A pillow laid beneath your cushions your stomach, but you still feel the bulge of his cock each time he presses himself deeper. Holding his position, his hands grip your hips, the pressure of his fingers easily leaving behind bruises as he remains buried to the hilt and begins grinding his hips.

Noah doesn’t hold back, not even for a second. Desperate whimpers and pitiful grunts spill past his lips and against your ear before he’s burying his face against the side of your neck.

“God, do you feel that?”

It’s rhetorical, but you do. You feel everything in this position. The way his thighs keep yours pressed together makes everything squeeze around him tighter as he moves, your walls clenching with each delicious drag of his cock.

You acknowledge him with a hum, barely audible, mostly for the sake of the microphone that’s been strategically placed to catch all of his sounds.

“Can you feel what you’re doing to me?” He rasps. “Oh, fuck—fuck, fuck.”

His breath catches, and he trembles against you, stilling himself as though trying to pull himself back from the edge of something he knows he won’t be able to come back from, but that’s why you’re here, why you offered to take the place of the usual toys he uses, to give him something more authentic.

Peering ahead of you, you catch the faint red light of the camera across the room, set up to provide a paid live feed. In the moment, it was easy to forget that there could be anyone watching, an idea that sends a swirl of heat through your stomach.

Clenching around him, he gasps, his voice breaking into a plea. “Oh, no… wait, please. You can’t do that to me…”

If there’s any way to make out your features on the livestream in the dim light of the room, you’re certain they’d catch your smirk in response—the devilish gleam of someone up to no good.

You do it again, because you can and you will.

You’ve heard these moans a hundred times, had them blaring in your ears on nights when you struggled to sleep or needed something to help take the edge off. You’ve came to them more times than you’d ever admit, but there’s something even more thrilling about being the cause of them.

The feeling crawls up your spine, tickling at the base of your skull and spreading through you as you rock your hips the best you can beneath him, attempting to draw another reaction from him.

“Oh, fuck… just like that… God, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna—” He breaks off into another moan.

This time, you can feel the effect it has on him, the way his body trembles against yours, his fingers gripping you tightly as he attempts to hold on to the last ounce of composure. Eventually, the final thread snaps, and he comes undone completely.

Even then, he doesn’t stop. He continues grinding his hips down against you, eyes rolled back, heavy, breathless sounds spilling from his lips, his voice barely audible.

“I can’t… I can’t stop…” He pants the words, chasing the same sensation he had been moments before, burying his face against the back of your neck as he whines.

The apartment is quiet when you come in, the kind of silence that usually means Noah is either holed up in his room with headphones on or passed out on the couch mid-mix.

You shut the door behind you with a soft sigh, kick your shoes off, and drop your bag by the wall with more force than necessary.

Everything hurts—your shoulders, your back, even your feet. Some dull, unrelenting ache that made your eyes sting when you finally let yourself stop moving.

As you stand there, eyes closed, cataloging every muscle that hurts inside your exhausted body, you realize the place wasn't all that quiet after all—from the kitchen came the low clink of metal against ceramic.

You blink your eyes open, and the smell hits you next: something buttery and warm, faint but unmistakable and—oh. Noah was cooking.

You pad toward the kitchen in silence, too drained to call out. He is standing at the stove, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, barefoot on the cold tile. His hair is messy, like he’d been running his fingers through it repeatedly, and the speaker on the counter is humming something soft and instrumental, so low you couldn’t hear it from the front door. 

He glances up when he hears you, but doesn’t say anything right away. Just takes you in, eyes scanning quickly over your face, the slump of your shoulders, the way you lean on the wall like even standing upright took effort.

“Long day?” He asks finally, turning the burner down.

You let out a breath, laughing without humor as you rub your neck with a wince.

“Understatement of the century,” you mutter. “I swear it feels like the universe is trying to fold me in half like a lawn chair today.”

Noah snorts quietly.

“Do you want me to kill the universe for you?” 

“If it’s not too much trouble.” You smile in spite of everything, rolling your shoulders just as he glances over again.

“I’ve got time.” He says as he moves to rinse the pan in the sink, and then— “Shoulder blades again?”

You pause for a second, then nod, too tired to deny the obvious. He leans a hip against the counter, drying his hands on a towel, watching you.

“I could help, you know?”

“How?” You raise an eyebrow, toes curling against the floor. “With your magical roommate chiropractor powers?”

“No. With my hands,” he says, forcefully deadpan. Then shrugs a little like it wasn’t a big deal. “I used to do it all the time on tour. Everyone always had knots from sleeping in the van or lugging gear. I know what I’m doing.”

You blink, shifting your weight.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he says simply. “But I don’t mind. I want to.”

There was no teasing in his voice. No flirting. Just quiet sincerity, like he was offering you a glass of water, not his hands on your bare back.

The silence stretched for a few seconds.

“I should probably shower first,” you say eventually, fingers brushing a loose hair behind your ear.

“Yeah. Go ahead.” He nods, already turning back to wipe the counter. “I’ll be here.”

That was it—no smirk, not even a lingering look. Just Noah, steady and calm, offering to help. Still, you couldn’t ignore the way your pulse quickened as you stepped into the bathroom.

The water was hot—almost too hot—but you needed it that way. You stand still under the spray, forehead resting against the cool tile as the stream runs down your back, loosening the tightness just enough to breathe through it.

God, your muscles were wrecked.

You roll your shoulders slowly, wincing as something cracks. A long shift, too many hours on your feet, and now the aching had settled deep into your spine like it meant to stay.

And as you stand there under the hot, warm pressure of the shower, you try to convince yourself Noah’s offer wasn’t weird. Friends gave each other massages all the time, right? It’s normal. Not a big deal at all.

You were definitely over that crush, anyway. The one that bloomed when you first moved in, when he’d been all quiet glances and late night playlists and the kind of easy, safe warmth that made you lean in without realizing.

It had passed.

You’d pushed it down, and it had passed, because Noah didn’t do relationships—he had music and fame to chase, friends to occupy his time with, dreams with deadlines. You weren’t about to be the one who complicated that.

So no, it wasn’t weird. You’re tired, he’s offering. That’s all.

You turn off the water, heart beating stupidly loudly in your ears, and step out into the steam-heavy air. Toweling off slowly, you move on autopilot—reaching for the panties folded on the counter, slipping them on before wrapping the towel around yourself.

You pause at the door, hand on the knob.

It’s not a big deal, you repeat in your head again. Then again. And one more time, just to be sure. Then you open the door, turn off the bathroom lights, and step out.

Everything is quiet, save for the low, familiar creak of a drawer opening down the hall.

“Noah?” You call out softly.

No answer—just the soft thud of something being set down.

You pad into the hallway, bare feet silent against the cool floor, following the sound until it leads you to his room. The door is half-open, the warm glow of purple LEDs spilling out across the floor like an invitation.

Noah is crouched near the side of the bed, rifling through a low drawer. He’d gotten rid of his hoodie while you were in the shower, his tattooed arms now on full display.

He looks up when you appear in the doorway, eyes flicking up and down your figure, almost on instinct, before he quickly stands up with something in hand.

“Sorry,” he says, holding up a small bottle. You weren't sure why he was apologizing. “I was just looking for this. It’s a muscle relief thing—helps with tension.”

You nod, fingers tightening slightly on the edge of your towel.

“I figured we could just do this in here, if you don’t mind,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck with the hand not holding the bottle. “Bed’s more comfortable than the couch. And, uh…” His eyes darts to the dim corners of the room. “Lighting’s kinda nice in here. Relaxing.”

“Yeah,” you say quietly, taking a deep breath as you step inside his room. “This is fine.”

The door stays cracked open behind you, but it still feels like the air in the room shifts. He moves to the far side of the bed, giving you space, and you climb up slowly, lying on your stomach with the towel still wrapped securely around your body, the fabric warm against your freshly showered skin.

The only thing covering your body underneath the towel was that underwear, and even though you’d made peace with that in the bathroom, lying here now—on his bed—it suddenly feels so much more real.

The air is cooler in his room than it was in the bathroom, and the damp towel chills fast against your back as your body adjusts. Noah sits beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight.

For a second, there is only the faint click of the lotion cap and the quiet rustle of him moving behind you.

“Okay if I…” He hesitates, voice low. “I’m gonna put a towel right over here.”

You turn your head a little, just enough to catch the corner of your eye on him as he gently drapes a fresh towel across the curve of your ass, his movements careful.

His fingers ghost over your shoulder blade next, pausing.

“Now can you open the one you’re wearing? Just shift it under you so your back’s exposed?”

You swallow, throat terribly dry, but nod anyway.

You fingers find the fold of the towel at your side, loosening it with a quiet breath before adjusting it beneath you—baring the entirety of your back to him.

The new towel stays firmly in place at your hips, covering your ass and thighs, but the cool air kisses your now bare back, making goosebumps rise. And you hear it—the slight hitch in his breathing when you settle back into place, much more exposed now.

“You okay?” He asks, as if you were the one having trouble breathing.

“Yeah,” you murmur, folding your arms under your head and turning your face into the crook of it. “Good.”

Your heart won't stop pounding, heavy in your chest.

And then he touches you.

His hands are warm, steady, careful. The scent of eucalyptus drifts between you, curling around the space like steam had done back in the bathroom, and your muscles slowly begin to loosen beneath his touch—even as something else, deeper, tighter, began to coil low in your belly.

You hear the quiet shift of fabric behind you before you feel it: the weight of the mattress dipping again, and then Noah’s knees bracketing your thighs. Not heavy, not pressing—just there, holding him above you as his palms begin to move with more purpose.

He was straddling your legs now, his breath quiet behind you, and the realization made your heart stutter.

His hands slide up the length of your back again, broad and warm and surprisingly soft. You hadn’t expected that—he was always carrying amps or crates, playing chords or slinging guitar straps over his shoulder—his hands were supposed to be calloused, rough.

But they aren’t, and they move like he is memorizing something, thumbs pressing down along either side of your spine with just enough pressure to make your head dip into the pillow and your lips part around a soft, shaky breath.

The lotion makes the glide smooth, each stroke deliberate, each touch a slow draw over your skin.

He isn’t rushing it, and he isn’t talking, either. The silence grows thick around you, the only sounds being your breathing, the faint swish of fabric, the quiet rhythm of his fingers working lower—down the slope of your back, skimming just under the towel that covered your hips.

And that’s the moment you feel it—that first real ache.

Your thighs clench subtly beneath him, breath catching as his palms sweep along the sides of your waist, dipping lower, moving slower, almost brushing the edge of your underwear.

The motion lights a fuse beneath your skin—heat spreading between your legs, blooming quickly and urgently. You can feel yourself getting wet, can feel your panties start to cling, the cotton dampening as your core pulses—slow and steady at first, then harder with every new touch of his hands.

It isn’t just the touching, though—it’s everything. His scent, his warmth, the knowledge that you’re practically naked in his bed, your towel the only barrier between his bedsheets and your bare breasts.

The tension that had always simmered under the surface of your friendship is suddenly rising like smoke from a spark you could no longer ignore.

You don’t dare shift, don’t dare speak or make the faintest sound. But you know, with every slow brush of his hands, that he feels it too.

Noah’s hands pause for a moment at the small of your back, thumbs circling there like he is gathering courage. You hold your breath without meaning to, lips parted against the pillow, your body still beneath his ministrations—but inside, everything is buzzing.

Then he moves up again, slower now.

His palms skate over your waist, fingers spreading slightly as they glide upward—not quite the same path this time. This time, they curve inward just a little, tracing the dip where your waist flared into your ribs, brushing against the edges of your sides. Skin that had never felt his hands before now buzzes under them.

That’s when you feel it—fingertips grazing the soft sides of your breasts, where they press lightly against the mattress. Just a brush, like an accident, almost. But he doesn’t pull back—he lingers there a beat too long, hands easing over your ribs like they belong there, before retreating up your back again.

You blink slowly, breath shaky, heart slamming so loud in your ears you’re sure he can hear it. The touch wasn’t rough, or demanding. It was tentative—curious. Testing the boundary, maybe waiting for you to say something, to move, to push him away.

But you didn’t. You don't—you stay still, let him feel.

Your panties are soaked now, no use pretending otherwise.

The ache between your legs pulse with every heartbeat, and the way he is still straddling your thighs doesn’t help—the heat of him there, the occasional shift of his weight, the glide of lotion-slick hands over your back, your ribs, your sides.

His fingers find that curve again—the swell of your breasts just where they press against the mattress—and this time, the brush isn’t brief. He exhales through his nose, barely a sound, and you feel it ghost over your shoulder.

He is breathing heavier now, too. Something has shifted, and you both know it.

His hands still on your lower back, fingers flexing slightly against your skin. Noah leans forward slowly, his thighs tightening around yours, caging you in without weight. And then—his nose brushes your neck, soft and warm, dragging along the slope of it like he can’t help himself, like he’d been dying to know how your skin felt there.

Your breath catches when you feel it—the press of him, thick and hard, through the soft fabric of his sweats.

He’s pressing against the swell of your ass, unmistakable and slow as he exhales through his nose, lips hovering just behind your ear now. He doesn’t move away, too—just stays there, breathing you in like he needs the scent of your skin more than air.

You wait a few seconds, frozen. But when nothing comes, you turn your head, lips parting to say his name, and it leaves your throat in a whisper, breathless.

“Noah…”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he dips his head and gives your shoulder the softest, slowest bite—teeth barely there, just enough pressure to make your spine arch.

Then, finally, his voice: low, rough, right against your skin.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, “and I will.”

But you don’t.

You can’t.

Your body is already answering for you—shifting against the mattress, your thighs tensing beneath him, your panties soaked with want.

You don’t say a word.

And when you don’t, you feel the sound he makes—a soft groan, like relief, like restraint slipping. Noah’s hands shift lower, and you feel the subtle drag of the towel across your skin as he starts to remove it—slow, deliberate.

“Okay?” He asks, his voice rough around the edges now, like it costs him something to hold back.

You nod, cheek still pressed to the sheets.

And then he peels the towel away.

It slides from your ass, baring more and more of you with every inch until it’s gone entirely, leaving only the thin towel beneath you and the heat of his eyes behind you.

The air is cool against your skin, but his gaze burns.

Noah exhales like he’s been punched in the gut.

You don’t have to look at him to know he’s staring—at your back, your waist, the curve of your ass barely covered by the thin stretch of your panties. You can feel the weight of his gaze.

And then his hands are back—no more lotion, no more fabric between you and his touch. Just skin to skin.

He starts at your shoulders again, slower this time—like he needs to relearn the landscape of you now that you are so bare beneath him. His thumbs drag long lines down your back, firm and sure, but gentler now, intimate in a way that makes your whole body tense with anticipation.

When his fingers trace the curve of your waist, dipping just enough to brush the top swell of your hips, you can’t help it—your hips shift against the bed, chasing more, your core aching with how badly you need his hands lower.

You hear his breath catching, the softest curse under it. And when he leans forward again, you feel him even more clearly this time—the full press of his cock through his sweats, thick and hard, grinding slowly against your ass as he bends over you.

“You’re killing me,” he whispers, mouth against your shoulder. “You have no idea.”

But you do, because you’re feeling the same.

So you shift again, just enough to press your ass deliberately into the heat of him, and whisper his name.

“Noah.”

He lets out a strangled sound, low in his throat. You turn your head slightly, enough to catch the edge of his face and the way his jaw is clenched when you look at him.

His eyes meet yours—dark, pupils blown wide. Desperate.

“Tell me stop and I will,” he says again, voice wrecked, lips barely brushing your skin. “I swear I will.”

But again, you don’t. You just hold his gaze as best as you can, and you wait.

That’s all he needs.

The last thread of hesitation breaks, and his mouth is on you in the next breath—hot, open, biting at your shoulder again, then trailing down your spine as his hand slides beneath you, cupping your breast where it is pressed to the mattress.

A moan escapes you, helpless and broken, as his thumb circles your nipple, and his teeth graze the curve of your back. The towel beneath you shifts with the movement of your body, his hips grinding into you, no longer pretending this was anything but what it is: need.

Months of it, maybe. Weeks of holding back. Days of sleeping just a room apart, both of you pretending not to think about this.

Now, none of it mattered.

Noah sits back on his knees, hands spanning your waist, and with careful fingers, he hooks them into the waistband of your panties, pausing one last time.

“Still okay?” He asks, voice trembling despite how deep it has gotten.

You nod—voice gone—and lift your hips in silent answer. He peels them down, slow and reverent, baring all of you to him at last.

When his hands settle on your thighs, spreading you open, you hear his breath hitch yet again, like this is already too much to handle.

Noah’s fingers trace along the inside of your thighs, feather-light, and the anticipation makes you tremble. Then finally, finally, he slides them up between your folds—barely there at first, just a ghost of a touch, but even that has your breath catching, your hips twitching.

He hums behind you, low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back where he leans close again.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, dragging the pad of his middle finger through your slick heat. “You’re already soaked.”

You whimper into the pillow, face flushed, heart hammering. You can’t even pretend to be embarrassed—not when your body lifts instinctively, presenting for him, grinding your ass back against his hand, aching for more.

Noah sucks in a breath, and his hand stills for just a beat, like he’s trying to hold on to what little control he has left. But soon he goes back to moving—slow, lazy strokes between your folds, gathering everything you’re giving him, spreading it all over your sensitive skin.

“You’ve been like this,” he whispers, voice hot in your ear now, “since I first touched you, haven’t you?”

You moan, biting your lip hard as he circles your clit—barely any pressure, just enough to tease, to drive you mad. Your hips roll, chasing it, trying to force his hand to give more.

Noah grins against your shoulder, then lets one thick finger slip inside, slow and deep.

“Shit,” he breathes. “How can you feel like this and expect me not to lose my mind?”

You push back against him with a needy sound, hips arching higher, your ass grinding into the hardness still pressed between his thighs.

“Then do it.” You say, breathless. “Lose it, Noah.”

Noah curses as your body clenches around his finger, like even one of them was too much, too good—but he wasn’t close to done. He presses another in beside the first, sliding deep, your slick heat sucking him in without resistance.

Your hips jerk at the stretch, the ache in your belly blooming into something molten and sharp, and you bury a moan into the pillow.

“That’s it,” he mutters, low and tight. “Taking me so well…”

His free hand slides up the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide, palming it roughly. Then he tugs—pulls the cheek out to the side, spreading you open. You feel the air kiss your skin, cool and sharp against the heat of your core.

“Fuck, look at you.” His voice is rough, wrecked. “So pretty like this. So fucking wet.”

You could hear it too, the slick sound of his fingers working in and out of you, could feel the way your body gripped him every time he twisted, every time he pushed just a little deeper.

Your hips roll again, chasing it, desperate and shameless.

“You want more?” He asks, breath hot against your back. His nose drags over the curve of your spine as he moves over you again, pressing kisses to your skin between thrusts of his fingers. “Say it.”

You gasp, back arching, needing.

“Yes,” you can't help but beg around a whisper. “More. Please.”

“Good girl.” He praises as he crooks his fingers just right, and your vision goes white for a second.

“Please,” you beg again, voice shaky, breath catching on the word.

He stills behind you, and the air in the room seems to thicken around the silence that follows. His hand tightens slightly on your ass, like he’s anchoring himself.

“Say it,” he rasps, voice low and frayed, grazing the shell of your ear. “Tell me what you want.”

You swallow, pulse pounding in your throat. It isn’t like you hadn’t thought about it before—God, you had—but this is real. This is now.

And still, the words came easier than you expected.

“I want your cock, Noah. Please. I need it.”

Something in him breaks—you feel it in the way he pulls his fingers from you with one last, slow stroke that makes you whimper.

Feel it in the sudden shift of his body behind you as he sits up, tugging the waistband of his sweats down just far enough to expose himself. The heat of him returns fast—closer, heavier, his cock brushing against the curve of your ass as he settles on top of you.

Then the tip of him slides between your folds, slow and deliberate, catching on your entrance but not pressing in—not yet.

He does it again, and again, letting you feel every inch, every promise. Teasing you with it.

“Jesus,” he breathes, voice strained. “You’re dripping, baby.” His hands bracket your hips, fingers flexing. “You don’t even know what that’s doing to me.”

You push back against him just enough to make him catch his breath, to make him grunt under it.

“Noah,” you gasp, “please—”

And then he gives in.

With a low, broken groan, he presses forward, the thick head of his cock pushing into you slowly, carefully, stretching you open in the most delicious way. Inch by inch, he fills you, and you can feel him shaking with restraint, with effort not to just slam into you all at once.

“Fuck,” he hisses, sinking deeper. “You feel—Jesus, you feel so fucking good.”

You’re trembling beneath him, fingers curling into his sheets, mouth parted in stunned pleasure as he bottoms out inside you, hips flush to yours. The stretch is deep, perfect, and your body clenches around him without meaning to, drawing a choked sound from his throat.

He folds over you, chest against your back, weight pinning you down in the best way. One hand pressed into the bed by your head, the other sliding around your waist to hold you steady.

His face nuzzles against your neck, breath hot and ragged.

“I’ve wanted this,” he whispers into your ear, voice raspy, trembling, “since the moment I met you.”

And then he rolls his hips, just once—hard, deep, and devastating. Your body rocks forward with it, the motion steady but growing bolder, deeper.

His hand snakes under your body and splays across your stomach, pressing against it and anchoring you to him while his mouth drags over the slope of your shoulder, teeth grazing skin.

Your breath comes out in gasps, your fingers clutching the sheets as your body pulses around him, slick and hot and aching. And still, he doesn’t rush.

Noah takes his time, like he wants to feel every second. Like he wants you to remember.

The stretch of him inside you is maddening, each drag out and push back in setting you alight. You’re so wet he moves without resistance, the glide effortless but thick with tension. The sound of it, of your bodies moving together, fills the room in the filthiest way.

You push back into him again, needy, wordless with it, and he moans like it has been torn from his chest.

As he fucks you, his hand slips lower, fingers brushing between your legs to where you’re swollen and soaked, and he curses under his breath when he feels how stretched you are around him, how wet.

“For me,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “You’re like this for me.”

The words send a pulse through you, your body tightening instinctively.

He circles your clit with those same fingers, light at first, just enough to tease. You whimper, hips jerking, so he keeps going—keeps fucking into you at that same maddening pace, his cock dragging against every spot that makes your vision blur, his fingers working your clit coaxing more wetness from your core, your thighs trembling.

You can feel it coming, the way your orgasm begins to coil deep and low, a knot of pleasure just on the edge of snapping. But still, you don’t want it to end—you want to stay here, being held, filled, claimed in this quiet, aching way only he knows how to.

His mouth brushes your ear, breath hot, panting.

“You close?”

You nod, the word caught in your throat. His hand presses harder, movements rougher now, and his voice breaks as he says your name again—this time desperate, reverent.

“Come on,” he rasps against your ear, and it's obvious he’s close to breaking himself. “Come for me. Let me feel you.”

And just like that, as if on cue, your body gives in.

Your orgasm hits like a wave—sharp, strong, curling through you as your muscles clench tight around him, hot and pulsing and soaked. You cry out, forehead pressing to the sheets, body arching helplessly into every roll of his hips.

Noah growls, low and hoarse, the sound barely human.

“Fuck—you feel so good—”

His rhythm stutters, falters.

“God—” he chokes, jaw clenched tight, and then he pushes in deep, grinding against you with one last desperate thrust. He holds there, buried to the hilt, his body shaking with release. You feel the first hot pulse of him spill inside you, deep and thick, followed by another, and another.

Noah grunts against your skin—raw, wrecked—and his hand fists the sheets beside yours, his other arm locked around your waist like he needs to hold you down, like if he doesn’t, he’ll come undone completely.

His hips roll for the last time—lazily, riding it out with trembling gasps against your ear, until the only thing left between you is the heavy silence of shared breath and the thundering in both your chests.

He doesn’t pull out right away. He just stays there—chest to your back, hand splayed over your belly, cock still twitching inside you, like he doesn’t ever want to let go.

And honestly?

You don’t want him to, either.

but noah also has other needs when he's away. he had gotten off to your nudes before and that's when he got the idea to start taking polaroids of you during sex (consensual ofc). he would pack them in a secret spot in his suitcase so nobody else could see them. they were for his eyes only. he learned pretty quick that nothing gets him off more while he's away than looking back on all of the ways you make him feel good. he had some of his fingers playing in your mouth, or teasing your nipples. some of his hand wrapped around your throat. he had some of you laid out for him with your legs spread, aching to be filled by him. he couldn't help it, he has to be able to see your pretty pussy while he's away. it helps him think about the way you taste, or the way you feel wrapped around his cock. he even took some of you while fucking you from behind with his fingers digging into your hip. his favorites though are the ones of you on your knees looking up at him while sucking him off. those pretty eyes, and that perfect mouth of yours. it instantly brought him right back to that moment and how good you made him feel. sure they're just pictures and his hand is nothing like the real thing, but they bring him back to you, all of you.

Noah who knows how much you love his hands, but won't tell you that he knows.

Noah who feels his cock twitch when he catches you looking at them, knowing that you're thinking about something unholy.

Noah who started wearing rings again after realising that you loved it when he twisted them on his fingers.

Noah who knew you got wet watching him twist them.

Noah who liked to trace patterns on your thigh, progressively getting higher and higher because he liked watching how mesmerised you were because of the motions he was making.

Noah who would wrap his arm around you, but dangle his hand off of your shoulder, so that his fingers were right next to your face, simply because he liked to watch you squirm.

Noah who notices that you zone out of conversation when he fiddles with his fingers.

Noah who likes to finger you slowly because he becomes mesmerised by them disappearing inside of you before slowly pulling back out.