#V 💕

[concretejunglefm]

So, it's me again with another thot or request if you want to...🥹

I'm on my period which means I'm either sad or horny. That also means I want Noah to fuck me so hard that he has to stop and ask 'Hey are you here with me?' and then give me the sweetest aftercare ever🥹

here he is for you bb! 💕 he's like a shark in the water during that time of the month, I swear 🤭

CW: includes mentions of unprotected sex (p in v), multiple orgasms, fingering (f receiving), oral (f + m receiving), period sex with mentions of blood, dirty talk, slight dom!noah vibes, brat!reader vibes, heavy on the aftercare and fluff (noah puts readers tampon in).

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

It’s no surprise that Noah always knows when you’re on your period. Part of it is his control-freak nature—he tracks your cycle with meticulous attention—but more than that, it’s the way he’s so deeply in tune with you. It’s like he’s wired into your body, hyper-aware of even the subtlest shifts, especially during this time of the month.

What gives it away most is your mouth. If you’re not weepy from the hormonal roller coaster, you’re insatiably horny—and completely without a filter. The things you let slip between those plush lips could ruin him, especially because you never seem to say them in private. You say them in public, in company, in moments that make him clench his jaw and fight to keep control. They tumble out like you don’t even realize the effect they have, but he knows better—you do.

“This fucking mouth,” Noah murmurs, his thumb gliding along the soft pink hue of your lipstick before pressing just enough to smear it. You’d had plans to go out tonight—until your tongue got a little too bold, a little too filthy. Now, his hand is wrapped around your chin, holding you in place, the heat in his gaze leaving no room for doubt about what’s coming next.

“Are you going to keep staring at it or fuck it?” you shoot back, your voice dripping with challenge. The sound he makes in response is low and guttural, his thumb swiping over your lips again. You part them, slow and deliberate, letting your teeth graze the pad of his thumb before your tongue flicks against it—suggestive and teasing.

There’s no mistaking what’s on your mind. Even now—when most would consider you ‘off-limits’—Noah sees you differently. To him, your heightened need, your sensitivity, your craving for him are an invitation. An opportunity to give you exactly what your body aches for: release.

Sad, horny, cramping—it doesn’t matter. His solution is always the same. Make you cum. Again and again, until your mind is blissfully empty and your body hums with pleasure. He knows how much more malleable you become like this, how willingly you melt under his touch, surrendering to the worship he gives you so thoroughly.

When he finally sinks into your mouth, it’s everything he imagined—warm, wet, eager. Your moan vibrates around him, hungry and greedy, and he has to steel himself not to lose it right then. Your lashes flutter as you look up at him from beneath them, playing the perfect picture of innocence—even though it was your bratty mouth that got you here in the first place, lips stretched around the very thing you dared him to use.

His hand finds a firm grip at the back of your head, fingers weaving into your hair as he guides your movements. His hips roll forward to meet your mouth, and his head tilts back, lips parting with a low, drawn-out moan. “Fuck… getting it nice and wet for me to fuck you?” he grunts, voice thick with desire.

Not that he needs you to. You can already feel the slick heat between your thighs—your arousal mingling with the slow, steady flow of blood, making you impossibly wet. It’s something Noah adores, the way he can slide into you so easily, your blood acting as its own kind of lubricant, but more than that, he loves your sensitivity—how every touch, every brush of his skin against yours, leaves you trembling, desperate, and so utterly responsive beneath him.

Once your clothes are gone and you’re laid back on the bed, a towel placed beneath you, Noah parts your thighs with a reverence that borders on hunger. He licks his lips, eyes fixed between your legs like he’s about to indulge in his favorite meal—and in a way, he is. There’s no place he’d rather be than buried between your thighs, his mouth pressed to your pussy, whether he’s drinking in everything you offer or lazily teasing your clit with soft, deliberate kisses that send flutters through your belly.

But right now, nothing excites him more than the faint trail of blood glistening down your folds. His gaze darkens, and then he’s leaning in, tongue flattened as he gives a slow, purposeful lick—ending with a flick against your already oversensitive clit. You gasp, hips bucking, moaning aloud as the contact sends a jolt of pleasure through you.

He loves how your body reacts—how you arch into him, your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging him closer, silently begging for more. The moment his tongue touches you again, the tension begins to build. He circles your clit once, twice, a third time, and your moans quickly turn to needy whines, soft pleas tumbling from your lips. You need more, you need him, and Noah knows exactly how to give it to you.

He hasn’t even slipped more than a single finger inside you, yet you’re already unraveling—sensitive and strung out, your body responding to his touch like it’s second nature. He knows exactly what you need when you’re like this: the slow build of multiple orgasms that leave you trembling, pleasure flooding your system and momentarily easing the ache—but never the craving.

“Do you need more, baby?” he murmurs, voice low and thick, though it’s not really a question. Not when he’s curling his fingers just right, coaxing a whimper from your lips. And before you can respond, his mouth finds your clit again, tongue flattening to press and flick against it, firm and purposeful. Your hips move on instinct, grinding against his face, chasing more of the sensation he so generously offers.

“Noah, baby, please, fuck me. I need you to fuck me.” The bratty tone you’d had earlier is gone now, dissolved into desperation, leaving you at his mercy—soft, needy, pleading for the only kind of relief that ever truly satisfies you.

Noah doesn’t hesitate. The moment his cock slides inside you, so effortlessly, he feels you tighten around him, your pussy more sensitive than ever, pulling him deeper as though it’s an instinctive need. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good,” he groans, bottoming out, the tip of his cock brushing against your cervix with every deep thrust.

His hand moves between your legs, his thumb circling your clit before pressing down firmly, adding another layer of stimulation. His mouth latches onto your nipple, teasing the peak between his teeth in a manner that makes your back arch, a high-pitched moan slipping from your lips as another orgasm crashes through you, your body trembling with pleasure.

“Fuck, I can feel you pulsing around me,” Noah groans, his hands gripping your thighs, keeping them spread wide as his thrusts slow, savoring the feeling of your walls tightening around him, of how deeply he’s buried in you. He relishes in the sensation of your body reacting to him, every inch of you still buzzing from the multiple orgasms he’s drawn from you already.

“Can you feel that, baby? Does it feel better?” Noah asks, his hand slipping up to press gently on your stomach, just where your cramps had been earlier. The pressure only intensifies the deep, rolling thrusts he gives, feeling the bulge of his cock press against you.

But you don’t respond.

“Baby?” His voice softens with concern, looking down at you, his eyes searching your face. Your eyes are rolled back, a look of pure bliss on your features as your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. “Hey, are you with me?” You can’t catch your breath fast enough to reassure him, and the lust-drunk smile that lingers on your lips only deepens his worry.

When he pulls out of you, he’s immediately all over you, trying to ground you, his fingers gently combing through your hair as he whispers soft, comforting words. Your whole body still trembles, floating in a blissful haze, too far gone to fully register Noah’s concern until you slowly begin to return to yourself.

“Baby,” he murmurs against the side of your head.

You turn to look up at him, your eyes slowly focusing back on him, and you let out a breathless laugh. “That was…” Your words trail off, but Noah silences you with a kiss to the crown of your head, gently shushing you as he holds you close through your come-down.

“I think that’s enough for now.”

You want to protest, to whine about how he never got to cum, maybe make a dirty joke about the creampie he could’ve cleaned up, knowing he’d have done it no matter how messy things got, but the words never make it past your lips—your mind clouded, thoughts slipping away as the haze deepens.

“Let’s get you in a bath,” Noah suggests softly.

When Noah scoops you up from the bed, you instinctively cling to him, your arms wrapping around his neck as he carries you across the hall to the bathroom.

He sets a towel on the edge of the tub before gently sitting you down on it. The simple gesture feels thoughtful against the cool plastic, and for a brief moment, you refuse to let go of him. Your head buries against his neck with a soft hum, inhaling his scent—the mixture of sweat and sex that clings to him, somehow making him smell even more intoxicating.

When you finally release him, he steps away briefly, moving toward the sink to retrieve a glass of water and returns with it, offering it to you along with a few vitamins in the palm of his hand.

“Drink. Swallow.” He instructs, his voice calm but firm. You meet his gaze briefly, the brattiness still lingering in you despite the haze of pleasure, but it only makes the corner of his mouth twitch in amusement.

You follow his instructions, and he turns his attention to the tub, running the taps after slipping the plug in place. Once the water begins to fill, he’s back by your side, his arm wrapping around you to guide you gently against his chest, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back in an effort to ground you.

“How do you feel?” He asks, his gaze soft with concern. You understand why. It’s one of the rare times he’s taken you to the edge of your wits, with barely a coherent thought left in your head. The only time you’ve been this far gone was when he made you pass out from overstimulation—but that was different. This was a deep, dizzying pleasure.

“Mm, really good,” you murmur dreamily, your body still humming with the aftershocks of the pleasure he gave you.

“Yeah?” His fingers comb through your hair, the tenderness in his touch making you feel even more cared for. He reaches past you to grab a bottle of bath soak, adding a small amount to the water for a gentle lather of bubbles. He dips his hand in to test the water, stirring it until the bubbles form, then turns off the tap.

With his arm still around you, he keeps you steady, his attention back on you. “Can you join me?” you ask, gazing up at him, your eyes soft as if he’s the most ethereal thing you’ve ever seen. Even without the post-orgasm glow, you’d still feel this way about him.

You sense him about to argue, to remind you that this moment is for you, but before he can speak, his expression softens. He nods, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. “Of course, baby.” He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, and once again, those butterflies stir in your stomach. You love these moments, how gentle and loving he is with you, especially now. You want to soak in it, to bask in the warmth of his care.

As he helps you into the bath and joins you moments later, settling behind you so you can rest between his thighs, you know this is all you need. This, right here and now with him, is all you ever need.

“Thank you,” you murmur softly, pressing gentle kisses to his arms as they loosely wrap around you, your fingers going on to trace the intricate tattoos that adorn his skin.

As Noah pulls you closer, you feel the warm press of his mouth on your shoulder, causing you to sigh. Your eyes flutter closed as he places a delicate series of kisses along the back of your neck. “Do you still hurt?” he asks, his voice quiet and concerned. You know he means your cramps and one hand slips beneath the water, resting on your stomach, offering himself as a human heating pad.

“A little,” you reply. Your cramps have been somewhat alleviated, but you can already feel them slowly returning. There’s only so much you can do to keep them at bay.

“Would a massage help?” Noah offers and before you can respond, you feel the gentle pressure of his fingers pressing against your stomach, moving with purpose as he searches for the most painful spot.

When you make a soft sound, he knows he’s found it and as his focus remains there, he leans forward, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Anything you need, baby.” His words are a quiet reaffirmation, and you know he means them. Noah has always been the kind to put your needs first, always wanting to make you feel good, no matter what it takes.

As he begins to wash you, he’s slow and meticulous, taking his time with each movement of the washcloth against your skin, leaving soft kisses where the soap has already been washed away, his touch tender, like he’s worshipping you with every delicate gesture.

“You’re so beautiful, every inch of you. You know that, right?” It’s not the first time he’s said it, but you blush as though it is, feeling a warmth spread through you. You try to pull away, but you’re trapped between his thighs, unable to escape as he continues to appreciate every part of you. And no part of you goes unnoticed. Noah wants nothing more than to stake his claim on you, even on the softer areas—behind your ear, the back of your neck, the crease of your arm.

If he could, he’d leave a soft reminder of himself everywhere he touches.

Even when his hand slips between your thighs, Noah remains gentle. There’s nothing overtly sexual in his touch—just a quiet, sensual care as his fingers part you under the water. You gasp, and he pauses, but then his fingers move again, spreading you tenderly as if to help cleanse you more thoroughly, but when his fingertip begins to circle your clit, your body melts against his.

The sensation is too much and not enough all at once, and the words spill from your lips before you can stop them. “Noah, please…” you whisper, tilting your head back, your mouth catching his jaw between your teeth in a soft, playful bite as his fingers continue—slow, practiced, and devastatingly good.

“One more,” he breathes, the words sounding more like a promise to himself than to you, as if he’s trying to convince himself this will be the last, though you both know it never is. You’re just as insatiable for each other.

He doesn’t rush. He draws it out deliberately, teasing you with slow, purposeful circles over your most sensitive spot. His free hand cradles your body against his chest as he kisses you—slow and deep, sensual and unhurried. Everything about this moment is for you—your pleasure, your comfort, the way he carefully unravels you like he’s memorizing everything about you.

You ride the wave he builds with infinite patience, your body trembling in his arms. His kisses trail from your lips to your jawline, down the column of your throat, his fingers slipping inside you and curling just right—pressing against the spot that sends you soaring.

You cling to him, whimpering softly, your body shivering as your climax begins to fade. He holds you steady, whispering grounding words while you melt into his chest, letting yourself be supported, loved, and cared for. And when the high has passed, when your breathing steadies, Noah resumes what he started—cleaning you off with the same quiet tenderness, never rushing, never letting go.

Noah is the first to step out of the tub, leaving you sitting in the slowly draining water, your eyes following him as he moves. The sound of his soft humming fills the bathroom—he’s always humming something. Whether it’s one of his own songs, a track that’s been stuck in his head all day, or even an anime theme, it’s a sound that soothes you. It’s a quiet reminder that he’s there, that you’re not alone.

“Come on, let’s get you dry,” he murmurs, holding a towel out for you.

You glance over at him, biting your lower lip as you take in the sight of him—water glistening on his bare, tattooed chest, the towel hanging low on his hips. He looks like something out of a painting, a Greek god in the flesh, and it feels almost unfair to be witnessing it. His muscles flex subtly as he waits for you, holding the towel open, an offering for you.

Rising from the now-lukewarm water, you step into his arms and into the waiting towel, his embrace wrapping around you along with the soft fabric. You can’t help but tease, giggling softly as you look up at him. “Are you going to dress me next?”

He looks down at you with that familiar lovesick gaze, eyes warm and shining. “If I have to.”

You already know the truth—Noah would do anything for you, and he never makes you feel like it’s a chore.

“Well, I appreciate that. But you don’t have to,” you reply gently, though you know it won’t stop him. He’s already moving the towel over your skin, drying you off with slow, deliberate strokes. When he drops to his knees to reach lower, he continues murmuring soft words of love against your skin, kissing your hip, your thigh, like it’s second nature.

“Let me help you put your tampon in,” he says quietly, eyes trained on you.

The words catch you off guard. You grow shy, instinctively stepping back, but his hands slide to your hips, grounding you, holding you in place—not with force, but with tenderness.

“Baby, please?”  he asks, so softly, so sweetly. There’s no pressure in his voice—just that familiar, earnest desire to care for you in any way you’ll let him and when you reach for the drawer, he stops you with a soft touch. “Let me,” he says again, voice soft.

There’s no teasing in his voice—only quiet devotion.

You hesitate for a breath, watching him, and then slowly nod. His touch is careful as he kneels in front of you, his hands steady and respectful. He takes the tampon with the same calm he’s shown all evening, his gaze flicking up to meet yours. “Tell me if anything feels wrong,” he murmurs.

His fingers guide with gentle precision, the moment surprisingly intimate in a way that leaves your chest aching—in a good way. Not because it’s sexual, but because it’s him, because he sees all of you, even like this, and never flinches. When it’s done, he presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then rises to meet you again, towel still in hand, like nothing about this moment ever needs to be hidden.

Once you’re finished in the bathroom, Noah gently guides you back into the bedroom. He quickly finds a pair of sleep shorts and one of his shirts for you to wear, helping you slip them on just as he promised. When you’re dressed, he climbs into bed with you, arms immediately reaching out to pull you into his chest, wrapping you up securely in his embrace.

You settle against him, your body melting into the warmth of his, and he presses a soft, tender kiss to your forehead. A quiet, contented sigh escapes you, and just before sleep can pull you under, you hear him murmur, “I love you,” against your skin.

And you melt, completely, into him and his love.

[kalolasfantasyworld]

Hi lolaaaa for the fic ask, 5, 10 and 25

Hi V! 💕

Thank you for asking!

5. first sentence of the fifth paragraph of an unpublished WIP

AoO is on a roll guys!

However if it’s not needed I don’t want to send her there.

10.  what is the longest amount of time you’ve let a draft rest before you finished it?

Answered here

25. besides writing, what are your other hobbies?

I have many, we could spend a whole day here. I’m making a list of my main ones though.

Yoga 

Sailing 

Drawing

Horse riding

Aerial silks

Video games (horizon, Witcher, fallout, far cry)

[nutmargaret]

hello everynyan

[avadoore]

[atompalace-official]

[sainz100]

moments from the Enchanté NYC pop-up ❤️

[kiivg]

.thers a blight happening or smth idk.

[herewegobebe]

SHINee : The Consummate Professionals & Total Dorks ✨🥰💞

[chelseypprimrose]

“I get that in the ring, you are a general, but on the streets, I’m a king.” 👑

IKTR 💅🏽 🤌🏼🤌🏼

[hitlikehammers]

forgive me if I jump✨

steddie post-s4 established relationship ♥️

~ for @pearynice 💕🎂

He shoots up at the sound of the flatline; the screaming follows him as he wakes. By the time Steve’s hand shoots out to the other side of the bed, his pulse is already in his throat—it doesn’t get any calmer for finding it empty, sheets cold under his clammy palm but at the same time: it doesn’t get any worse. ~~~ OR: nightmares. trauma. fear. and LOVE being bigger than all of it. 💕♥️💕

🎶 title and concept inspired by this context-less post from Noah Kahan

(which ultimately became this, for reference, which is not so much aligned in terms of inspiration 🫠)

He shoots up at the sound of the flatline; the screaming follows him as he wakes.

By the time Steve’s hand shoots out to the other side of the bed, his pulse is already in his throat—it doesn’t get any calmer for finding it empty, sheets cold under his clammy palm but at the same time: it doesn’t get any worse.

Because it’s gotten less common with time. But to call it uncommon would be wishful thinking. Dishonest.

And there are so many things Steve’s learned in this relationship—not least how nothing that came before it could ever compare, really; or maybe couldn’t really have been called a relationship at all, more than varyingly convenient ways not to be alone—but one of those many things Steve’s learned?

Honesty.

Just…painful, terrifying, vulnerable fucking truthful, ripped out from the center of his fucking chest honesty. Nothing less. And sure, it’s usually messy.

But every single time, it’s more than worth it.

So: finding the other side of the bed empty and cold isn’t as routine anymore, which is progress. But it isn’t unheard of.

So Steve doesn’t wait for his pulse to settle before he swings himself out of bed to go find the warmth that’s missing at his side.

He hangs onto the railing on his way down the stairs, still shaking off the daze of the particular horror that’d visited his dream tonight, and uses the dig of his nails around the grip to coax himself to waking, to shaking the stupor off a little quicker; to focusing on the mission he needs to complete for the sake of his own heart in more ways than one: to find his boyfriend, the better, far-more-precious half of every part of him, and try to fix what he can of what drove Eddie from their bed, and comfort what can’t be fixed straight-out.

But in the same turn: Steve needs to find his boyfriend so that his own heart can stall how it’s trying to tear out of his skin for the way it’s still slamming against his ribs, through his veins. Steve needs to find him, and soak in every form of proof that he’s there, he’s safe, he’s breathing, he’s not dea—

Yeah. Steve needs to find his boyfriend.

And whether or not said boyfriend has escaped to his now-typical refuge: Steve’ll be better served to meet him wherever he is, the more awake that he is when he gets there.

He stuffs bare feet into the first shoes he finds—they don’t fit quite right, meaning they’re Eddie’s, but they’re close enough. They’ll do.

He grabs his keys from the table, plus his jacket because it’s the middle of the fucking night—doesn’t even have to consciously check in the dark to know Eddie’s is next to his own, because of course Eddie didn’t get his fucking coat, so he grabs that too and takes the garage-side door over the front, slings Eddie’s coat over his shoulder, and it’s autopilot that gets him in his car, just to back out and swing it at an angle, front wheels on the grass so the headlights will help him out—maybe he’ll have to jump the battery from Eddie’s van in the morning but that’s so fucking secondary; almost doesn’t register at all.

It does register just a little that his parents would kill him, to know he’d driven on the grass but, like: that only registers a sense of twisted satisfaction, and whole-bodied resolve: fuck his parents, he’d do, and has done, things far more drastic for the sake of the man he loves.

He climbs out again in seconds, ties Eddie’s coat around his waist in hopes it’ll hold more securely on the way up, and makes damn sure the ladder he heaves from where it’s propped along the wall inside the garage sits even and stands locked on the surface of the driveway before he climbs to the edge of fucking annoying-ass slant of the roof where it hangs closest to the ground, so he can climb up and around to the peak, lift up to the top, and swing into the tiny little hideaway Eddie’s made of the overhang outside their bedroom.

Climbing up here to find Eddie has definitely given Steve a whole new set of reasons to hate this fucking house, and its goddamn torture maze of a layout; he cannot wait until they save enough for their own place. They both agreed not to touch Steve’s trust from his grandad if they could help it outside an emergency, not yet, but…Steve’s beginning to think they should revisit that decision. They were gonna save and stay until Erica was graduated and gone, the last of them safe and out, but.

Maybe somewhere new, somewhere far enough—

He gets close enough for Eddie to startle—fuck, he must be out of it, stuck in his head so far to have missed Steve’s anything-but-silent ascent, especially across the shingles—and oh.

Oh, his Eddie.

Steve doesn’t know if distance, more time, or anything in this world at all they haven’t tried as yet can help—but meeting Eddie’s frantic gaze, catching the way his chest’s still heaving but nearly silent, too quiet for Steve to have caught before; that split second where Eddie is raw and hurting, eyes sunken and lips gnawed bright: Steve’ll plan later.

For now he closes the distance as quickly as Eddie does in kind, once he unfreezes, blinks back to the moment, what’s real: arms reaching, needing while Steve pulls him close and covers every trembling inch of Eddie he can reach with touch, with warmth, stroking his hair, breathing deep and even, murmuring low as he presses Eddie tight to his chest because he’s learned that Eddie’s nightmares come in a lot of varieties, but the ones that drive him up here? Away from their bed?

They’re the ones where he loses Steve, one way or another, and staying next to Steve feels unreal, still, for the way they claw and take gold that hard—they’re working on that, though.

But while it’s never been said out loud: in the wake of living that loss, even if only in his mind, Eddie gravitates toward proof of life, tangible ways to drive out the lies his sleeping mind concocts; it unlocks the tension in him with somewhere safe to fall apart—Steve’s arms.

Somewhere safe to unravel into: the rise-and-fall of Steve’s chest.

“Another one?” Steve eventually mouths at the shell of the ear he’s curled down to press lips along, gentle, rhythmic: real.

Eddie nods, as if he needs to, and presses tighter into Steve’s chest in the way that makes Steve aware keenly of his own pulse, the pressure on his lungs: by rights it shouldn’t be so steadying, so comforting, in the way that it is.

But it is, and he feels Eddie loosen, melt into him, and take what feels like a genuine breath in for the first time in far too long, straight between Steve’s collarbones before he stills.

Usually that’s how it goes. He stills, and he soaks in all the little proof points of Steve’s living, working, real body there against him, until he can let go of whatever haunted his dreams.

Or else: let go enough.

But then he’s tensing, and Steve frowns, already concerned, already preparing to catch and to soothe as Eddie tips his head up and pins red-rimmed eyes so wide on Steve, his cheeks the slightest bit shiny for tears Steve’s shirt must by soaked in, but he hadn’t noticed. That was the least important thing to pay attention to.

“You too?” Eddie asks, hoarse and devastated and Steve doesn’t get it at first, just then Eddie’s hand replaces his cheek on Steve’s chest, the pressure making a point of what’s racing underneath still, giving him away and—

Oh. Well.

Yeah.

This isn’t about Steve though, so he just strokes the pale-pink line at the corner of Eddie’s lips—he doesn’t mean to go all the way down to cup a hand around the side of his neck.

He often forgets that sometimes muscle memory doesn’t just leave when it’s not necessarily needed anymore—sometimes it lingers.

Sometimes it makes a hand on his boyfriend’s neck in affection land so that fingertips can count his pulse, because there was a time, there was a time and it—

“The hospital,” Eddie gasps, knows that’s one of the worst—knows wherever it starts it always ends with when Eleven told them the only way to get Henry’s hold out of Eddie for good, make sure that Eddie didn’t go down with the rest of it, was to let him crash then bring him back—and it’d killed Steve, it’d broken him in ways that weren’t just still tender, but that still hadn’t fully closed and maybe never would but Eddie knows that—

Which is how they end up sitting up, leaning back, Eddie’s hands now framing Steve’s face and drawing in for a slow, soft, but incalculably deepkiss that does help calm Steve’s heart: it’s not aimed to go anywhere, and lead to anything. It’s pure affection and care, and it doesn’t soften his pulse, or even slow it really, but it’s not…it’s more.

Like that love and care are flowing in when the valves open and working to convince him down to his cells that the things he fears—and did fear, in person, lived through and fell apart for—aren’t true, here. Didn’t end in the way that would have killed him, too.

“Fuck, Stevie, and I wasn’t there, I’m sorry,” and Steve’s drawn upward in the process of being pulled to lie on top of Eddie, roles reversing as he gets wrapped tight in Eddie’s arms and tucked beneath his chin where Steve’s pretty sure it’s on purpose that he’s crushed against to that wild pulse at its berth, and yeah.

Yeah, Steve breathes a little easier for it. Just…knowing this way. He always does, after that specific memory fuels his nightmares.

He thinks it says a great deal, that neither of them has to speak the need for this kind of comfort, this kind of reassurance. Steve knows it’s sings in his own veins like he’s never felt before, with anyone else, to not only be seen, but to be known for the whole of it. The whole of him.

He lets himself have a few more seconds, more than a few more heartbeats under his ear because Eddie’s still reeling for whatever drove him up here—but Steve lets the sounds of Eddie’s lungs filling up ground him before he wraps his arms around Eddie’s middle now and sits up, pulls Eddie with him.

“Don’t ever be sorry,” Steve kisses the crest of his cheekbone before he asks, so careful, so gentle, and only because the more he knows the better he can help, they’ve learned this.

But the honesty—as he knows just as well by now—sometimes has to hurt in the process.

“Which one drove you up here?”

Eddie shakes his head—not ready yet, and that’s fine, that’s so okay—and he moves to lean, to burrow in Steve’s neck and that’s okay, too, but his eyes catch on the dim headlight-glow against the tarp over the pool and Steve doesn’t even have to be this close to catch the flinch that follows so he asks soft, and only as he guides Eddie into his chest at the same time:

“The car?”

There’ve been more than a couple rough nights caused by contortions involving Steve’s car; Steve can’t know for sure which got center stage tonight, or if it was a new horror show altogether: just knows his chest burns for how Eddie trembles against him—still.

Eddie nods against his neck, though, doesn’t try to fight or deny at all and Steve leans to press his lips to the top of his head when Eddie speaks only—unwaveringly—against the place where Steve pulse beats at the line of his throat:

“Leaving.”

And Steve knows how he means it, and if anything could kill him more than knowing there’s space in Eddie’s head for the absurdity of such a thing—that Steve ever could, ever would even think about leaving him, what they have, what they are working together so hard to make for keeps in a forever kind of way—

The only thing that might have the capacity to kill him more is how that space in Eddie’s head doesn’t fade as quick as a dream, and follows him here. To this.

“But then, you were gone but then there was a,” Eddie hiccups a little—Steve can’t feel if there are tears but it doesn’t matter; there’s clearly heartbreak and that’s bad enough; “an accident, a bad accident, you…”

“Are right here, babe,” Steve takes hold of him and leans back like Eddie did before for him, tucks Eddie tighter up against his own heartbeat which is still heavy but calmer, now, so he whispers fierce as he buries his face in Eddie’s hair:

“I’m right here.”

And Steve holds him there; only moves to pull his unzipped coat up and around them both, to make a cocoon of what it means to live and breathe and feel this much, still, after being been hurt enough to easily have snuffed it all to ash.

It’s Eddie’s turn to need that proof of life: undeniable.

“We didn’t even fight,” Eddie mouths more than anything to Steve’s skin where his chin’s dragged down the collar of his shirt; “you just,” his voice breaks again, and Steve’s arms tighten further by default; “couldn’t do it anymore, couldn’t handle…”

He breathes shaky, and shakes his head kinda nonsensically against Steve’s chest, only slightly, never sacrificing where his cheek lies and his ear holds to hear, to listen, and Steve cradles the back of Eddie’s head closer to him, breathes steady and slow as best he can just to try and give Eddie somewhere to grasp at, a foothold to stand on. Anything.

Everything.

“I’m so scared, Steve,” Eddie finally halfway-sobs, so lost and desperate, and clinging so hard onto Steve that it’s tight in Steve’s throat, in Steve’s chest, too. “Yeah, it’s gotten better, but I’m still so fucking scared.”

And Steve gets it. Steve understands. Steve’s not immune to it himself in the slightest.

He still hates it exponentially more for how it hurts Eddie.

“It’s bad enough that that, that place still haunts me, haunts us both when its fucking burned to dust, when there’s nothing, we couldn’t even getthere, fuck, fuck, for all intents it doesn’t even existanymore,” and Eddie sounds bitter for it, which Steve understands well enough; he hates that they gave so much, and ultimately won the war, but that the war didn’t end with the victory. That it claws at them like this. That it hurts Eddie so much, for how soft and big his heart truly is—Steve would have him no other way.

But Steve would give anything to take that hurt from under those ribs and into himself, just to spare him.

“Jesus,” Eddie’s inhale catches, and he shakes more than he was—Steve pulls the coat around them closer, though he’s not sure he actually can, but fuck if he’s not gonna try, just in case any part of it’s something he can help fight back.

“But then I have to dream, still, of losing you to the simplest bullshit, these, these normal fucking tragedies anyway, after everything we survived,” Eddie’s voice pitches louder, but stretches thin to breaking; “or straight up losing you because of mybullshit—”

And that, that’s also not new, so neither of them can possibly claim it’s a surprise how Steve hauls Eddie up and stops the words, the simple suggestion with the press of his mouth because: no.

Steve will spend the rest of his life proving it—he’s not immune himself, knows he needs it too, sometimes—but if kissing the nonsense quiet, smothering the sheer pain that the very thought lances through him, twists in his ribs with how much Steve feels the very opposite?

So fucking be it.

“I’m afraid that there’s still stuff you don’t know, even now, not yet,” Eddie whispers between them finally, a little wet on the last syllable in a way that wrings Steve’s heart, and once upon a time Steve would have said that in itself was just so very not-Eddie.

But Steve knows better, now. Knows Eddie better, now, and knows this part of him that’s rarely been trusted to the world at all and while Steve hates with everything in him that it has to exist at all, he’s so goddamn grateful, fucking honored to be trusted; to have proven himself good enough to merit it: to hold the privilege in the palm of his hands to try and keep it safe, and make it better where he can, always.

His Eddie: through and through.

“And then when you find out you’ll know, you’ll realize it was all a fucking waste, on me—“

And that: that’s more nonsense. So Steve’s mouth knows automatically where to go.

Because Steve’s in this forever. Steve’s in this for always. He’s thought himself a romantic from the first suggestion of the idea and yet he had no goddamn clue until he bumped shoulders with a pretty fucking nerd in a hellscape and felt butterflies; until he hauled a body everyone else screamed at him to leave, they couldn’t risk slowing down but they couldn’t understand what Steve already knew:

If the body weren’t a person, living and breathing and already winding tight through Steve’s heart, Steve would be dead, too. He knew that without a fucking doubt, even then.

And so now it’s only grown—the feeling and the certainty and the impossibility of ever letting go—and Steve’s learned well these past months how to say that, maybe best, in the way he kisses deeper than he used to know how, to feel it deeper than he knew anyone could—more likely than not only possible, really, because it’s Eddie.

And what he has with Eddie is something he never knew to think of seeing in the world at all, let alone something he’d even get to touch for himself—and then, to keep?

Steve Harrington’s not going fucking anywhere, not for anything.

He keeps his lips locked to Eddie’s until just past the point where they’re breathless and it could be terrifying—but Eddie chases it even as Steve eases them away, panting and gripping at each other as their chests knock, eyes blown in the dark to see everything.

And so he sees Eddie trembling—which yeah, he has been since Steve found him, Steve’s felt in it holding the man in his arms, and they’re both still levelling for the sake of needing air—but it’s not just the kiss. It’s not just a tightness Steve put there for pushing the way their tongues were trying to coax each other’s soul out whole.

So Steve leans to suck at the visible beat under Eddie’s jaw for a second before he tucks Eddie back in against him and lets him blanket across Steve’s chest, stretches so he can better nestle the base of Steve’s throat.

“Never,” Steve speaks it low, not least so that Eddie feels it rumble where he rests his head, like it could shake straight into that rapid fire brain of his; “I would never. I could never,” he hums; Eddie’s breath catches just short of a whine:

“It’s not possible.”

Doesn’t matter how long they’ve been this, together: Steve cannot imagine his life without Eddie. It’s not even just that he doesn’t want to; it’s that he can’t remember why it would be worth it, now that he knows what his life was built for: this.

Them.

Finally, after beat-after-beat-after-beat of just their gasping coming down, his breath so so fast, and voice so so fragile, Eddie tries to be, what’s the word Rob’s always throwing at him?

Contrary.

(He thinks that’s it.)

“But you—”

This time Steve doesn’t still Eddie’s lips with his own, not for lack of wanting, but definitely for the recognition that there are things that need saying, much as Steve used to chafe at too many words in a row: he��s learned that too, with Eddie. And he’s so fucking grateful for it; the life they’ve had to live, as much as the life they’re lucky enough to live now—all of it kinda needs the words.

“I’m not some defenseless maiden in one of your campaigns,” Steve tells him in the simplest, surest terms he knows; “I know you, you let me know you,” and he kisses the bow of Eddie’s lips at the top before he noses against the line of his jaw:

“And whatever bits and pieces that maybe haven’t seen the light yet,” he kisses the point of that jaw and goes further, mirrors Eddie again to kiss a ring around the blood beating still so fucking fast at his neck:

“I’m so ready to know them, and hold them close when they’re the scared parts, and square up when they’re the demons and fight them with you, and just,” and Steve finally just kisses that beating heart, when it pounds into the purse of his waiting lips like a gift all its own before he straightens enough to meet Eddie’s eyes:

“I signed on for all of you,” Steve brushes Eddie’s hair behind one ear, delicate and adoring as he’s flooded with how true the words are in his own chest: “because all of you, is what I fell for.”

“You can’t fall for what you don’t know is there—“ Eddie tries to protest, though it’s weak.

The fact that it’s there at all, though, isn’t something Steve was ever going to allow to stand.

“When did you know you loved D&D?”

Eddie blinks; frowns.

“What?”

Steve tilts his head, raises a brow: waits.

Eddie lets out a slow breath and answers, kinda hesitant—uncomprehending, but honest:

“First time I read more than a page of The Player’s Handbook at a flea market.”

Steve can picture it, the innocence; the wonder—how little has really changed, not at the heart of him.

“So you didn’t know everything yet, right?” Steve presses on. “But you still knew?”

And it’s in the inflection, the way he says that last word that Eddie gets it—it’s what Steve has wanted to get picked up and seen—and Eddie tries to sigh, to shake his head:

“Steve—“

“And you still feel the same, maybe more, now?”

“Steve, that’s just a fucking game. You, you’re,” and Steve would like to dwell on Eddie calling it just a game, not least to preen a little that it’s done to elevate his own significance in Eddie’s affections, but it’s not the time, and the tone of Eddie’s voice is too fucking bleak:

“I’m so fucked up, Stevie,” and he sounds just…so forlorn, so resigned; “I’m still so fucked up,” and there Eddie shifts, moves just enough to reach Steve’s face, to stroke his cheek like he’s precious beyond measure, his eyes glowing in the wan light that the car’s still giving, glinting with a welling up of tears that pull at the linings of vital things inside Steve’s chest.

“You’re everything there is, Steve. You’re what makes breathing still feel worthwhile, after everything,” and it’s hard, because seeing Eddie this way is killing Steve by a thousand fucking strikes but then, he can’t complain for being loved like this, would never; not least when he feels the exact same to the fucking letter.

“I’m damaged fucking goods, just a goddamn losing bet,” Eddie’s shaking his head and Steve can’t pretend he’s never felt the same but he likewise can’t pretend he’ll stand for Eddie seeing himself in a way that just so…

Wrong.

So he darts a hand and laces his grasp with Eddie’s in that way that’s become innate as he leads Eddie palm to his own chest and presses hard, to the point of pain, and it feels so fucking right as he near-hisses, pledges like a vow:

“You’re my heart.”

Eddie stills, barely seems to blink, stares at their joined hands. Presses close to feel, even harder.

Only more right.

“Simple as that, man,” Steve’s words land like a shrug, a given. “You’re kinda…the beat that keeps me breathing.”

Steve doesn’t know if that’s corny, or weird to say: but he doesn’t really fucking care, because it’s the unvarnished truth and he stands by it. And he thinks he’s more than qualified to say it and mean it, have it mean something real, because, like—

“And I mean, you know what it’s like, at least a little,” Steve lifts Eddie’s hand, gets a tiny whimper for moving it but makes up for it by kissing his knuckles; he knows that Eddie knows what it feels like, with his parents, with this fucking town; what Steve’s about to say isn’t wholly lost on Eddie, just a different…flavor:

“But I’ve had that heart ripped out and stepped on,” Steve takes a breath—remembering doesn’t hurt like it used to, especially not with Eddie in his arms, but that’s doesn’t mean the sting’s all gone: “spat on for what I tried to give along with it.”

And this time Eddie’s the one whose hand twitches: fierce, held tight, almost protective.

It’s a reaction Steve’s never been on the receiving end of before, not like this. As if he’s worth it, and unquestionably so. He’s definitely gotten used to it, a little at least, but is still always a little surprised how warm it lands, spreading through him molten like gold.

“Hurt like fucking hell, y’know, and I think that was when I stopped believing I’d ever find someone who could put up with me,” Steve admits, not as if he’s tried at all to hide it, but more in that he doesn’t think he’s said it quite so plain, right out loud; “like, who’d want me even if you erased all the Upside Down fuckery,” and the molten feeling gets a little extra kick for the sound that escapes Eddie at that, close-on to a growl.

“But then the fuckery grew, and then there were Russians and it was like I was made up more of just how it fucked my head up, wrapped in a bunch of gnarly scar tissue, more that than anything else, and my love was still too much, so I mostly tried to hide it,” he lands on, and somewhere while he was speaking Eddie’s curled down to replace his hand with his head over Steve’s chest again, still protective. More so, maybe.

“So I was scared, too,” Steve admits, not ashamed now but actually kinda proud, maybe a little, because here he is, actually putting it in words:

“I was scared at the beginning. With you.”

Eddie finally looks up, then, meets Steve’s eyes with lips parted, hanging on each word but visibly working through a struggle to make it all sink in, add up the way Steve means it to.

That’s okay. Sometimes it is hard; doesn’t mean it’s bad, or wrong, or anything less than the best thing he knows; the only life he even wants, anymore.

“I hid,” Steve nods, swallows a little rough; “in my own way, I hid, too.” From embracing how his eye was caught more indiscriminately than most; from accepting that his heart was always going to swell quick and ready first, and it wasn’t a fucking crime, it just more often than not was gonna hurt; that Eddie Munson had been a puzzle he couldn’t understand at the peripherals of his world for a while already before they were thrust into the apocalypse.

That’d all probably been a good bulk of the reason for his little nugget speech in the RV, which still gives Eddie a good laugh now and again, so no matter how mortifying, he can’t even fully regret what the hiding made him do.

Until—

“But then we almost lost you, we did for those horrible handfuls of seconds, worst of my whole fucking life, when all I could see out of nowhere was the future, and it was made of you, and it was the piece of me getting spat on except it felt like allof me,” and it had, the experience never leaving Steve, not really, that hollow fire that’d destroyed him unrelenting; “all of me just getting ground into dust because I’d lost you before I could ever have you, and all I knew was that you were all that mattered and you were gone, so what even was the fucking point—“

Steve runs out of breath, and Eddie sits up, but Steve’s takes the in to flip their hands caught between them, takes Eddie’s from where his own pulse has picked up for he memories, and the feeling and pressed his palm to Eddie’s chest: the point.

He didn’t expect to need proof of the whole fucking point as badly as he does.

“Then you were back,” Steve’s sighs out relief and gratitude the same way every single time, Eddie’s heartbeat a balm as much as a fuel, a sacred sort of fire in his veins to keep going because the words are maybe never going to be easy, never going to come natural like they do for Eddie but: for Eddie, Steve will do just about anything.

With that as the starting point: this is child’s play.

“Then you were breathing again and I knew I couldn’t let being afraid be enough. It could live here, maybe will forever,” he brings his other hand back to his chest, where the terror simmers, and Eddie sees the opportunity to touch again and slides his fingers in tight to hold there, too; Steve can’t help but smile, and relish the little extra beat that the feeling nudges through his veins.

“It could live here forever,” Steve squeezes Eddie’s hand against his ribs; “ but never at the cost of you.” Then he pulls, presses his other hand in Eddie’s on top and gathers everything to the core of him as he pledges, vows exactly that deep:

“Never more important, here, than you.”

And Eddie’s breath catches, and he tips forward into Steve’s neck again—and Steve slips one hand free to hold him, to protect him from all sides, too.

And to hold him together, in case the rest of what Steve needs to say, needs him to hear, shakes through him too strong.

“You were like,” Steve licks his lips, shakes his head, holds Eddie a little closer, this time maybe more for his own sake, as he breathes out just against Eddie’s ear:

“I think maybe we both, in our own ways, are scared fucking shitless,” he huffs, because it’s not that simple but it’s exactly that simple; “and on the surface even, we deserve to be ‘til the day we die, if that’s what it shakes out as,” and Steve does believe that, Steve’s come to terms with it and yeah, he’s still working on not judging it so harsh but he is working on it. Robin pushes him.

Eddie…inspires him.

“I hope it doesn’t,” Steve admits softly, because part of him is scared of being a little scared forever; “but it’d be more than understandable. More than justified.”

So yeah, part of him is a little scared—but more of him?

More of him—

“But I think we’re more scared, and so much deeper with it,” Steve threads his fingers through Eddie’s curls, buries his face a little in the mess of them to breathe him in:

“And in the deeper fear, that deeper place, I think it means that we,” he swallows, and is grateful that Eddie is held tight where he is just now, so that the words Steve says when words aren’t his strongest suit can be backed up by how fucking hard his heart’s beating again, because he feels this, he fucking means this:

“That we feel something so fucking big, this massive beautiful thing that could tear us apart as quick as it lifts us up and we want both, or either, or all, whatever it gives because we just,” Steve sucks in a breath, because honesty, honesty; “we need it, we—”

And Steve stops on a dime when he feels Eddie’s mouth press to the center of his chest even through their clothes, heady and potent; feels his lips move as he speaks, hoarse but not trembling, scratchy but sure:

“Loving is terrifying,” he says, and not at all like it’s a regret, more heavy like it’s a privilege with real goddamn weight as he slowly works his lips up Steve’s throat and the leans back just enough, onlyenough to meet his eyes:

“But I’ve never felt more alive than I do for every fucking bit of it, with you, because it’s you,” Eddie grabs the hand of Steve’s he’s not still holding square-on and laces their fingers, unshakable.

“Living at all hasn’t ever felt more right.”

And there’s something in those words, or maybe the way they’re said, that shakes Steve to his bones, tightens his hold on Eddie to the point of a blissful sort of pain.

“I jump when you grab your keys, when I hear them rattle,” Eddie whispers like a secret, like he’s not proud of what he’s saying but he can say it, because it’s Steve. “Sometimes even when you’re next to me, driving us both home, because home is the same for us both and most times I can latch on to that, and remind my body that we’re just going home,” Eddie sucks in a sharp breath and his eyes almost glow as he locks them onto Steve’s even more unbreakable, somehow:

“That you are my home.”

Steve’s heartbeat trips again for that, overfull, and Eddie’s hand clenches in his shirt so tight, still protecting.

“But sometimes,” Eddie closes his eyes, clenches his jaw before spilling out, voice suddenly so very small:

“Sometimes I’m scared you’re just dropping me off, and stopping in while you pack.”

And god, he…that’s what he…

“That’s why you were so,” and Steve doesn’t have to say on top of everything, he doesn’t have to say building on the obvious—he doesn’t have to.

“I went to the car.”

Eddie swallows hard; nods like it’s a battle. Yet he does it.

Steve’s so proud of this man. Steve’s honestly proud of the both them.

“Yeah,” Eddie grinds out, sandpapery and a little painful even just to hear but now it’s there, now they know.

And Steve can gather him close, press him in slow and arrange just so atop him as he lays back down, remembers he brought Eddie’s coat too as the real dead of night starts to settle in, so he shimmies it off his waist and doesn’t bother convincing Eddie’s arms to give up where they’re wrapped around Steve, he just tucks it in as a blanket around them over where his own jacket’s pulled as tight as it can go to keep them both, and then he sighs, exhausted but content and maybe they’ll climb down the ladder Steve had made sure was waiting; maybe they’ll swing straight into his room, the same as Steve’s sure Eddie made his way out in the first place. Maybe they’ll wake up to the sunrise right here, just like this.

Steve’s happy regardless of whichever he gets, because all of it happens together.

“Just for the lights, babe,” he breathes into Eddie’s curls, kisses them firm and holds until the sentiment, the single statement swells to keep the whole of what Steve means for the keys, the car, the idea that he’d ever go anywhere without Eddie that he’s not coming home from, and that his home is Eddie, too: always.

Always.

“Only the lights.”

♥️♥️♥️

✨also on ao3

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[concretejunglefm]

enchanted Noah?🤭

I can't get this man oit of my hand, we know so little about him...

But I can't get the morning scene out of my head. What if there's another morning spent together in Noah's bed, full of stolen glances, tracing fingers on each other's skin, whispers of sweet nothings and teasing kisses, that slowly turn into slow lazy morning sex

OH BB!!! THIS MAN 🫠 it's always soft sweet mornings for him, even sweeter when you steal him away to your place, because no one knows anything about you and he even finds your little apartment cute 🥰

CW: soft lazy morning sex, a little teasing food play, fluff with Noah being an absolute sweetheart and making you melt.

Maroon 5’s Never Gonna Leave This Bed comes to mind, because he’s not letting you go. The moment you even attempt to roll out and crawl from beneath the covers, his arms are wrapping around you, dragging you back against his chest as he softly mumbles something about needing more sleep—it’s long into the a.m. by now—and presses soft kisses anywhere he can reach.

Truthfully, he loves these moments: when he gets to steal time with you. No obligations, no emails or phone calls, which have interrupted many a morning with you both, but not this morning. This morning, it’s just the two of you.

You promise to bring him breakfast in bed if he lets you go. It takes a little extra bargaining, a few more kisses, before he actually lets you slip free.

“Did all that catering give you culinary skills?” he teases.

You glance back at him, a flicker of a teasing smile on your lips. “Maybe,” you shoot back, and then you’re gone. Wearing his shirt, which barely covers past your ass, you slip out of the bedroom and wander down the hall of your apartment until you reach the kitchen. It’s small, but quaint—and all yours.

Strawberries, fresh cream, and pancakes. You have less in stock than you anticipated, but enough to make something to share. Grabbing two mini cartons of orange juice, you run back to the bedroom to surprise him with your culinary delight.

“I thought we said no phones,” you scold him, setting the plate down on the nightstand as you catch him sitting up against the pile of pillows, scrolling through his phone.

“Unfortunately, I don’t turn into a pumpkin when the clock strikes midnight.”

“And I do?” you gasp, reaching for the plate and scooping up some of the cream, smearing it onto the tip of his nose in retaliation. A hum of laughter rumbles in your throat as you lick your finger clean.

“Never,” he beams, hands sliding to your hips, gripping the fabric of his shirt that you’re wearing, and dragging you closer, back towards the bed.

You push the covers aside and climb on top of him, straddling his lap. Reaching over, you begin cutting a piece of the pancakes with the side of your fork. “Well, lucky for you, Cinderella here can cook too,” you tease, bringing a forkful of pancake, strawberry, and cream to his lips, watching him closely as he happily accepts it, soft satisfied moans escaping him.

“Delicious,” he mumbles, and you lean in, stealing a kiss—wiping away the smudge of cream coating his lips in the process.

“The strawberries are especially sweet.” You reach over, setting the fork down, this time using your fingers to pick up a piece. Lifting it high, you feed it to Noah, his eyes eagerly fixed on you as his mouth closes around your fingers, his tongue swiping at the remaining juice.

This time, he can’t resist another kiss, pulling you in, one hand cradling the nape of your neck as his mouth meets yours. It’s soft, sweet, and sets off an eruption of butterflies in your stomach.

You get to wake up to this—to him—every single morning so far. He’s refused to leave, your side, your bed, you. It’s been beyond perfect, the two of you creating a bubble you never want to escape from.

“My turn,” he declares proudly, reaching for a piece of strawberry and scooping up some cream in the process, but instead of offering it to you right away, he trails it down his bare tatted chest, letting it rest just above his navel.

Shuffling back, you happily dip down, leaving a trail of kisses as you follow the path he created. When you reach the strawberry, your tongue rolls over the spot, slow and deliberate, and you hear his breath hitch beneath you with every teasing movement.

You let out a squeal the moment his arms wrap around you, pulling you down against him as he rolls you both over. His head dips to capture your mouth in a kiss, sharing the sweet mixture still lingering on your tongue. It’s slow and sensual, his mouth soft against yours, each of you savoring the moment, just like you have ever since you locked yourselves away together in your little apartment.

“I love being here with you,” he whispers, his mouth soft against your skin as he trails light kisses down your throat, tucking into the crook of your neck. His hands edge beneath the shirt—his shirt—you’re wearing, large palms brushing against the soft skin of your back. The heat of him makes you tremble. He’s always had that effect on you, from the very first moment you met—his touch subtle enough to set you on edge and set your body ablaze, all at once.

“Would you stay here forever?” you ask. It’s cliché, but he indulges you.

He nods, whispering a soft "In a heartbeat" against your pulse before pressing a kiss there, feeling the way it thrums beneath your skin.

You can’t think of anything more idyllic than hiding away in your apartment together, shutting out the world—a world so incessant in its curiosity about him: where he is, who he’s with. Enough time should’ve passed for the “mystery woman” to be forgotten—she was, to you, and yet somehow, the rumors pull him into new assumptions, linking him to another artist, with whispers of secret proposals and declarations of an engagement.

None of it’s true—except maybe his desperate attempts to get you to come with him to every show, and his constant pleading for a trip to Paris.

“You’re still on that?” you tease, just as he lifts his head and brushes his teeth lightly against your chin in a playful bite.

“It’s romantic,” he insists. And it is—beyond romantic. Almost too romantic for two people who’ve only just met, who are still in the early stages of something so new, something not yet defined, but Noah is falling, hard, harder than he ever has, and the soft look in his eyes when he finally pulls back to gaze down at you tells you everything.

“You’re crazy,” you whisper, shaking your head as your fingers rake gently through his hair.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “About you,” no cheek, no cockiness, just pure adoration, like no truer words have ever been spoken.

“What would we even do out there?” you ask.

As usual, that question transforms him into his walking tour guide self, listing off everywhere you could go—his voice low and easy—while his mouth charts its own path along your jawline and neck, leaving soft, lingering marks behind.

“There’s a hotel that overlooks the Louvre,” he murmurs, “and at night, it shimmers so beautifully.” His body presses closer against yours, and your head grows cloudy at the thought. He talks about the view, about the city, about the hotel room and all the possibilities it holds for you both.

Breakfast on the balcony. Dinner while watching the Louvre light up at night. All of his sweet words slowly dissolving into soft filth as he whispers them against your skin. “And I can watch the city lights reflect in your eyes as I fuck you over the balcony.”

You think a soft ‘yes’ slips from your lips between quiet moans and the frantic effort to shed the only article of clothing between you—his shirt, and when he sinks into you, it’s full and deep, a feeling that spreads through every inch of your body, like he’s sinking home, as though this is exactly how you belong—together, completely entwined.

Every morning has followed the same pattern on the days you refuse to leave the bed, falling into slow, lazy morning sex. The kind that feels like the perfect start to the day simply because it begins with him inside you.

It’s the slow drag of him between your walls that you love—the way he stretches you, the way pleasure ripples through every inch of your body, the way he stays pressed close, like all he wants is to remain right here, wrapped around you.

Your mouths move together in slow, teasing kisses. A flick of your tongues, playful at first, until he grows greedy and presses his tongue into your mouth, seeking out the taste of you. There’s a faint trace of strawberries and cream on your tongue—just enough sweetness to deepen the kiss, to make him crave more.

Your hands roam his body—his biceps, his back, his hair. You comb your fingers through the strands and tug gently, arching your hips to meet the slow, deliberate rhythm of his own.

He draws out the pleasure for you both. You feel the way he twitches and pulses inside you, the tremble in his stomach as he leans into you, holding steady, refusing to give in too soon. Even when he does, he doesn’t stop. Half-hard and sensitive, he keeps moving—thrusting into you with slow, determined strokes until you feel him hardening again, like your body is the answer to everything for him.

There’s no clear edge where he ends and you begin. Your bodies feel made for one another—perfectly in sync—and he whispers as much against your skin, each word soft and reverent as he kisses along your body.

“It’s like you were made for me.” It’s a quiet murmur, but it makes your stomach ripple with butterflies, a slow build of pleasure trailing behind it, because it feels exactly like that. Like you were made for each other—soul to soul, body to body.

“You’re all mine,” he whispers, and the words have an instant, heated effect. You clench around him, your body responding without thought.

“All yours,” you echo, breathless, affirming what you both already know. You are his—in a way you’ve never belonged to anyone before.

“Just like I’m all yours.”

That’s what sends you over the edge. The words, the truth of them, hit with unexpected force—your climax erupting slowly but deeply, spreading heat through every nerve. You tremble beneath him as he cradles you close, moans spilling into his mouth as he kisses you through it.

He’s all yours. He belongs to you—just as you belong to him. There’s never been any doubt. From the moment you met, he made it abundantly clear: there’s no one else for him, only you.

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 @saythatuwill

[missmaemikaelson]

MY Top Ten Hottest Video Game Men:

1. Jason Todd (Arkham Knight)

2. Leon Kennedy (All versions)

3. Carlos Olivera (RE3)

4. Sebastian Sallow (Hogwarts Legacy)

5. Ghost (COD)

6. Luis Serra (RE4)

7. Jason Duval (GTA VI)

8. Trevor Philips (GTA V)

9. Joel Miller (TLOU)

10. Booker Duwitt (BioShock Infinite)

[tohruies]

“coco, do you mind if i hold your hand for a while?”

“h-huh?! um, yes!”

“oh… alright then, forgive me for being so forward.”

“wait, sorry, i mean— no, of course, i don’t!! um! sorry, i don’t mind! i don’t mind if we held hands at all…”

“… you’re, um, endearingly reactive.”

— THANK YOU SO MUCH NICK FREN!!! 🥺💖 for bringing yaoco ‘first date’ to life :’3 in your most beautiful cutieful art style :’’3 @scarameownya nick is so awesome to work with; he is exceptionally talented and communicative!! his eye for details is impeccable and he always strives to tell a story through his art which is so very lovely 🥺 you should absolutely consider commissioning him whenever he has open slots hehe YAY!!!!

[h3lian]

I don't know if you take requests from other fandoms, but maybe Dante from DMC5? Sibling franchise to RE lol

Peek at a wip m doing for warm up! I adore dmc so any requests for it are also welcome 🙏💕

[littlewitchvee]

soft and curvy, come have a taste🎀

slowly learning to be okay with the curves and marks on my body

[julianavalds]

DEREK LUH & LONDON THOR as JORDAN LI

GEN V (2023 - ) 1.06 | "Jumanji"