Leaving This Here. Goodnight

Forget about fancy dates, i wanna flirt with you in kitchen while cooking for you

Okay imagine you get your nipples pierced and show folio for the first time but he can't touch you yet because it hurts and it drives him crazy

But—but—but why can’t him just giving a little soothing lick or suck help ease the soreness? It would help, wouldn’t it? 🥺 Catch him giving you those puppy dog eyes, hands cradling your waist and side as he tries to nuzzle down against your chest. He just wants to help ease the ache… but don’t you dare let him—unless you’re ready for him not to let go, because once he gets one in his mouth and hears the sounds you’re making, he’s not stopping. Not even if it’s too sore for you.

not to be a hedonist but. pleasure IS the whole point, my loves. we are made for pleasure. humans have not survived out of spite or sheer grit or simply to make more humans. we live for pleasure. the pleasure of licking the last delicious crumbs off your fingers and feeling sunlight on your skin and massaging a loved one's shoulders. we're made to fill our bellies with delicious food, to nap in soft grass, to touch each other in joy and comfort.

there is no shame or guilt in our bodies doing what they were made to do. and we are made for pleasure.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wanted it to be you back then.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we do that again?”

You know what sounds so fun? Having nap dates with Noah.

There's not really a purpose other than napping together. Maybe it's like, around 2 or 3pm, you're both lounging on the couch and you start to get sleepy. He notices that by how you're yawning every two minutes.

So, he takes your hands in his and pulls you off the couch.

"C'mon. Let's go to bed and take a nap."

And it's obvious that you can't deny it.

So you both move to the bed, and get comfortable under the covers.

Maybe you're resting your head on his shoulder. Maybe only your hands are intertwined. Maybe his long legs are tangled with yours.

You talk about mundane things until one of you falls asleep, and then it doesn't take long for the other to follow.

And then this becomes a routine. Noah starts to notice your preferred hours for a good nap (not right after lunch, you prefer to wait around 1 hour). So he already has the bed ready by then. The pillows are all fluffy and the blankets are already laid out.

And if, for some reason, he's not there to nap with you (he gets cranky when he has responsibilities during your nap hours), he makes sure you're rested by texting you throughout the day to ask if you've had your afternoon nap yet.

You tell him that yes, you tried to sleep, but you never felt as rested as when he was with you.

Can't stop thinking about Folio fucking you with his drumsticks

Can’t stop thinking about him doing this before a show, because he wants your scent with him when he’s on stage.

He loves having you spread out in the green room, teasing the thick end of the stick against your clit, watching how you jerk and press into it, softly pleading for more. “Already so needy, baby?” he drawls, voice dripping with that southern charm and teasing smirk, slow and deliberate as he begins to inch it into you.

One hand presses firmly against your stomach, fingers splayed while his thumb circles your clit, praising how well you’re taking it—how much you’re taking. “Oh, look at that… look how deep you’re taking my stick, baby. Gonna be all over it all night for me.”

Sometimes, he’ll even hold the sticks between his teeth, just to roll his tongue along the wood and get a taste of you.

x

whined. whimpered. cried. moaned. mewled.