrase that'll unlock the door to your future. it's isolating, this feeling of being lost at sea, surrounded by giant, confident cruise liners sailing towards clearly defined horizons. we spend four years being told what university would prepare us, that it would open doors and pave the way for success. and for some maybe it has, but more you, it feels like its just presented you with a bewildering array of choices, all equally terrifying.

part of the problem is the pressure. the unspoken expectation that as a young woman, you should be carving out this perfect, instagrammable life. you should be ambitious, driven, and know exactly what you want to achieve by twenty-three. but the truth is, you barely know what you want for dinner tonight, let alone the next five years of your life.

your mother keeps suggesting you to come home, stay with them for a while. its a tempting offer, a safe harbour in this storm of uncertainty. but the thought of retreating, confirming her silent worries about your "unrealistic dreams," makes you want to run away even further.

maybe that's why you were so attracted to the idea of natasha's offer. it was something you hadn't thought to try before, but the idea of giving yourself to them completely sounded more and more appealing each day.

you were currently working as a barista at buzzy brews, and it wasn't uncommon to see the older woman stop in weekday mornings. that's how you had gotten to know natasha in the first place. she'd order a nitro cold brew and always tip generously. it was no secret to you or your coworkers that she was wealthy.

for weeks, your interactions were purely transactional. but something about her calm demeanour and the thoughtful way she seemed to absorb the world around her piqued your curiosity. for natasha, it was the subtle blush that would appear on your cheeks the moment she came in, the way you would subconsciously hum along to whatever music was playing on the radio.

she began bringing wanda to the coffee shop months later, who also seemed to take a liking to you. when the older women told you about their offer, you were intrigued to say the least. both women could be intimidating, and part of you feared the experience, but an even bigger part of you was jealous at the idea of them presenting this proposal to someone else. you agreed almost instantly.

you spent most of your time with natasha. it was her you had grown closest too. from the moment you met wanda, there was an unmistakable aura of dominance about her. it wasn't arrogance, exactly, more like a quiet confidence that commanded attention. she didn't have to speak loudly or make grand gestures, in fact she was often the quieter of the two. the way she held herself, the directness of her gaze, it all spoke volumes. it was a captivating quality you found yourself drawn to.

initially that attraction seemed to be reciprocated. the day natasha brought her in, she was engaging, genuinely interested in what you had to say. it felt easy and natural. that's why the subsequent shift was so bewildering. the more time spent with natasha, the frequency of your conversation with her wife diminished. the warmth that had initially radiated from her seemed to cool, replaced by a polite, but detached manner.

natasha tried to explain that it wasn't that her wife disliked you. it was quite the opposite. wanda had spent so much time around chaotic and headstrong personalities, she became accustomed to a certain dynamic, or in other words, brat taming was her specialty. "you're far too sweet, she just doesn't know how to handle you." natasha would say before kissing your cheek. although you didn't really believe her. you may have been gentle, and 'too sweet for your own good' at times, but you were determined to win over the affection you craved so much from the sokovian.

you arrived at the romanoff-maximoff household earlier than expected, and natasha's meeting was running later than even she could anticipate. she stayed locked in her at-home-office while wanda tidied up the house. you sat on the on sofa watching tv, and patiently waiting for natasha to finish up her call.

"turn the volume down, detka. natasha's in an important meeting." wanda spoke clearly as she wiped down the coffee table.

wanda always seemed to find something to complain about. the tv volume being too loud, or your jacket not hung up properly, but tossed onto the floor. you thought if you had to wait all evening for natasha, then why couldn't you at least enjoy your time waiting? especially since natasha's meetings were becoming more frequent and you hated having to wait for her attention. with a frustrated sigh, you turn the volume down. your sigh did not go unnoticed by the older woman, but she chose not to press.

wanda went back into the kitchen, turning on the faucet to clean the dishes you had left previously in the sink. their home was quite big, which is why each clatter of the dishes scraping together echoed directly back to the living room. you roll your eyes and grab the remote, turning the volume up even higher than before. you don't even hear the sink turn off and wanda rushing back into the living room.

she grabbed the remote from beside you and instead of turning the volume back down, she turned the tv off completely. "hey!" you sit up.

"what did i say? natasha is in a meeting. you can earn back your tv privilege when you start showing some respect." the brunette held her arms across her chest, the remote still in her hand.

"my 'tv privileges?' i'm not a child." you scoff, crossing your own arms.

wanda shakes her head, "you're acting like one." with that, wanda takes the remote and returns to the kitchen, leaving you alone in the living room. once she was out of sight you lean over, punching the pillow she had just fluffed. maybe it was slightly childish behaviour, but you were irritated.

when natasha did eventually finish her meeting, she came down the stairs and greeted wanda first. you could hear their muffled voices from the other room and it piqued your curiosity and excitement. you sit up straight and eager for the older woman.

she came around the corner and you immediately stood up with a smile. natasha was always happy to see you after her long work days, you were a breath of fresh air after dealing with incompetent employees nonstop. she greets you by pushing your hair behind your ears, she hated when you'd hide behind your hair. "hi sweet girl." she sighs contentedly.

"I missed you..." you say with a soft pout, a part of you wanting her to feel guilty for making you wait. "I missed you too, you little troublemaker." catching you by surprise, she met your gaze, her eyes soft but direct. "wanda told me you've been pushing her buttons today." she said, her eyebrows arched.

"no..." your voice hinted with guilt.

natasha's lips twitched with the hint of a smile, amused by your feigned innocence. she didn't believe you for a second. "mhm." she hummed, her hands starting to gently trace patterns on your hips. "wanda said you've been acting like a brat. is that true?"

you shake your head. her grip on your hips tightened. "you know you can't lie to me, sweetheart. wanda said you've been testing her patience. now tell me the truth."

you chew on your cheek shyly. "maybe...maybe a little bit."

natasha's smirk widened a bit at your admission, her hands still tracing circles on your hips. she didn't seem angry, more amused than anything. "a little bit, huh?" she repeated, her. tone slightly teasing. she pulled you closer, so you were practically pressed against her. "and why were you testing wanda's patience, sweetheart?"

you shrug, sinking further down in her lap.

wanda's expression darkened a little from the doorway. "natasha asked you a question, and we expect an answer. you're a big girl, use your words." wanda spoke firmly, and hearing her scold you made your heart sink. natasha smirked slightly at your expression, knowing exactly what you were thinking.

"just relax for me, princess." she murmured. she leaned down, her voice soft. "wanda won't bite, trust me."

you weren't exactly afraid of wanda, or were you? she was just a lot harder to read. you didn't want to apologize, but you didn't want to keep having this conversation either. you turn to look at wanda, who was leaned against the doorframe.

"I'm sorry for being a brat, miss wanda." you speak so softly she can barely hear you, but natasha flashes a satisfied smile. "we forgive you, solnishko. thank you for apologizing." the older woman kisses your forehead and you smile proudly. although wanda was not very pleased.

"tasha..." she gave a hinting tone, looking past you and directly at her wife, but natasha only shakes her head.

she runs her hands through your hair. "she had a long day, isn't that right, baby?" natasha coos at you and you nod, leaning your head into her chest. she twirls a strand of your hair between her fingers before standing up and reaching out her hand. "you did so well waiting for me today, I know it wasn't easy to be that patient."

wanda sighs, pushing off the doorframe and retrieving back to the kitchen. you shoot her a glare, but natasha's hand on your chin squeezes lightly, bringing your attention back to her. "easy, darling." your eyes relax once they land back on the blonde. her expression softens as she runs her thumb over your lower lip.

"what do you need, baby?" she whispers.

"you..." you say, looking up at her with big, doe eyes.

"on your knees." she said, calm and assured, like she already knew you'd obey. and of course you did.

you moved across the room quietly, kneeling in front of her like muscle memory. your eyes didn't quite meet hers - at least not at first - but she waited, saying nothing until your gaze slowly drifted up to hers. "already so good for me."

her hand moved to your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache. her touch wasn't hurried, nothing about natasha ever was. she liked to take her time. and with you? she always did.

her words sent a shiver down your spine. your breath caught, but you didn't move. natasha smiled, clearly pleased. "you love when I take control. when I remind you who you belong to," she whispered, her fingers slipping through your hair, gentle, deliberate.

"yes," you breathed, voice quiet.

she saw the way your lips parted slightly, the way your knees shifted just a little closer. her hand dropped to your shoulder, coaxing. "up here," she said, patting her thigh. "come sit. let me feel you."

you claimed into her lap carefully, your body fitting against hers like puzzle pieces long since matched. she pulled you in, arms wrapping around your waist, mouth ghosting over your neck. natasha shifted on the sofa, parting her legs slightly so you could kneel closer between them. her fingers trailed down your neck to your shoulder, the touch featherlight, like she was learning you all over again.

you weren't sure how long you could stay patient. her touch was maddening, never enough. she cupped your cheek with one hand, the other gently tilting your chin up. "eyes on me."

you held her gaze, even though it made your breath catch. natasha's eyes were dark with need, but still so soft. she was in complete control. it was effortless to her. "you want me to touch you?" she asked, even though she already knew the answer.

"yes," you whispered.

"I know you do, sweetheart." she leaned down, her mouth barely grazing your ear. "but I like making you wait."

tags: @ciaoooooo111

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