#And I’m not saying that all of these are bad but it’s a pattern and it makes it hard to care for characters and relationships

[thewrstinme]

first one shot 🤓☝️

18+ minors dni

tags: smut, overstim ig, denial, aftercare, praise, fluff, bestfriends who r just in love w eachother idk dawg

notes: not proofread lawl

18+ under cut

It’s late at night, and you’re lounging on the couch in your shared apartment with Noah. You’re wearing one of his oversized band t-shirts and a pair of shorts, your hair in a messy bun, and your piercing eyes lazily watching TV. Noah walks in, freshly showered, shirtless, and still damp, his grey sweatpants slung low on his hips. He sits beside you, close enough for your bodies to brush.

You’ve both had a long day, Noah having just finished a show, and the adrenaline is still buzzing between you both. As you sit there, Noah leans in, resting his head on your shoulder, his arm draped around your waist. You chuckle, teasing him about his dramatic entrance. He nuzzles into your neck, his breath warm against your skin, causing your to instinctively shiver.

“You always do that, don’t you?” you murmur, poking at his damp hair. “Get all close when you’re like this.”

“Like what?” he smirks, his lips brushing lightly against your neck in response.

“Like… clingy,” you quip with a smirk of your own, though you don’t move away. In fact, you shift slightly, letting his head rest more comfortably against you.

His fingers absentmindedly start tracing patterns on your stomach, dipping under the hem of the t-shirt, just enough to make you squirm. There’s a charged silence between you two. He leans in closer, his lips brushing the side of your jaw, playful but deliberate. You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze, the distance between you closing.

“You like it though, don’t you?” His voice is teasing, but there’s a deeper undertone now, as his hand gently cups your cheek.

You tilt your head in challenge, your lips barely brushing against his. “Maybe,” you whisper.

The space between you both dissolves as Noah closes the gap, pressing his lips against yours in a slow, lingering kiss. There’s no rush, no urgency—just the weight of unspoken words and your unorthodox bond. His hand slides to your waist, pulling you closer until you’re half in his lap, fingers tangled in his hair as the kiss deepens.

The flirtation, the playful touches, the banter—all of it culminates in this quiet, sensual moment, where nothing needs to be said, and everything is understood.

You pull back slightly, your breath a little uneven, eyes still locked on Noah’s. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—affection, amusement, maybe even curiosity—as his hand rests firmly on your lower back, keeping you close.

“You’re trouble, Sebastian,” you murmur, biting your lower lip, the tension between you both palpable.

Noah raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I’m trouble?” he teases, his fingers lightly brushing against the hem of your shirt again, sending a shiver down your spine.

“You know you are,” you retort, playfully pushing at his chest, but it’s half-hearted. Your body betrays you; you don’t really want to move away, and he knows it. His touch lingers on your skin, familiar and intoxicating.

In one smooth motion, Noah shifts, bringing you fully into your lap now, his arms encircling your waist. Your breath catches as you feel the warmth of his bare chest against yours, the closeness making your heart race. His hands rest on your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles just above your waistband.

“Admit it,” he says softly, his lips brushing against your ear, “you love this.”

You chuckle, the sound low and throaty. “I’d say tolerate,” you shoot back, though the slight tremor in your voice gives you away. You can feel your pulse quickening, the heat rising between you both. Your fingers run over his shoulders, tracing the lines of his tattoos, your touch lingering as if memorizing every inch of him.

Noah leans back slightly, giving you a better look at him, his smirk turning softer, more intimate. “You’re bad at pretending you don’t like me,” he teases again, his hands tightening slightly on your hips, grounding you in place.

“Shut up,” You whisper, leaning down to kiss him again, this time harder, more insistent. Your hands move to your jaw, fingers brushing against the rough stubble, pulling him deeper into the kiss. Your lips part against hers, your tongues meeting in a slow, heated rhythm that makes your toes curl.

He groans softly, his hands moving up your back, one of them tangling in your messy bun and pulling you closer. The kiss grows more intense, filled with a mixture of playful energy and simmering tension that’s been building between you both for ages. There’s an undeniable familiarity to the way you touch—like you’ve done this a thousand times before, yet every kiss feels new, electric.

You press your body into his, and he responds by tilting you slightly, making you feel weightless in his hold. His lips trail down your neck, leaving a trail of soft, wet kisses as he goes, the sensation making your breath hitch in your throat. He reaches your collarbone, nipping gently, and you gasp softly, gripping his shoulders tighter.

“Thought you said we weren’t doing this,” Noah murmurs against your skin, though he doesn’t stop. His tone is light, teasing, but there’s an edge of seriousness to it.

You pull back, your blue eyes meeting his again, and for a moment, you both just stare at each other, your breathing heavy and your hearts pounding in sync. There’s a line here—one you’ve been dancing around for a long time.

“Maybe I lied,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, as your lips find his once more, and everything else fades away.

You melt into the kiss, the warmth of his body melding with yours. You tangle your fingers in his damp hair, drawing him closer until there's nothing between you but the heat and your shared breath. Your heart beats with a newfound rhythm, each thud echoing the urgency that only Noah can create. Your lips part, allowing his tongue to slip into your mouth, deepening the connection between you two.

Slowly, you ease your weight onto him, your bodies slotting together in a familiar dance. Your hands roam over his bare chest, feeling the strength of his muscles and the warmth of his skin.

You both know that this isn't just a passing moment. There's depth and purpose behind every movement. Your hands slide onto his chest, feeling his taut muscles and the heat of his flesh. Your lips move away from his, leaving a trail of soft kisses down the side of his neck. When you reach the spot where his neck and shoulder meet, you nip at the skin, just hard enough to make him groan.

He responds with a low groan, his hand slipping under the hem of your shirt, his fingertips feather-light along the curve of your spine. You shudder at the simple touch.

You can't help but smirk against his skin as he gasps at the unexpected sensation, the sound sending a thrill down your spine. Your fingers continue their exploration, tracing the outline of his hipbone before sliding even lower.

Noah's hands grip your waist, pulling you onto him even closer. You can feel his arousal growing, and it only adds to the intensity of this dance. He moves his hands up your back, pushing your shirt up with it.

His hands are warm and steady as he pulls your shirt off, leaving you in just your underwear. His lips find yours again, with a desperate hunger. His fingers dance along your curves, sending tingles down your spine. His touch is both tender and possessive, as if he's marking his claim upon you, and you let him.

Noah’s lips move down your neck, following the curve of your collarbone. You can’t help but squirm beneath him, every touch sending a jolt of electricity through your body. He knows all your sensitive spots, and he doesn’t hesitate to exploit them. You arch your back, pressing into his touch, your fingers tangling in his hair. His hands find the waistband of your underwear, and slowly, he starts to pull them down, his lips still moving, worshiping your body.

You feel exposed but also strangely free, as if every layer of your defenses has been stripped away, leaving only the raw.

“Fuck baby, you’re so beautiful laid out for me like this.” Noah sighs.

The words roll from Noah's lips in a soft, low murmur against your ear, his hands running over your skin with reverence. You can feel the heat in his touch, the depth of his lust, but also the sincerity in his words. It's a heady mix, and you find yourself wanting to lose yourself in it completely.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, clinging to him as he presses light kisses to your neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. The rhythm of your breathing seems to sync with his, slow and deep, filling the room with a heady, intimate hum.

Noah’s hands slide lower, cupping your backside, holding you closely as he kisses a path up your chest. His lips trace your collarbone, sending a shiver down your body. His hands knead gently, and you respond instinctively, your hips rising to meet him. You can feel his arousal against your thigh, a physical reflection of the shared hunger between you.

His movements are slow, almost worshipful, as if he’s committing every contour of your body to memory. You feel claimed, desired, in a way that leaves you breathless.

"You're so damn gorgeous," he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire. "Every inch of you."

His words, laced with intensity, mingle with the heat of the moment. Your body responds to him instinctively, a symphony of sensations. His kisses grow more deliberate, his hands more possessive, almost as if he can't get enough—doesn't want to let go. With an urgent groan, his mouth finds yours again, kissing you deeply, passionately, his tongue slipping between your lips.

Your breath catches in your throat, but the heat of the moment carries you along. You find yourself responding to Noah with an equal fervor, your kisses growing wilder, more heated. Your fingers tangle in his hair, drawing him closer, as if you fear he might pull away.

"I want you, Noah," You whisper, your voice barely more than a breath against his lips. "All of you."

His hands roam your body, tracing the lines of the tattoo painted on your shoulder, the curve of your ass. He seems to respond without words, kissing you with an urgency that borders on desperation.

"You have all of me," He breathes, his lips moving down your jaw, nibbling gently. "You’ve always had all of me."

The confession hangs in the air like a tangible thing, a raw admission. His hands continue their journey across your body, touching, caressing, claiming. Every touch, every kiss, adds to the intimacy, the connection growing stronger with each moment. You can feel it in the way his body responds to yours, in the way his breath mingles with yours.

Your skin burns with each touch, each caress. The room is filled with the sound of unsteady breaths, soft moans, and the rustle of skin against fabric. Every sense is heightened, every nerve thrumming with both anticipation and pleasure. It's a whirlwind of sensations, a storm of desire that you're both adrift in.

"I need you, baby," Noah whispers, his voice rougher, a reflection of his rising need. "Can I have you, sweetheart? Let me take care of you.”

You can hardly think, hardly process the magnitude of his words. Your body reacts to his touch before your mind can catch up, your hips arching towards him in answer to his question. Your response is a breathless, "Yes," whispered against his lips.

His hands are everywhere, seemingly everywhere at once. Your body responds to his touch with a fervour that's almost primal, and you can feel every inch of him against you, the fire in your blood burning hotter with every passing moment.

"Good girl," he murmured against your skin, his lips moving lower down your body, tracing a path over your breasts, down your stomach, his fingers hooking under the waistband of your panties.

"Now hold still for me, love." his mouth was hot and wet as he continued kissing his way over your body, stopping between your legs and pressing a kiss against your heat through the fabric.

He could never get enough of you.

The heat of his mouth sends a shiver through you, and you instinctively follow his direction, your body going still, the tension in your body coiling even tighter. His lips are like a brand against you, a claiming, leaving you trembling with anticipation.

He nuzzles briefly against your thigh, his tongue flicking out to taste you through the thin barrier of fabric. The sensation is electric, and you find yourself arching into him, your breath hitching in your throat, your nails digging into the sofa.

"Noah," You breathe, the word a barely audible gasp as he continues, teasing and tasting you so achingly close. Your body trembles with the intense sensations, your mind a swirling vortex of desire. He responds by pressing firmer kisses against your most sensitive areas, his fingers skimming beneath the waistband of your panties, teasingly close but not quite touching where you most yearn for his touch.

The anticipation builds, your body humming with tension as you wait for his next move. His hands are relentless, exploring every inch of you, as if he can’t get close enough, can’t get enough of you. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently, urging him closer, longing for that release only he can bring.

His response is a low, gravelly chuckle against your skin, the vibrations sending a shiver down your spine. He doesn't hasten his pace, instead prolonging the sweet, sweet agony. As he works you, you feel yourself becoming more and more undone, the world narrowing to just this moment, to where his body is against yours, to the way he's drawing you closer to the edge, only to pull you back, keeping you there, poised on the brink of ecstasy but not quite allowing you the final push.

“Eager?” He taunts. You can hear the smirk in his words, the sound vibrating against your skin. The slow burn he’s created, the steady heat of his touch, is both exquisite and maddening.

"Please," You whisper, your voice a mix of need and pleading, a soft whine escaping your lips. Your body is a heady mess of sensations, all pointing towards that one release he's holding just out of reach.

He pauses, pulling back slightly, his brown eyes glinting in the dim light. “Please what, love?"

The absence of his lips, of his touch, is like a vacuum, sucking the air from your lungs. The tension in you is at its breaking point. His eyes seem to gleam with mischief and a touch of satisfaction as he watches you squirm on the bed, his fingers tracing circles on your inner thighs, purposefully close but not quite where you want them.

Words are beyond you now. All you can respond with is a soft, insistent whimper, your hips rolling slightly in a desperate attempt to guide him to where you need him most.

Your body practically vibrates with need, aching for the release he's been withholding. Noah knows exactly what he's doing, his touch, his taunts, all calculated to push you to the limit, and you're helpless to resist.

With the slightest hitch of his breath, he leans in again, his lips touching the thin fabric that still separates you. The feel of his breath mingling with yours is like a spark igniting the tinder of your need, sending the heat pooling in your core.

"You know what I want to hear, my sweet girl," he murmurs against your skin, his voice low, his words a deliberate command. His fingers ghost over your panties again, a soft brush that sends a rush of want coursing through you.

All you can do is whine in response.

"Use your words, pretty girl," Noah urges, his voice deep and commanding. His fingers trace idle circles along the edge of your panties, a teasing caress designed to drive you wild. "Tell me what you want, hmm? I can wait all night if I have to."

His taunt sends a ripple of impatience through you. You're ready, eager for everything he has to give, but his teasing words are making this game of sensual torment both exhilarating and maddening.

"Noah," you say, your voice a husky whisper, "I need you, every inch of you. I want you in every way possible. I need to feel you, to taste you, to touch every inch of you." As you speak, your fingers trail over his skin, your words echoing the urgency in your touch.

He rewards your confession with a press of his lips, his smile teasing as he murmurs, "There you go. See, that wasn't so hard, now was it?" he purrs mockingly.

He slowly drags your panties down your legs, the touch of his fingers on your bare skin like a jolt to your already hypersensitive body. Then, with a swift, confident motion, he moves between your legs, his hands bracing your thighs.

Noah's lips press against your hip, his tongue flicking out to taste you delicately. He doesn't stop there, trailing kisses lower, his touch lingering, deliberate. As his lips find their target, a low groan escapes him, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh as he murmurs words that both praise and tease.

"So sweet," he murmurs, voice low and rough with want. His tongue teases you, tasting and exploring. "Do you know how long I've wanted you like this?"

His lips hover above your most sensitive places, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath, but not quite close enough to touch. He lingers there, tantalizingly close, while his fingers continue their maddening exploration of your body. You can feel the heat rising within you, a growing frustration that he's making you wait for the release you crave.

"Noah," you plead, your words a mix of need and frustration. "You’re the worst.”

He chuckles against your thigh, the sound sending a warm puff of air against your most sensitive area, just enough to tease without satisfying, "Oh, I'm the worst, am I?" He murmurs, his lips tracing a path of feather-light kisses up your leg, stopping just short of where you ache for him most.

He pulls back slightly, a cocky grin on his lips.

Oh, he's enjoying this. His lips and touch are slow, methodical, every move calculated to draw out this delicious torture before you. He knows exactly what he's doing, how to set your nerves on fire with anticipation, how to leave you gasping for more.

You can feel the heat building within you with each passing moment, a rising tide of desire that threatens to swamp you. You try to squirm, to seek more, but his fingers hold you in place, preventing your movements, the smirk on his face telling you he's in control here, completely.

His lips are a mere breath away from your most intimate area, and he continues to tease, his tongue flicking playfully, tasting and savoring you, but never quite giving you that elusive pleasure you crave. All the while, you can feel the heat of his breath against your core, a tantalizing reminder of how close he is. You're writhing now under him, the wait becoming torturous, your body craving the release he's withholding.

His low chuckle sends a shiver through you, the sound reverberating in the air like dark music. "Impatient, huh?”

He finally relents, his mouth finding your core. There's a moment of pure ecstasy as he finally gives you what you've been craving. His tongue exploring you, devouring you with a reverence that's both tender and carnal. He's relentless in his attentions, his tongue teasing and tasting, each stroke sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.

He lifts his head, meeting your gaze, his eyes dark and intense. "That's a good girl," he murmurs before returning to his work, his fingers joining his tongue, finding every sensitive spot you didn't know you had.

His words wash over you like a wave, drowning you in desire. Your head is spinning, your body aflame with need, your fingers gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer into you. His expertise is obvious, every move calculated to push you further towards the edge, to bring you closer to climax. Through the haze of pleasure he creates, all you can do is moan, arching into him as the pressure builds, your peak almost within reach

And then… he stops, his tongue and fingers stilling, his lips moving away from you, leaving you on the cusp of release, the anticipation agonizing.

You're a mess, a trembling mass of sensation, the world around you reduced to the space between you. You stare up at Noah, his eyes dark with want, his lips glistening, a mischievous glint in his eyes. You can tell he delights in this power, the ability to bring you to the brink and then pull away, the knowledge that he'll push you over the edge, but not quite yet. He's still in control, holding you at a tantalizing threshold, his words a taunting melody.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a rough, sultry rasp. "So eager, so needy," he finishes with a soft chuckle, his fingers caressing your inner thigh. "But patience. I'm not done with you."

He leans back in, his eyes never leaving yours. He resumes where he left off, his tongue swirling, teasing, his fingers finding that sweet spot again, building back up the heat that had just began to fade. He's relentless, relentless, building you back up to that edge once more, keeping you there, his lips murmuring a steady stream of praise.

And just as you reach the peak, as your body is about to break, he once again pulls away, your climax denied. You whimper, pleading, but his fingers stilled, his lips merely hovering, leaving you in this sweet agony, dancing on the brink of release but never quite reaching it, your body trembling with pent-up need.

You feel like a live wire, every nerve ending humming with pent-up energy. You're close, so close, your body on the edge yet again, but as before, just as you're about to soar over the peak, Noah stops, leaving you hanging in this delicious limbo of anticipation.

The frustration, the frustration is immense. Your nails dig into his thighs, your breath quickening to a shallow gasp. He's relentless with his teasing, but you can also see the satisfaction in his eyes, the way his lips curve into a smirk. He loves having this effect on you, enjoys wielding this power over you. You can see it in the way he moves, in the way his hands and mouth move over your body, all calculated to draw out this sweet torment.

"Noah, please, I can't take any more." The words spill from your lips, part plea, part protest, but mostly need. Your voice is shaky, your whole body shaking from the stimulation, from the way he's been slowly driving you insane with his touch. The ache between your legs is almost painful, and now that you've started speaking, you can't stop. "I need… I need you, now, please, Noah. Please, just-"

But before you can finish, Noah silences you with a kiss, deep and hungry. His lips claim yours, his tongue thrusting into your mouth in a way that mirrors the ache you crave between your legs. His hands trace a path down your body, finally, finding your core again, his fingers slipping inside you, curling expertly, hitting that spot that makes your hips jerk up, your body finally given the release it craves.

You cry out, the orgasm washing over you, the intensity taking you by storm. Through the rush of pleasure, you can feel Noah still working you, guiding you through the waves of your climax until you're gasping, your body limp and writhing as the ecstasy continues to ripple through you.

Noah's voice is a breathless hum against your ear, his words a murmured whisper of praise. "That's my good girl, so good," he murmurs, his fingers still lazily tracing patterns on your body. "God, you’re so beautiful."

He knows you well, his knowledge of your body like a map he's committed to memory. He knows how to touch you to make your toes curl, to make you arch and moan, to make you forget your own name.

As your body begins to tremble with the aftershocks of your release, he keeps his fingers moving, dragging out your pleasure with every brush of his touch. "Such a pretty girl," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in your ear, "so perfect for me, aren't you?"

There’s a smug satisfaction in his tone, as if he’s relishing in the power he has over you, in the way he can make your body react to his touch, his words. He plays you like an instrument, pushing the right buttons to pull out the most beautiful sounds. He’s a conductor of your pleasure, and he knows exactly how to elicit the most exquisite responses from you.

"You’re shaking, love," he says, voice smug and satisfied. "Is that because of me?"

The question is a challenge, a dare, a taunt. He knows the answer, but he wants to hear you say it, to admit that he has you in the palm of his hands, completely at his mercy. He loves this control, his fingers continuing to tease, continuing to explore, even though you're still trembling from your release. It's as if he can't get enough, as if he intends to push you past the point of pleasure and into the realm of near torture.

He knows just how far he can push you, how far he can take you before the pleasure turns almost painful, the boundary between pleasure and overstimulation a fine line he enjoys walking. Your reactions, your whimpers and gasps, only fuel his desire further, his touch becoming more insistent.

"Come on, sweetheart," he murmurs, "give me another. I know you can do it.”

His words, spoken in a breathless whisper against your skin, are both a challenge and a taunt, as if he’s daring you to give in again. And as he continues to tease and taunt, his teeth grazing against your skin, you can feel yourself responding, your breathing quickening, a soft moan escaping your lips as you do.

“You can give me another, right baby? Be good for me one more time, my pretty girl.” He murmurs, his fingers working you gently, his lips peppering wet kisses down your midriff, lips pressing gently against your core. “Just one more time, want to feel you cum on my mouth.”

His fingers pause for just a moment, their skilled ministrations on hold. “Can I have one more, angel?” he murmurs, his voice low and needy, his lips brushing over your thighs, his breath warm against your sensitive flesh.

Your eyes meet his, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The world narrows down to just Noah and you, the anticipation hanging heavy in the air as you both hang on the edge of this unspoken moment of consent.

Your response is a nod, a barely perceptible movement that seems to echo through the silent room, bouncing between the hushed breaths and shared glances. Noah’s fingers begin their movement again, a slow, deliberate rhythm that resonates through you, building the tension once more. His words, murmured against your skin, are like an incantation to a divine entity.

"That's it, my beautiful girl," he sighs, "Just like that. Again."

His mouth follows the path his fingers have mapped, his kisses, his touch, it’s electric, drawing you towards another peak. With each touch, you’re winding tighter, the tension building to a fever pitch. You’re on the brink, so close to the edge, but Noah seems content to linger here, prolonging the moment, drawing out the anticipation.

"Look at you,” he murmurs, “So beautiful, so perfect. One more time for me, sweetheart. Cum for me again."

Your body is a mess of sensations, every nerve standing on end, everything reduced to this one, raw moment of pleasure. You can feel Noah everywhere, his fingers, his mouth, his breath, each small action sending a jolt through you, the pressure building to a crescendo that you can’t bear anymore. As you finally let go, it’s like a tidal wave of sensation rolling over you, your whole body shuddering with the intensity.

The wave crashes over you violently, your body convulsing with the intensity, your breath catching in your lungs as it washes over you, consuming you. You find yourself gasping out his name, the pleasure too intense for words, the words "Noah" and “please" the only coherent sounds that escape your lips.

Noah's fingers continue their movement, drawing out every last wave of pleasure till you're left panting, trembling, your muscles taut, every nerve ending thrumming with the afterglow of your second release.

Noah’s mouth continues its work, his touch softer now, guiding you through your release, his lips tracing a path of slow, gentle kisses over your thighs.

"There you go," he breaths, his own voice uneven, filled with his own arousal that he's been holding back. "That's my good girl. So good for me."

As you come down from your high, your body still feeling the lingering aftershocks of your release, he finally pulls away, his eyes finding yours, his gaze darkened with desire and satisfaction.

He crawls up your body, his movements now a stark contrast to the controlled precision he displayed moments ago. His lips find yours in a searing kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in an unrestrained passion that is his way of showing his own need and desire.

His hands roam your body again, mapping every curve, every soft space between bone and muscle with a newfound urgency. He's no longer teasing, no longer holding back, and the air is thick with the heady scent of his want, his need. This time, when he speaks, his voice is rough, edged with a desire that is almost as desperate as yours.

"I need you," he growls, his lips finding your neck, his fingers fumbling with his waistband. "Now, sweetheart. I need to feel you now."

There's a raw, primal quality to him now, his control fully discarded. You can feel it in the way he's touching you, his hands a little less gentle, a little more insistent, as if he can't touch you enough, can't seem to get close enough. His need mirrors your own, the air around you thrumming with a mutual desire that is hard to ignore or resist.

He’s quickly ridding himself of the rest of his clothes, his movements frantic with need. Finally, he's naked against you, his skin smooth and hot against yours. He pauses for just a moment, his eyes searching yours, finding the answer even before you can speak. And then his lips are on yours again, his fingers tracing a path of exploration that seems insatiable. Every touch is fervent, every breath shared heavy with anticipation.

“Noah… please.” You whisper breathlessly, your body on the verge of falling limp into the sofa.

There's no hesitation, no teasing, just the urgency of his response. He doesn’t just hear your plea; he feels it, his body vibrating with anticipation. And then he's pressing into you, joining with you in one urgent, smooth motion, filling you entirely. Your joint moans echo in the room, a harmony of need and desire that fills the air. His movements are steady, each stroke deep and purposeful, his fingers gripping your hips as he pulls you closer, claiming you, filling you, making you his.

He was a man consumed, drunk on the sound of your voice, the feel of your skin, the way your bodies moved together. He was lost in you, in the fire burning between you, his own need matching yours, his every movement a declaration of desire.

Each thrust hits a spot deep inside that has you gasping, your back arching off the couch, your hands clutching at his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. "Fuck!" you moan, the word a desperate plea. "Noah, please, more…"

The praise seems to ignite something in him, his movements sharpening, his eyes darkening with need. He's relentless, driving into you with a precision that has your head swimming. Every stroke, every movement, he's drawing out your pleasure, building you back up to that edge again.

"Look at me," he growls, his lips pressing against your neck, the words both demand and request. "Look at me, pretty girl."

And as you meet his gaze, there’s a sudden shift in the air, in the intensity of the act. His eyes hold yours, mirroring your own pleasure, your connection deepening beyond the physical, beyond the raw carnal desire. His movements continue, each thrust sending a shudder down your spine, each touch leaving you gasping. Each time he buries himself in you, it's like a vow, a binding pledge.

"Beautiful,” Noah whispers, his voice a husky rasp against your skin, his lips tracing a path down your neck. "You feel so good, angel. So perfect."

His voice is barely a caress as he whispers against your skin, each word punctuated with a thrust that makes your breath catch in your throat. Each movement, each word, seems to set your nerves ablaze, the tension coiling tighter and tighter as if it could snap at any moment.

"Baby," he murmurs, his voice rough, "Look at me. I want to see you come apart like this."

You feel your inner walls clenching around him, your release rushing over you, your eyes locked onto his face. Every muscle in your body seems to tense, a silent gasp escaping your lips as you're swept away.

His movements don't slow, his rhythm steady, his voice, barely above a whisper, guiding you through every wave of your climax. "That's it, baby, let go," his words a soft encouragement against your skin, as he continues to thrust, prolonging the pleasure, as you unravel around him.

"So pretty," he mumbles against the column of your throat, his teeth grazing your skin, "So good for me." And with a final, deep thrust, he stills, his own release washing over him, joining yours, his body shaking against yours, his voice echoing your name like a prayer.

You both lay there, still connected, the silence now filled with the sounds of your shared, gasping breaths. Noah’s lips, tender now, trace a path of gentle kisses over your skin, his touch like a lullaby, soothing and comforting. His words, soft whispers of praise that echo in your head, seem to linger in the room, their presence reassuring and calming.

As your breathing begins to even out, he slowly pulls away, his body moving to lie beside you. His arm finds its place around your waist, pulling you closer, his fingers tracing idle circles on your skin as if committing your shape, your feel, to memory.

"You okay, pretty girl?" he murmurs, his tone gentle, his worry evident in the soft crease of his brow. "Not too much?" There’s a vulnerability there, a hint of concern, as if he’s trying to read your emotions like a book.

He knows your body, he knows your limits, but each time you're together, he makes sure that your comfort and pleasure are paramount. This moment—the aftermath—is as integral as the act itself, a gentle reminder of the respect and care that underlines everything. That's just the kind of person he is at his core—not just a lover, not just a partner, but a friend, your best friend, whose care runs deeper than the physical. Right now, in this moment, you know he's watching, listening, making sure you’re alright.

The room is enveloped by a soft, cozy silence. The heat of your bodies, still close, mingles with the lingering scent of your lovemaking. Noah’s hand finds yours, his fingertips tracing a gentle pattern against your skin, a quiet reassurance that he’s here, that he’s watching and listening. He’s not trying to rush or push, he’s giving you the space and care you need, letting you come down at your own pace. Aftercare, he would often tell you, is as crucial as the act itself.

You nod, a small, tired smile playing on your lips, your body already drifting towards exhaustion. "M'okay," you murmur, the sound a soft whisper in the otherwise still room. "Just tired."

"Just rest, love," he murmurs, his voice both gentle and insistent, “I’m going to clean you up.” With slow, deliberate movements, he carefully untangles himself from you, his touch gentle, his face a mask of concern.

You watch with heavy-lidded eyes as he pads towards the bathroom, his figure illuminated by the soft glow of light, his attention once again fully on your wellbeing. Even now, when his own needs and desires have been satiated, his primary concern is still your comfort.

He disappears for a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth. With infinite care, he attends to you, his hands gentle yet thorough, making sure every inch of you is clean, every trace of intimacy removed, before he helps you to settle back against the pillows.

Your voice, low and weary but filled with gratitude, murmurs, "You're too good to me."

He pauses, his eyes meeting yours, and there's a flicker of something else behind them, a depth of emotion that goes beyond simple desire or lust. This part of him is often buried, but it always seems to emerge in these quiet moments after intimacy, when the walls have come down, and all that's left are your exposed hearts, beating in sync.

He doesn't respond, at least not verbally. Instead, he kisses you, soft and slow, his lips a gentle reassurance.

He settles beside you again, pulling the covers over the both of you. His arm wraps around you, pulling you close, your back to his chest. He's your shield, your comfort in the darkness of the night, and you can hear his steady breathing, feel his heartbeat against your skin. In the quiet of the night, enveloped in his warmth and his presence, you feel peace wash over you, a sense of security that only he can provide. Sleep comes easy, your body and mind finally at rest, the day's chaos and passion now reduced to mere memories.

As your consciousness begins to fade, the last thing you hear is his voice, a soft whisper in your ear, as if he can't resist sharing one final thought.

"God, you’re so beautiful" he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. "My everything." And then sleep claims you, your mind and heart both at peace underneath the night's soft embrace, held securely in the arms of the man who cherishes you beyond measure.

[weepingnightmarepeanut]

Is Gege aware that it’s possible to write character development without killing off characters?

[un-pearable]

why are 99% of crochet animal patterns just vague blobs. cmon. i know we can do better as a community. have you seen the shit the national parks service put out? yeah, the NPS. there are grandmas on the frontlines of the most formally accurate critters this side of a 3D printer. we can do better than orb with two triangles sewn on. we can make a more accurate cat. that is NOT what a turtle looks like. step AWAY from the axolotl

[sourkitsch]

Two things that are true at once:

I am not nearly as mentally ill as I’ve convinced myself I am

I am far sicker than I’ve convinced my friends that I am

[autism-disco]

it’s for real this time i’m gonna sort things out and i am going to end this (talking about work)

[llumimoon]

Starting to think it is Not Normal for my phone to glitch out periodically for no particular reason to the point that it becomes unusable for a period of time

[hellfireeddiemunson]

i have bad melted soup brain today and i hate it

[yuribalisms]

I hate my gender I hate it I hate my gender this is fucking stupid I hate it I hate it I hate it could I be literally anything fucking else I’m so goddamn sick of this

[punk-pins]

question. how are you supposed to respond when people (positively) comment on your accent?

[rowanthestrange]

ok ok so @icantleave told me that if i wanted to try beading, i should find a pattern online and pick something easy.

which i think you all know is not going to happen cus if i’m going to make something it might as well go hard real hard

so if the design i came up with took me most of yesterday to create digitally, how much will i want to die by the end of day 1?

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

Do you ever listen to someone speak and marvel at how smooth, free-flowing, and free of pauses it is?

Because I sure do. I can’t do that.

Maybe that’s why I feel like most people’s speech is insincere even when it isn’t… because it sounds like how I would recite or read a script. That explains why I view people who aren’t native English speakers, have a heavy accent, and take long pauses to think of the words they need to say as being more trustworthy… because my cadence is similar to theirs; and we both stumble over words.

[the-trans-dragon]

.

[fingertipsmp3]

Lads. I have a trial shift at this coffee shop on Monday and I think the weather is still going to be hot but idk if wearing shorts is acceptable at this workplace or not. Further details in tags

[shorties-unite]

I’ve actually just decided that I don’t want to hear any more advice about dating or love. More specifically, I don’t want my algorithm feeding me “if he wanted to he would” and “how to get him to fall for you” videos all the time. I don’t want the people in my life giving me advice on how to feel or what to tell or cards to play in terms of the people (person) I like. I. CANNOT. STRESS. ENOUGH. I. DO. NOT. WANT. DATING. APPS. I manage to make enough of my life revolve around people that I decide that I like that may or may not deserve that time and effort all by myself, I don’t want outside influences feeding into it. I don’t want to talk about it anymore, unless it’s telling that person in particular how I feel and leaving it at that. I want to be able to think about something else. Appreciate everything else. There is so much more going on that I should be focused on.

[waffled0g]

Everyone gets “The 90s” look wrong and I hate it

Couple years ago I saw these two board games at the store back to back. Well, not saw them per se, but ya know. Spied them out of the corner of my eye. And for a moment without reading the text, I couldn’t tell you which was which decade at first. Funny. Either they were in a rush to get these out the door or they wanted their throwback trivia game boxes to look uniform. I didn’t think too much of it.

Only, from then on I started seeing it MORE. Every time someone markets a 90s or 80s throwback...

Goddammit they’re identical! What??! How did we let this happen? As a 90s survivor and a designer, this drives me up a wall.

Look, I know I’m late to the party to complain about “the 90s look” when we’re just starting to get sick of the Y2K nostalgia train. But c’mon, the 90s were not The 80s: Part Two™ 

Trust me when I say that we weren’t all wearing neon trapezoids up until the year 2000. The 90s look being peddled is so specific to the tail end of the 80s and an early early part of the 90s - a part of the 90s when it wouldn’t stop being the 80s. This is Memphis design being conflated with the wrong decade.

Keep reading for a long ass graphic design history lesson and pictures of old soda and fast food.

Specifically, the look is Memphis Milano, self-named by the Italian design house Memphis Group. Starting in the early to mid 80s, they made all sorts of furniture, fabrics and sculptures that were like a Piet Mondrian grid painting under heavy radiation. Their whole deal was defying the standards of existing industrial design up to that point on purpose. Chairs had weird arches, bookcases would be in strange alien colors, unusual materials like plastic or elastic were used in place of metal or wood, that sorta thing.

Memphis quickly became the signature look for the decade. You can tell something’s influenced by Memphis design from it’s telltale trademarks:

Clashing, neon colors.

Use of diametric shapes.

Contrasting patterns like zebra print stripes, confetti squiggles and checkerboards.

It wasn’t long before Memphis Milano-inspired design was everywhere in 80s pop culture:

It was a special time, yes.

I was a kindergartener at the tail end of the 80s, so I knew Memphis mostly through the lens of kids media. Toys, clothes, games, tv shows used it like candy colored catnip. Cable channel Nickelodeon more or less adopted the Memphis aesthetic as their signature in-house style and practically built a monument to it at a Florida theme park:

I think this is why folks mistake what decade Memphis is representative of - 90s staples like Nick, Saved By The Bell, Fresh Prince - they all stayed around much longer than the design trend’s expiration date. 

Couple that notion with the fact that companies are slow followers to design trends. Something gets popular and they want to get on the bandwagon? Gotta wait for the ink to dry, gotta wait for the production molds to be made. It would take a few years for them to completely work Memphis outta their system.

Now, this is not to say Memphis is bad! Personally I’m a fan of the aesthetic, if my neon-drenched artwork wasn’t a tip-off already. But it is a trend, and trends never last forever.

So what took the Memphis Milano look down for good? This part’s up for debate, but I personally think it had something to do with this dude:

It’s that grunge music from Seattle that’s so popular with the kids these days dontchaknow.

Once Smells Like Teen Spirit hit in 1991, the Nirvana tone drove the rest of the decade. Clean geometry became weathered, grainy and organic. Bright neon pastels became more bold. Bubblegum pop music sounded fake and manufactured. Attitude and apathy was authentic. Whatever.

Things got grungy. Things got grimy. Olestra was invented.

I think the best way to visualize this transition is how Cherry Coke entered the decade and how it left it:

1992 Memphis on the left, 1998 grunge junkie on the right. Fitting that the 90s would end with a design that looked like Darth Maul’s lungs.

Okay, so what should 90s retro design look like?

Continue on to PART TWO! Spoilers: No VHS filters or vaporwave needed, but maybe bring an antacid.

[oozywoozycon]

sooooooooooo fascinated by ‘the gang breaks dee’ episode bc it says SO MUCH ab the relationships ??? ? ? ? ??????

mostly regarding dee and dennis’ relationship BUT i can’t stop thinking ab it

his desperation at her seeming to pull herself out of the pit w the rest of them bc she was always down there with them, she was always just that bit lower than him, and she always fucked it up for herself first but he could step in to make it worse if necessary but for the first time it’s not fucking working and she’s getting away and why isn’t it working why isn’t it working why isn’t it —

anyways just like obviously the whole crew is massively codependent and toxic 💕🧚✨💖 and that’s nothing new, that’s like the premise of the show

and if any of them started to seem to get their foot out the door, the rest would put their all into pulling them back in or chopping off that foot, whatever needs doing to bring them back, but this episode is so interesting bc since the other three are in on it, it’s only dennis who’s spiraling and boy he’s spiraling so bad

i NEED to see them as kids i MUST witness their elementary school dynamic (tho i must admit it has likely not evolved since grade school) it is FASCINATING