Sashabravodiary - Kiss Me Now Or Never?

From the bottom of my heart I just want life to get better. Im so tired.

holy smokes

He’s so sassy and it’s so hot🥵

I'M STILL HERE. SEND HELP BECAUSE I'M ABOUT TO DIE

Summary: While hanging out with you and your boyfriend, Jolly, Noah couldn’t resist the urge to keep his hands to himself.

CW: includes fingering (f receiver), kinda dubcon(?), cheating.

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

It’s not usual for Noah to join you and your boyfriend, Jolly, when you’re both hanging out together. What is unusual, though, is the way he’s tucked himself beneath the covers with you, moving in close enough to rest his chin against your shoulder as you lie on your back. You don’t move the moment he settles in—afraid it might scare him off. It’s like being chosen by a cat, one usually too aloof for affection or human contact. You’ve been chosen, and you’re not about to ruin it.

Jolly sits with his back to you, completely absorbed in his video game. Every so often, Noah chimes in with a comment or suggestion. You’re not really interested in the game itself, but watching him—hearing his voice—has always been calming.

Then, beneath the covers, you feel Noah’s hand start to move. At first, it trails along your thigh, and you freeze, expecting him to pull away or even apologize. Instead, he keeps speaking to Jolly, completely ignoring you even as you glance at him—his hand steadily inching higher. Then it slips between your thighs, rubbing against the front of your jeans.

You should be pushing him away, should be telling him to stop, and yet all you can think is how much you regret wearing jeans today. There’s barely any friction where you want it most.

Somehow, Noah’s voice stays cool and smooth while your lips press together, your eyes fluttering shut as you remind yourself to focus, to breathe.

When his fingers retreat, it isn’t to stop, it’s to undo the button of your jeans, sliding the zipper down just enough before slipping his hand inside. Still, he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look at you. Then his hand dips into your underwear, a long, slender finger stroking along your slit, teasing between your folds before pressing to your clit—rubbing slow, deliberate circles.

“You have to be careful with that part, Jolls. Take it slower… yeah, just like that,” Noah says aloud, directing Jolly, but in your mind, you’re screaming, because his words mirror his actions exactly.

Your eyes roll back, your teeth sink into your lower lip, and you force yourself to stay still. You don’t dare roll your hips, fearing any movement will give you away. Turning your head slightly, you press it half into the pillow and half against Noah’s. His head tilts just enough for him to catch your jaw between his teeth, a soft bite of acknowledgment, before another finger joins the first. Now two fingers circle your clit, steady and purposeful, building the pressure in your belly with every motion.

You reach for your phone, resting beside you on the bed, pulling up the notes app. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Noah watching. You pause, type, delete, then type again, before deleting it all, and shaking your head. What could you possibly say? That nothing has ever felt this good before?

Because honestly, the moment he sinks his fingers into your soaked cunt, that’s only the truth.

It takes everything in you not to make a sound. You arch your hips slightly, but the tightness of your jeans makes it hard to spread your thighs, turning the sensation sharper, more intense. His fingers feel impossibly deep, and yet he adjusts his angle, somehow fitting just right. His thumb finds your clit while his fingers stroke along your velvet walls, coaxing you to move with him, subtly rocking into the slow-building pleasure.

In your mind, you’re panicking, sure you’re taking too long, sure Jolly could turn around at any second and see how close Noah is, but the covers pulled up over you both, should hide most of what’s happening beneath.

Any worry fades the moment your climax begins to crest—a slow, pulsing release. Nothing explosive, given your position, but enough for pleasure to ripple through you, and yet, even as you start to come down, Noah doesn’t stop. He continues playing with your clit, feeling the rush of wetness that follows, then presses his fingers deeper, angling them to find that spongy, velvet-soft spot inside you.

Your body trembles with the aftershocks of your slow, quiet orgasm. You want to moan, want to whimper, but you bite back even the smallest sound, because Jolly, completely oblivious, is still too caught up in his game.

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 @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconic-taurus @flowery-mess @jesuisunchaton @bloody-spades

could you share a noah x m! reader blurb or some kind of little headcanons <3 (i <3 your writing sm)

hi bb tysm !! here's a little noah x m!reader thing! 💕 I hope you enjoy and thank you @thenmaybehellaintsobadafterall for posting the perfect bestfriend!noah pictures that fit this <3

CW: just complete and utter fluff, boys pining for each other, being flirty and cute, mentions of alcohol

The house party is busier than you ever anticipated, despite Noah insisting he’d only invited a few people. You figure his roommates and friends must’ve added extras to the list, because by the time you arrive, there’s a sea of unfamiliar faces weaving through the house—heads nodding, bodies swaying to the music blasting from a speaker in one corner, while scattered groups linger in every available space.

You’re about ready to give up on finding Noah when he spots you, calling out your name and reaching for you. “There you are! I thought you weren’t gonna make it.”

His long, tattooed fingers graze your arm, and if that isn’t enough, he tugs you closer, wrapping one of his long limbs around you. Even though your height puts you just above his armpit, he still towers over you, still makes you feel small as he pulls you against his side and tucks you there.

“You’re staying with me tonight,” he murmurs—no slur in his voice. If he’s been drinking, it hasn’t hit him yet.

“Okay.” You say it quietly, with a hint of nervous laughter, because truthfully, big gatherings like this aren’t your thing, but being pressed up against Noah makes you feel something else entirely—comfortable, at ease.

His arm stays around you, and while your own rests loosely at his waist, it’s him who pulls it tighter around him as he chats with Davis and one of his roommates—Jesse, you think.

For a moment, you swear his fingers interlace with yours. Just a split second. Then he pulls away, and your hand settles at his hip, gripping gently to steady yourself.

He doesn’t loosen his hold around your shoulders, even as he reaches for a can someone offers him—then brings it to your lips first, offering you a sip before he takes one himself.

“It’s disgusting.” Davis makes a face as he glances over at you, silently warning you not to take a sip, but Noah just scoffs and drinks from the can anyway.

You shake your head, asking for something else—anything that won’t make you wonder if that’s what Noah’s mouth tastes like right now.

When you dare to peek up at him, you catch the way his tongue swipes across his lips, the tip barely grazing the scruffy facial hair he’s been growing out. It’s rough around the edges, but he still looks good—he always has.

It makes you think back to your last conversation, when he was complaining about how patchy and awful his facial hair looked compared to yours. You teased him relentlessly until he had you pinned on the bed, and you swear there was something in that moment—a flicker of heat, a quiet ache, the first stirrings of something deeper.

Looking at him now, you wonder if he feels it too, that same twisting excitement low in your stomach. The green hoodie clings snug to his frame, somehow softening his features and making it even harder to look away.

You’re staring—obviously staring, you’re sure of it, but the moment self-awareness hits, you blink hard, shake your head, and try to bat away the thoughts crowding your mind.

“Hey! Hey!” Michael calls out, a handful of girls trailing behind him and a gleeful look on his face. “Who wants to play spin the bottle?”

It sounds juvenile—something most people would roll their eyes at, wondering why a bunch of twenty-somethings would bother with a game like that, but the guys around you are quick to agree, including Noah, whose arm still hasn’t moved from around you.

“You gonna join?” he asks, glancing down at you, and your heart hammers in your chest. For a brief moment, you swear his gaze flickers to your mouth, just like it did the other day when he had you pinned against his bed.

“And risk kissing you?” you scoff, trying to play it off, but all that does is make Noah pull you even closer, making obnoxiously loud kissy sounds near your ear.

“Fine! Fine! I’ll play!” you relent, laughing despite yourself.

You feel the distinct press of a kiss against the side of your head, soft and quick, before he pulls back and helps usher the group into the far corner of the kitchen, where the game is already starting to take shape.

You’re waiting for your turn, your gaze flickering between the spinning bottle and Noah, who’s seated opposite you. Each time you hear him laugh at a near miss—when the spinner ends up kissing someone on either side of him—you swear you can feel your insides melt.

You’ve long been aware of the effect his voice has on you, but now even his laugh does it too. It’s unfair, how this silly schoolboy crush has gotten so out of hand, turning you into someone who fawns over him more openly than you ever did in the beginning.

It’s always in moments like this that you try to convince yourself he hasn’t noticed—that he doesn’t catch the way your eyes linger a second too long. That is, until he does catch you. Every time he does, he flashes you a smile and says, “Baby boy”—attached to a question, maybe, though whatever follows gets swallowed by the music and the roaring chatter of the crowd around you.

Still, you latch onto the only words that matter, because every time you hear them, something inside you flutters.

He only calls you that. Any other time, you might tell yourself it’s just a broad pet name, nothing special, but you’ve never heard him say it to anyone else. In fact, you’re almost certain—he’s never given anyone a nickname. Just you.

When your turn to spin the bottle finally comes, you brace yourself—scanning the group, calculating the exact force you’ll need for it to land on him.

It doesn’t work.

The bottle skims past Noah—just like it had for everyone else, but unlike them, you’re not drunk enough to giggle your way through the disappointment or get excited about kissing someone else. Instead, you feel deflated and mildly terrified that you’ll have to kiss anyone at all.

You can’t back out now, no matter how much you want to.

It takes everything in you not to tense up when the brunette the bottle landed on leans in and presses her mouth to yours. It’s sloppier than you expected—her tongue trying to push into what was meant to be a quick, polite peck.

It lasts only seconds, but they stretch endlessly. When you finally pull away, you discreetly wipe your mouth and glance across the circle, your eyes finding Noah again.

You wish—desperately—that it had been his mouth on yours. That it had been his tongue trying to get in. You wouldn’t have stopped him.

You spend the whole night wishing it had been him, especially when you watch the girl you kissed spin the bottle and have it land on him.

Jealousy stabs through your chest, sharp and sudden, and you force a smile along with everyone else cheering her on. It’s all in good fun, you try to convince yourself, sitting on your hands to stop yourself from reaching across the circle to kiss him in her place.

You watch his mouth the moment theirs meet, your heart heavy in your chest, rising to your throat. It’s not a real kiss—he’s holding back. God, please let him be holding back.

The seconds stretch, long and unbearable. When they finally pull apart, you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Then, from across the room, Michael yells, “Who wants to play Seven Minutes in Heaven?”

Your eyes dart to Noah’s, and when they meet, there’s a silent agreement to play. A silent prayer that the two of you will be picked together.

By some miracle—or maybe because of Noah whispering in Davis’s ear—you both end up in the closet together.

The space is tight, mostly due to the clutter: items stacked on shelves, hanging from the door, or scattered across the floor, but you don’t really need space, not when Noah’s hands are already resting at your waist, keeping you close.

His breath is warm as it ghosts across your skin, and even in the darkness, you can see him gazing down at you. You can just make out the shift in his dark eyes, something unspoken lingering there.

You swallow, try to clear your throat and speak, but it’s Noah who speaks first.

“I wanted it to be you back then.”

His confession hits you—hard, fast, and completely unexpected. You blink, thankful he can’t see your expression in the dark.

“You… you what?” You ask for clarification, like you didn’t just hear him perfectly, even though you did.

“The kiss,” he says. “I wanted it to be you.”

For a second, you wonder if he’s had more to drink than you thought, but you saw him, he barely finished the can.

Then his head dips, and you feel the brush of his nose against yours, his breath warm against your lips, and the unmistakable tug at your shirt as he pulls you closer, holding you in place.

His mouth is soft when it meets yours. Soft and cautious, like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. You feel the prickle of his facial hair against your own, and it sends a quiver through you, but you melt into it, hands pressing to his chest, welcoming the kiss and returning it fully.

It starts tender, but quickly shifts—something deeper, hungrier, like he’s been holding back far longer than he wants to admit.

Your hand finds the side of his neck, cradling it as you let him in, welcoming his tongue. You don’t even care about the taste of the beer—it’s sweet and bitter, unmistakably him, and it’s intoxicating. It takes everything in you not to moan aloud.

You wonder, briefly, if this is just for the game, for the playful thrill of Seven Minutes in Heaven, until he presses his forehead to yours, breath shallow, and whispers:

“Can we do that again?”

x

Out of all of the Bad Omens members, Folio is definitely the most likely to be into knives and blood. He'd love watching your breath hitch in fear as he'd use the sharp tip of the knife to gently draw a line down your body. He would smirk as you fail to escape his touch, tied up and helpless. Oh how he'd love to choke you, one hand on your neck while the other held the knife against your lips. You'd try to grasp at his hands like you usually do, but you can't - immobile and at his mercy, all you can do is simply lie there and take his torment 💕

😭😭😭😭 omg, I can't breathe

https://x.com/respite_dethrnd/status/1924361707025047865?s=46

please pleaseeeee have mercy on me 🫠

Boy looks DAMN fine