Folio With Red Nails, Just Imagine How Happy He Is While You’re Holding His Hand, Slowly Applying The

ace!noah thoughts,

I think a lot about ace!noah and his transfem roommate (hunter schafer, my bb) and how talking with her helps him understand his own feelings—about himself, other people, sexuality. I just picture them listening to Good Luck, Babe!, singing and dancing to it together, her jumping on the bed above him while he’s laid out, laughing up at her, and then just cuddling after 🥺

Also, this version of Noah really prefers online relationships, less pressure, more space to feel safe. He’s kissed her, and he’s also kissed Nick, the two people he feels most comfortable with, the ones he shares the deepest connection to, but that’s also how he realised he’s less interested in physical intimacy with a person.

x

holy smokes

W O W

it’s finally pride month and something gay better happen to me or ill pass away

jolly karlsson and noah sebastian tonight @ rockville

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?”

lexi, hi!! we moved on too quickly from folio with red nails. think about him too much. what was that

hi bb! 💕 I may or may not need a reminder because 👀 I'm having little thots about the potential of this 🤭

THE DEATH OF PEACE OF MIND || Bad Omens [\m/]

n + folio

NSFW Alphabet - 900 Followers Celebration!

N (no), this is bestfriend!folio, by the way! | 🔞 SMUT 18+ only! | Thank you for the request 💜

Requests are currently closed for the 900 Followers Celebration!

The conversation started with random topics. It always did when you came over to Folio's house on a Friday night after work.

It was usually to decompress from the week you both had, drink a couple beers, watch some game that's on the TV at the moment, and smoke a joint that he always has ready even before you arrive.

He started talking about the new drum stuff that he bought to try out how it sounds like, and how they can use it on the new album. He knows you don't understand a thing about drums, despite being his friend for years, and him trying to teach you countless times. But you're a good listener, and he's thankful for that.

Somehow, the topic of how hard he hits the drums, turns into the topic of how his hands could probably deliver a mean slap.

You did start saying that his arms were probably stronger than other's, since, you know, he spends hours drumming away, and almost every night when he's on tour.

It's him who turns it into something dirty.

And all of a sudden, you're both telling each other if you like or not being slapped in bed.

"I don't know. There's just something about girls slapping guys that's so hot for me", Folio says, taking a swig of his beer.

"You'd let a girl slap you, then?", you ask, finding his statement a little odd. Bu then again, it's Folio, so you don't expect much else from him.

"Of course I would", he says, as if the choice is obvious.

"I don't think I could ever slap someone in bed.", you wonder out loud, never really having given the topic any thought before now.

"Angel, you wouldn't even slap someone out of the bedroom, let alone in the bedroom."

Folio always knew you were too kind for these things. It wasn't in your nature being violent, not even in a fully consensual situation.

"It's just so weird hitting people, and I don't understand the point of it", you explain further.

"You wouldn't do it even the other person asked you to?"

You think over your answer for a second, but the two of you already know what you're going to say.

"No, I wouldn't. It wouldn't make me feel comfortable, even with the knowledge that it's for pleasure."

Folio hums in understanding. He honestly thinks you're so cute for this. And he finds himself a little amazed at how good you are at expressing what you want - and don't want - in the bedroom.

"That's completely fair. But what about the other way around?", he asks, and you frown in confusion. "Would you ever want someone to slap you?"

He has half a mind to think that he's maybe taking this a little too far. But he's too curious now to back off.

"On the face is a hard no", you shake your head vigorously. "But in other places, I'm ok with it."

"Are you just ok with it, or do you really like it?", he asks. "And I agree on the face thing, yours is too pretty to endure such disrespect."

You laugh at his remark before answering the previous question.

"I like it if it's not too hard. I like if it's like, praising in some way, you know? Like, a 'you're doing so well' slap, instead of a 'I want to hurt you' slap", you explain yourself and he thinks it makes complete sense. "Do you do it with your partners?", you throw in a questions of your own.

"If they want it, yeah, I do. But it's not something I do all the time", he answers and you only nod.

A silence settles over the two of you. It's not uncomfortable in any way. You think you and Folio are past the stage where these conversations makes the atmosphere weird.

"Did you see that video of that weird fish they found in a lake? I think it went viral on TikTok?", he suddenly changes the topic and you burst out laughing at the absurdity of what he just said.

And then you tell him that, no, you have not watched the video of the weird fish they found in a lake.

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