Work Text:
Severance murmured in the background while Noah was sunk into the couch, one leg up, arms lazily splayed, finally home after one of his brutal weeks. The kind of homecoming where his brain could finally go quiet, no calls or drums echoing through his skull, just earned rest.
His hair was still damp from the shower, a little longer now and pushed back in that messy way he always did when it got in his eyes, the strands curling slightly at the ends clinging to his neck and temples. He hadn’t even bothered to put on real clothes, just that old Lord of the Rings shirt you loved, paired with some all-black Bad Omens shorts from an old merch drop, and naruto socks contrasting so perfectly with the tattoos and the intensity.
You padded in like you were about to start trouble, literally hiding something up your sleeve. He immediately noticed the bunch of markers in your long sleeve shirt, and the way you bit your lip like you were trying to hold in a smirk. He caught you in his peripheral and raised a brow.
“Uh… what are you planning, exactly?”
You didn’t answer, just gave him a little smile, then sank onto the edge of the couch without asking and gently took his wrist like it was already yours, studying the blackwork ink in his forearm in your hands.
“…You know I can see you, right?” he murmured, voice low, eyes still half-glued to the screen, and you could tell he tried to look annoyed just to tease you. But for him it was just too much fun seeing the way you snuck around him like some crime mastermind pulling off the world's softest heist.
You leaned in, the tip of a purple marker hovering near the mandala on the back of his hand. “You didn’t say no,” you whispered smug and calm, thinking the whole situation had already been decided in your favor.
“Mm. Bold of you.” Noah hummed deep in his chest but he didn’t move. Of course he didn’t move… He was already enjoying this as much as you.
He let you test one little stroke in the middle of the flower’s petal… watching it fill with purple ink, just like that. And when you glanced up to see if he’d scold you, he only raised a lazy brow.
“Guess I’m your coloring book now.”
“Just keep watching your show and let me work.” you muttered completely in your zone now and he almost snorted by your bossy tone, like you actually thought you were in charge all of the sudden. God, you were gonna make this so fun for him later.
You kept going quiet and focused, lips pressing together while you guided soft color into the negative space of his skin. Pink here and blue there, being careful not to go outside the lines and avoiding red, since some of those shades were already inked into him. Your fingers were gentle, feathering across sensitive spots but he twitched every time the marker grazed a little longer.
“Stop moving,” you said with voice tight in concentration, filling the little house tattooed on his finger with green right after.
“That tickles.” he shot back, grinning now. “And maybe I like distracting you.”
Ignoring him, you finished that section a few minutes later, clearly satisfied with your work, thumb brushing his hand as you leaned back to admire your skills. Then your eyes scanned higher… and your fingers slipped under the hem of his shirt like it was nothing.
His arm already had the cherry waves and so many filled spaces of black-and-grey that you only had a rough idea of where your next stroke would even go. Or maybe you were just using this excuse to keep your hands on him a little longer.
You pushed the fabric up slowly, past the “Desolate” script and the heat still clinging to his skin from the shower, still not saying anything about it making this a silent challenge. Noah smirked and shifted forward, lifting his arms just enough to let you slide the shirt off over his head.
“Careful, I might start associating markers with foreplay.” he murmured playfully and you shot him a look, the kind that said really? But that only revealed what you both already knew: he wasn’t watching Severance anymore.
You straddled his lap without hesitation, settling your weight on his thighs like you’d always belonged there. Took a red marker from the pile since his chest didn’t have red and acted like this was just a job that needed to be done.
But you took your time first, tracing your fingers lightly over the apple on his throat…then the snake, winding downward to the green leaves curling below his ear. He exhaled slow, watching you through half-lidded eyes, breathing in the scent of your skin when you leaned in closer… Feeling the weight and warmth of your body pressed just right against his lap.
Your palm dragged across his chest with purpose, hovering over the framed piece near his heart: the woman’s side profile and the skull in the top hat framed by flowers like some twisted romantic fable.
You tried not to stare, but your eyes kept dragging over his chest. The tattoos looked too good on him, and it was starting to mess with your head. It turned you on way more than you'd like to admit, so much that was stupid how something like that could get to you without him even touching you. But he noticed. He always fucking noticed.
Your thighs shifted softly over his, barely noticeable if he wasn’t paying so much attention but he was watching every move and breath you took, feeling every flick of your wrist while you colored the edges of the skull’s top hat in soft, calculated lines. You were acting focused, pretending this was just a casual evening couple craft project and not a slow, deliberate way to sit in his lap, legs spread around his waist, body pressed right over the ache building beneath his shorts.
And he let you keep going, staying still for you because he liked watching you try to keep up the act as you played innocent like you didn't get wet just by sitting on his lap. Your marker dragged along the flowers right under his collarbone, and you whispered something under your breath about shading the petals, so calm and serious.
But then you shifted again, just a little, enough for your hips to press into his. That’s when his hands moved.
Noah let his fingers slip over your thighs, slowly dragging up from the curve of your knees to the top seam of your shorts. His hands were warm, claiming every inch they passed over like he had all the time in the world. He didn't interrupt you, just let them settle there, gripping gently at first but firmer as the seconds gone by. His thumbs brushed the crease where your thighs met your hips, teasing at the edge of your waistband. And then one palm slid lower, curving around to grab a handful of your ass through the thin fabric of your shorts. He squeezed once just to feel the way you shifted against him. Not rough yet, just enough to make your breath catch and your thighs twitch against his.
“You sure you’re still working?” he murmured, voice lower now, lazy and dangerous at the edges. “You’re starting to squirm, baby.”
You glanced up with parted lips and wide eyes but still tried to keep your composure for the fun of it. “I’m just getting a better angle,” you said trying not to smirk.
A better angle, he thought… Sitting directly on his cock and wiggling like it was a fucking accident.
Noah chuckled under his breath, the sound low and rough being like music to your ears. “Right…”
Your marker touched down again, trying to color the outline of the unfinished drawing right below his ribs. And while your hand moved, his slid further up… Thumbs brushing the inside of your thighs now, teasing dangerously close to where your heat was already building.
He leaned in, just slightly… close enough that his breath grazed your cheek.
“Should I pick the color when it’s my turn to mark you in?” he murmured, voice dark against your skin. “Or are we going to keep pretending this is just your little art project?”
You shivered, but didn’t stop, maybe because of pride… Or because you liked to drive him insane. Moving to his belly, you kept trying to color the light beams under the reaper’s lantern with yellow, your hand shaking just slightly. But the second you tried to shift your hips again to stay “steady,” his fingers pressed down full firm and controlling, making you bite back a moan.
“Alright,” he rasped, grip tightening by the second. “Here’s what’s gonna happen… I’ll let you finish,” he dragged his mouth just barely over the edge of your jaw, giving one small open kiss there. “But you better move real careful now ‘cause I'm losing my patience.”
The heat between you was unbearable now. Noah could feel all of it, through the thin layers of cotton and sweat. Your weight pressing down on him, your scent filling his lungs with the slow, desperate drag of your body over his hardening cock.
You kept trying to color, marker still in hand, but your grip had turned tense, your breaths came shorter and uneven now. And he knew exactly what he was doing… letting you straddle him like that, letting your fingers skim his ink while his hands crept higher with every shift. You thought you were the one in control still, focused, working playfully. But the way your body and thighs moved proved what he already knew: you were completely at his mercy.
He grinned into your neck just before his lips brushed your ear, breath hot and heavy now, patience fraying at the edges. “Better finish fast,” he growled, and then his mouth dragged down the column of your throat, warm and open-mouthed. He kissed you there, just beneath your jaw, then lower… lips parting to suck softly at the pulse under your skin like he needed to taste how fast your heart was racing. His teeth scraped lightly before he pulled back with a breathless sound that was half a warning, half a promise.
Both of his big hands were gripping your ass again, palms squeezing hard, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you in place or make you ride his lap until you gave up the game. “Fuck, when I get my hands all the way on you…” his voice dropped to a growl, low and rough against your skin “I can't wait to ruin that pretty concentration face.”
His hands moved way past innocent now. One slid up your thigh slow and possessive, slipping under the hem of your shorts. His fingertips dragged across bare skin and settled high, too high, pressing right up against your core.
You gasped, the marker stuttering against his chest.
“Keep going,” he said, eyes locked on your face tracking every blink, every twitch of your lips, like he was memorizing the way he affected you. His voice came rough, lips ghosting along your neck, breathing you in.
Your breath hitched the second his fingers pressed flush against the front of your panties, already wet just from his hands, his voice and the weight of him under you. He groaned deep and ragged, the sound vibrating right against your jaw. His other hand gripped your waist, steadying you when your hips instinctively tried to jerk forward.
“No grinding,” he warned, dark and strict in your ear. “You don’t get to chase it. You want it, you stay still.”
You whimpered, fingers shaking as you desperately tried to keep coloring the last section of ink. He dragged two long fingers along your slit through the thin fabric. Up… then down. Featherlight, just enough to make your thighs twitch in frustration.
“That marker’s slipping,” he murmured, lips brushing your cheek. “Better fix that line, pretty girl. Or do I need to remind you what happens when you make a mess?”
Your hand shook again, trying to steady, but your body was betraying you, tensing around him, thighs squeezing, back arching, little sounds escaping your lips without you controlling. He slid his fingers under the fabric and breathed low and broken when he finally felt your bare, hot and wet. Already pulsing for him with so little.
He dragged his middle finger through your folds, slow as hell, spreading you open with two fingers before circling your clit with maddening pressure, enough to tease you almost painfully.
“You’re dripping on me,” he whispered, tongue licking a slow line up your neck. “You gonna keep pretending you’re focused… or you gonna finally drop that marker and beg me to touch you the way you need it?”
“Fuck—okay, okay, I need you,” you whimpered again, desperate now, and the marker finally slipped from your hand, hitting the floor with a soft clack.
That was all he needed.
“Good fucking girl” he growled, and in one swift movement, he shoved your panties to the side and finally pushed those two long inked fingers deep inside you… tight and soaked for him.
Your head fell back with a loud cry as he started fucking you slow and hard with his hand. His thick middle and index fingers stretching you open, filling you like they were made for it. His thumb dragged tight, steady circles over your clit with each thrust, the pressure relentless. It was effortless for him, his whole hand working you like he knew exactly how to make you crazy, and fuck, he really did.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice all heat and low praise, his mouth brushing the corner of yours. “So pretty on my lap, taking it like this... making a mess on my fingers.”
He bit down gently on your bottom lip, holding it between his teeth before letting it snap back. “You love it, don’t you? Being my good girl and a fucking tease all at once. But baby…” His grip on your hip tightened, eyes dark. “Think I’m not gonna flip you over this couch and make you take it for real?”
Your answer was a wrecked moan, hands clawing at his shoulders, hips twitching into every movement. “Shhh… stay still,” he smirked, fingers curling deep inside you. “You don’t come till I say. Think just because I let you touch me, you get to take control? You'll learn how to obey first.” He curled his fingers hitting your g-spot making your body jump, eyes fluttering shut as your breath caught in your throat.
“You ready to come just from my fingers, aren’t you?” he whispered, voice thick with filth. You nodded, frantic: eyes glazed, lips parted, almost falling apart for him. And right when you hit that edge… he stopped, making you protest instantly.
He pulled his fingers out so slow, slick and glistening with everything you gave him, and brought them to his mouth, keeping his intense gaze on you. He sucked them in, tongue dragging between the knuckles, tasting you like he was starving. A deep, low groan of approval rumbled in his chest. “Fuck… you taste like you were made for me.” He smiled darkly.
Then he pulled you off his lap, laying you back into the cushions, body flushed and wrecked already, his own bare chest looming over you. The colors still in his hand, now smeared slightly from the heat between you.
He leaned in, his lips ghosting over yours for a beat too long before he finally crashed into yous, mouth hot and demanding, tasting the need he’d pulled from your body with every teasing touch.
“Now it’s my turn to use your perfect little body.” he murmured, voice like smoke curling around your throat now. His stare locked on yours, sharp and unreadable. “Lie back,” he said softly, almost sweet. “Let me make something filthy out of you.” He reached down, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and easing them down your thighs, slow enough to make you squirm. His touch lingered at the hem, knuckles grazing your skin in a silent promise.
You were already wrecked, spread out across the couch, panties twisted at your thighs, breath coming in sharp, ragged little whimpers as you tried to recover from what he’d just denied you.
But he had no intention of making this easy for you.
In one slow motion, he tugged your shirt up and over your head, tossing it aside, no bra beneath, just flushed skin and nipples taut from the cool air clashing with your heat. Then he slid your panties the rest of the way off, dragging them down your legs as his eyes drank you in, hungry and unblinking.
He leaned forward, bare chest brushing yours, skin damp from heat and sweat and the ache building between you both. His weight pressed you deeper into the cushions, holding you there like he owned the space between your breaths. One hand reached down beside you, fingers curling around the red marker you dropped.
He twisted the cap off slowly with his teeth, his gaze never leaving yours with that dazed and messy look he only wore for you.
“You had your turn, baby,” he said, voice low and thick, almost like a warning. “Now it’s only fair I write something on you.”
You whimpered when he pushed your legs further apart: spreading you wide open with no shame, exposing every dripping inch of you on display, throbbing from the edge he refused to let you fall over.
He bent low, hot breath fanning over your skin, and dragged the cold tip of the marker across the top of your inner thigh.
Your curiosity burned hotter than the air between you so you lifted onto your elbows, every nerve ending burning as your eyes followed the red ink across your skin: one slow, possessive stroke at a time writing “mine” in his messy handwriting.
Your hips jumped when he underlined it, the tip grazing just close enough to your core to make your thighs tremble… but not touching.
“You could get this tattooed, I'd love to see it later,” he growled, voice darker now. “In the mirror. In the shower. Every fucking time you open your legs, I want you to remember who put this here.”
The marker hit the floor behind him, but he didn’t even watch it land.
He hummed low the second his tongue touched your pussy, as if just your taste could undo him. He licked a long, slow stripe up your folds, savoring it, letting his tongue part you in a way that made your whole body arch. Then he circled your clit with his tongue in maddening pressure, so precise it made your toes curl, eating you like a man driven by instinct, like the only thing that mattered in the world was breaking you open on his tongue.
Your hands flew to his hair, trying to pull him closer, but he caught your wrists easily and pinned them down to your stomach with one arm, restraining you while he licked, sucked and fucked you with his mouth claiming every inch of you.
“Uh-uh, you’re not gonna move,” he rasped right against your core, tongue flicking in quick, punishing strokes. “You’re gonna take everything I give you. All of it.”
You cried out, legs shaking, back arching, hips bucking against his mouth. He sucked your clit hard, his tongue never breaking rhythm, while his fingers dug into your thighs - right over the fresh red ink he’d written you with, pressing it deeper into your skin.
Two inked fingers slid into you again without warning, curling deep. They stretched you open, knuckles brushing that spot that made your vision blur. He didn’t pause, just filled you like he was meant to in a filthy pace.
You were close, so close, and he felt it: The way you clenched around his fingers, the rising pitch of your cries, the way your whole body braced for the inevitable snap.
“Not yet,” he warned again, voice a dangerous rasp and you protested by cursing his name out loud, feeling desperate to break free but held tight by his control.
When he pulled back, his mouth was slick, lips swollen, pupils blown wide with heat. He crawled up over you, chest heaving, eyes locked on your face. You looked at him like you were high on him, caught between the ache of needing him and the sharp sting of being denied.
He pushed his shorts down just enough to free his cock, letting it spring into his palm - thick and hard, already leaking for you. He stroked it once, watching your eyes darken, your lips part like you needed to taste him. He knew exactly what that image did to you. The way your thighs twitched, the way your breath caught, the way your hands clenched into the cushions like you were already preparing for him.
Then he was between your thighs one more time, not wasting a second, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds, slick with arousal, teasing your entrance, coating himself in your juices. His bare chest hovered just above yours, desire radiating between every breathless inch.
He leaned in, his lips brushing lightly over the shell of your ear, voice low and ruined from the sound of your moans. His breath was hot on your skin, his words a growl, a promise, a threat you were begging to be made real.
"Keep still, baby. I’m about to show you what it means to be mine."
He had you spread across the couch, your thigh marked in red with the word mine - a little more smudged now from where his fingers had gripped too tight, from where his mouth had pressed too deep and still, you were so ready for more.
He felt it in the way your hips rolled up to meet him, wordless and needy, grinding your soaked cunt against the tip of his cock as he hovered over you… teasing and completely in control.
He didn’t say a word.
Just dragged the head of his cock slowly through your folds, rubbing right over your clit just to hear you whimper. Then finally pressed forward, pushing inside you inch by inch, until you were full.
Your back arched under him like your body was trying to run from the stretch or chase your own pleasure faster than he’d allow.
“No, no…” he growled, grabbing your thighs and pinning them wide. His fingers dug into the soft skin, right over where he’d written on you. The red ink was blurring now into fingerprints and sweat.
“Don’t fucking move. Stay open for me.”
You moaned loud and wrecked, loving the way he took control of your body.
He started to move, slow and deep at first. Letting you feel the drag and how he owned every inch of you. Your voice was already falling apart, his name on your lips, raw and half-broken. The air was thick with skin, breath, and the obscene sound of him fucking in and out of you, relentless and filthy.
“You feel how full you are?” he muttered, fucking you harder now. “That tight, aching stretch? That’s mine, baby. You are mine.”
You nodded, choking on your moans, your hands clawing at his inked arms, nails digging into skin as your hips lifted to chase every thrust.
He leaned down, kissed your throat, your collarbone, dragged his tongue over the sheen of sweat there before dipping lower. He took his time with your boobs now, kissing along the curve before sucking one nipple into his mouth, his teeth grazed it lightly, then bit down just enough to make you gasp, making your back arch off the cushions.
“F-Fuck, Noah…” you whimpered, hands flying to his hair, tangling in it as he licked over the sting, soothing it with his tongue before switching to the other side giving your other nipple the same treatment until it was swollen and slick and you were panting beneath him, hips writhing for more.
Only then he glance up at you through heavy lashes, lips shiny from your skin. “Such a perfect mess,” he muttered, voice low and wrecked.
Then he looked down between you, watching his cock fuck into you so deep you could barely breathe, your thighs trembling. The red mine slightly blurred but enough to make him pulse inside you.
And he grinned.
“Look what you did,” he murmured, hand sliding down to rub tight, messy circles over your clit. “You ruined my mark, baby.”
You cried out his name again more like a prayer now, feeling so close, and thank God he wasn't stopping.
He kept fucking you harder, faster, his thumb working your clit until you were right on the edge again… your whole body shaking, clenching down around him so good you couldn’t hold it back anymore.
“I said don’t come till I say,” he growled, voice low and hot against your ear. “You think just 'cause you’re dripping down my cock I’m gonna let you finish without begging?”
You nodded desperate, tears brimming in your eyes.
“Please, Noah… please, I can’t…”
“Please what?.”
“Please let me come,” you sobbed, wrecked and trembling. “Please, I’m yours… please.”
He growled deep in his chest and buried himself to the hilt one last time. “Then come for me, baby. Let me feel it.”
You shattered under him, thighs squeezing tight around his hips, body convulsing around his cock as you came so fucking hard after all the edging… He couldn’t bear the feeling. The way you clenched around him, the way you moaned his name just broke him. He groaned deep, head falling to your shoulder as he emptied himself hot and deep into you, giving in to the pleasure you pulled from him without even trying.
For a long moment, everything was still. Your body limp beneath his, breath hitching and your skin burning. He pressed a kiss to your jaw now, then to your shoulder, the inside of your thigh after. He looked down again at the red ink: smudged and almost gone.
“I guess I’ll have to rewrite it.” he whispered with a smirk on his face, brushing his thumb gently over your skin. “But next time, I'm using a permanent marker.”
Severance still hummed softly from the speakers, nearly drowned now by the sound of your breathing, still catching up to the storm he’d pulled from your body.
Noah hadn’t moved much. He was still above you, weight heavy but comforting, his chest rising and falling against yours with the kind of rhythm that only came after being completely shattered. His lips were at your temple now, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses there while one hand traced gentle circles across your thigh. Right over the blurred ink of mine.
“You okay?” he murmured, voice soft in contrast to everything he’d just done to you, brushing some sweat-matted hair out of your face. His thumb lingered on your cheek. “Too much?” he asked giving a quick kiss on your lips.
You shook your head still breathless, but your fingers were already curling around his forearm, needing him closer. “No… not too much.”
With a grunt, he shifted off you slowly, careful not to pull away too fast. His hands smoothed down your sides as he settled back against the couch, pulling you with him until your cheek was tucked into the center of his chest. His skin was hot, slick, still buzzing with adrenaline, but he didn’t say a word about the mess between your thighs or the way his cock twitched again just from the closeness of you.
One long arm looped behind your back, hand splayed protectively, like he had to make sure you weren’t going anywhere. His other hand played lazily with the ends of your hair while his chin rested on top of your head.
For a while, that was enough. The air still smelled faintly of sweat, sex, and his cologne clinging to your skin like it belonged there. His legs were still spread out, couch blankets rumpled and twisted beneath you both. The red marker rolled somewhere under the coffee table now, completely forgotten.
You shifted slightly, just enough to press a lazy kiss over the tattoo on his chest, lingering your lips there.
“We might have ruined all my artwork on your tattoos” you whispered, voice raw and sweet from everything he’d pulled out of you.
Noah let out a quiet, tired laugh through his nose. “Don't worry, angel. A long steamy shower with you is the perfect way to fix any ruined artwork…” he teased, then tilted his head down, brushing his lips along your forehead.
You nuzzled into his chest with a little chuckle, and he curled around you tighter, protectively, like instinct, knowing how you needed to be held after being touched like that.
He stayed quiet for another beat, then asked softly, “You sore?” Your response was a low hum, the kind that meant maybe a little, but not in a bad way.
He pulled a throw blanket from the end of the couch and tugged it up around you both, then reached for the pack of wet wipes he always kept on the side table - more out of habit from tour than anything else. He grabbed one and gently shifted to clean you up without making a show of it, slow and careful, eyes darting to yours every few seconds to check if it was okay.
When he was done, he tossed it in the little trash bin and laid back again, guiding your leg to drape across his thigh while he tucked your body into his side.
“I really like when you color on me,” he murmured after a while, voice thick with sleep and softness. “Even when you use it as an excuse to dry hump me with markers.”
You laughed into his chest, a sleepy sound muffled by his heartbeat, loving his broken sense of humor.
“And I liked seeing your handwriting on me…” you muttered against his skin. “Maybe you’re right about getting tattooed.”
Noah chuckled, nose buried in your hair now. “Yeah?” he whispered. “Better write mine across your back, your ribs, your hips… everywhere I can put my hands on.” his fingers traced small touches over each spot he mentioned in a sweet promise. “But honestly, nothing needs to be written on you for you to look perfect.”
His words made your whole body soften again, like your bones had melted into his. You nodded into his chest, too sleepy and full to form words, but he felt it… he always felt it.
The TV kept playing, but neither of you paid it much attention. His hand never stopped tracing you, memorizing the dip of your waist and the slow rise and fall of your breath. And when your eyes finally fluttered shut, safe and tucked beneath his arm, he whispered one last thing before drifting off with you.
“Sleep, pretty girl. I got you.”
You didn’t remember when sleep took you, only that at some point, Noah’s fingers had slowed to a stop on your waist, and the weight of his arm became a steady, grounding presence over your middle. A storm outside had started up somewhere in the early hours, soft rolls of thunder threading through the silence like a lullaby you barely registered. The glow of the TV had long since dimmed, leaving just the occasional flicker against the walls, casting faint light over his tattoos and your tangled bodies.
You woke first with the warmth of his breath against your shoulder. His mouth was still slightly parted, eyelashes fanned dark against his cheeks, one hand tucked beneath your body and the other splayed low on your hip, fingers twitching every now and then like he was dreaming about you.
The blanket had slipped down around your waist so you leaned forward to grab his Lord of the Rings shirt off the floor, pulling it up to cover your bare chest before going back to place. Noah was completely sprawled out beneath you, one thigh crooked between your legs like he didn’t even notice he was still holding you in place.
Your eyes traced over his chest slowly, touching the red smudges still faint from the marker incident and lower… just under the curve of your own thigh, you could still see part of the word he’d written in red across your skin. Mine. It was almost faded now but still was completely true.
Your fingers moved before you thought about it, brushing lightly over his stomach, following a little trail in the “Desolate” words in his inked skin. You didn’t mean to wake him, but Noah’s body responded even before his eyes opened…his stomach tightening beneath your touch, hips shifting, jaw clenching in the softest of reflexes.
“Mmm…” he hummed sleepily. His voice was hoarse and broken from sleep and last night’s dirty talk. “Still tracing me like a fucking coloring book?”
You smiled guilty. “You’re warm. I like touching you when you’re quiet.”
He didn’t answer for a second, just pressed his face into your neck, breathing deep like you were something to hold onto. Then he shifted a little, moving his hand up to the curve of your back, dragging his fingers slowly beneath the hem of your shirt—his shirt, technically.
“You okay?” he whispered, almost shy in the morning quiet. “Wasn’t too rough last night?”
You shook your head, rubbing your cheek along his collarbone. “It was perfect.”
He exhaled hard like he’d been holding that breath all night.
“Good.” His lips pressed to your shoulder, soft and warm. “You were perfect. Every second.”
You didn’t say anything to that, not with words anyway. Instead, you shifted on top of him, pulling yourself up until your chest was flush against his and your mouth could find his easily. It was a slow kiss. Not heated this time, just grateful. His arms curled around you tighter, keeping you close as you sighed into his mouth.
It was quiet like that for a while. You ended up half on top of him, half beside him, fingers idly drawing over his bicep while he traced tiny circles into the dip of your spine. His voice was raspier in the morning, deeper, lazier. The kind of voice that melted into your bones.
“I ever tell you how good you looked in my lap?” he murmured near your ear.
You smiled against his chest. “Pretty sure you said you were gonna ruin my concentration face.”
He chuckled, mouth dragging over your hairline. “Still want to.”
You felt sore, in the best way. Your thighs ached, your core still tingled faintly when you shifted, and yet somehow, you felt lighter. Like being taken apart by him had stripped all the stress from your body.
Noah’s hand suddenly moved again, down your side, resting on your thigh. His fingers brushed over the faint ink of his mark and he looked down, squinting.
“Ah, fucked up my masterpiece,” he said, teasing but affectionate.
You snorted. “Didn’t last long, did it?”
“Doesn’t matter,” he whispered, grabbing a nearby black marker from the pile that had somehow migrated to the couch cushions. “We can do it all again. Might even add my signature this time.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Noah…”
He grinned and popped the cap off. “C’mon. Let me rewrite it.”
“Baby, I need coffee first,” you laughed, squirming beneath him.
“I’ll make you coffee,” he said, dragging the tip gently across your skin again. “But this time, I’m signing both thighs. You’ve earned the matching set.”
You groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he wrote the word again: mine—in the exact same spot, black and fresh and not even pretending to be subtle. The tip of the marker tickled slightly, but the way he whispered good girl as he finished it made your skin burn warmer than the ink ever could.
When he was done, he kissed over it once.
“Now,” he said, gently nudging you off of him and grabbing the blanket to wrap around your waist, “stay right there. I’m making coffee.”
You blinked at him. “You… making coffee? Like, willingly?”
He shot you a look over his shoulder as he padded into the kitchen shirtless, tattoos everywhere, sleep still clinging to his steps.
“You just let me write on your thighs and didn’t stab me with a marker,” he muttered. “Least I can do is make you a fucking latte.”
You laughed, leaning back into the couch, your body buzzing with soreness, warmth, and the feel of being completely his. Every part of you, colored in, marked, and held.
Even with the storm outside still raging, this was the greatest peace you could ever find.