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“Good night, Xiao Pai!” Frey calls out behind her shoulder.
The moon is a lot higher in the sky than Frey expects it to be when she steps out of Bell Hotel’s lobby and out onto the cobblestone streets of Selphia, and the sky itself is a lot darker, a wide expanse of black ink spilled out above her.
Black ink. The image immediately makes her think of her studious prince, who is undoubtedly toiling away at his desk even at this late hour. Frey herself hadn’t exactly meant to be out this late, only just managing to finish up her bath when Xiao Pai came in to very politely remind her that they were closing in ten minutes. But, well, it had been a long day of farming as she prepared her fields for the new season, and the mixture of the bath’s hot water and pleasant aromas had felt like absolute heaven on Frey’s aching muscles.
She may have, accidentally, dozed off a little while sitting there. Frey will neither confirm nor deny that fact when asked.
Though her muscles, now gooey from being well-used and then well-soaked, want for nothing more than to go curl up in her sheets and sleep for the next 24 hours, her heart makes her glance over at the restaurant glows in the distance. She can’t help but picture a set of thin but broad shoulders, hunched over a large wooden desk, with strands of pale golden hair falling like a curtain around them.
Though she hesitates for a moment, it’s not long before Frey’s feet are carrying her in that direction.
Popping in for a short visit can’t hurt, right?
Glancing back up at the sky as she walks, Frey can see an abundance of stars twinkling down at her, like pinpricks of light in the otherwise dark sky. The weather itself is cooling down, particularly at night— not quite cold yet, but definitely signaling the last day of Summer as Fall sits just around the corner. She shivers a little, having only brought her nightgown to change into once she was out of the bath.
Better be quick, she thinks.
Just as Frey thought, she can see that not only are the restaurant lights on for the last of the dinner rush, but the office lights as well. Arthur had said this morning at breakfast that he’d try to take it easy and finish up early tonight, after having worked particularly hard all of last week, and most of the week before. Part of her wants to shake her head wryly, a fond smile on her lips, and part of her wants to gnaw at her lips with worry. Though Frey loves how dedicated and earnest her lover is about his work, it also drives her nearly sick with worry sometimes, when he pushes himself like this.
With a light brush of her knuckles, Frey knocks on Arthur’s door to signal her arrival before opening it and letting herself in. Stepping into his office, it takes Frey’s eyes a moment to adjust to the bright lights of the room. When they do, she sees a sight just as she predicted it would be: Arthur’s thin frame hunched over his desk, with his hair ghosting over his fine cheekbones and his long fingers wrapped around a quill as he dutifully writes away on a long sheet of parchment.
As she gets closer Frey’s gaze lingers on his hands, the elegant shape of them, the delicate skin around his knuckles, the neat trim of his nails. His hand moves rapidly across the page, focused and intense.
Frey blushes, trying to fight off the direction her head is going in.
“Ah, good evening, Frey,” Arthur says warmly, though he only glances at her quickly before his eyes go back to scanning his paper. “Allow me to finish this sentence, and then you’ll have my undivided attention.”
“No problem,” Frey replies, voice a little high as the idea of Arthur’s ‘undivided attention’ sends an unintentional shiver down her spine. Divine Dragons, she swears mentally, as she stands just in front of his desk. Where is my head tonight?
Studying Arthur while he works probably isn’t the best move on Frey’s part as she’s trying to fight off her blush, but she can’t help it. In any room they’re in, her eyes always go towards Arthur. Of any voice she hears, his is always the clearest. And in a moment like this, with her lover a few feet in front of her and looking exhausted, she can’t help but want to keep staring, even if it makes her shy.
Don’t be silly, Frey, she thinks. You two have been dating for a while now. You’re allowed to stare at him.
Even after all this time, the idea still makes her giddy.
So continue to stare at him she does, and now that she’s closer she can take in the color of his skin, even paler than usual, standing out at a stark contrast to the bags under his eyes. He looks even thinner too, somehow, skin taught around his neck, and though the thought makes her worry grow stronger, Arthur chooses that moment to subconsciously swallow, and her thoughts are momentarily whisked away and left blank by the handsome sight of his adam’s apple bobbing around the tight lines of his neck that sink down below his coat.
Normally, Frey would stand patiently and wait for Arthur to finish his work. He never leaves her waiting too long, but even if he did she’d happily wait for him, forever. But in this moment, something leaves her a little bit impatient— she can’t pinpoint exactly what, as it falls somewhere in a swirl of emotions. Concerned, lonely, fond, a little flustered as her thoughts still threaten to plunge her in an explicit direction. It could be any of those things— is most likely a mix of all of them— that makes her delicately walk around the corner of his desk this time.
She stands to Arthur’s left, letting her fingers card through the fine strands of his hair, golden and bright in the light of the office.
Arthur doesn’t respond beyond an affectionate hum of acknowledgement, as he continues to write something.
Heart near-bursting at just the sight and proximity of Arthur, selfless and hard-working Arthur, Frey leans forward to drop a kiss against the crown of his head. The crown of his head, she muses. There must be something ironic to that— a princess who’s not quite a princess kissing the crown of a prince who’s not quite a prince.
Arthur doesn’t react audibly this time, but even though she can’t see his expression from this angle, view blocked by the fringe of his bangs and the way that he’s leaning forward, Frey can just make out the reddening at the tip of his ear, where the strands of his hair part around it like two paths of a river split by a stone.
The sight is adorable, and it makes her realize that his work might not have as much of his attention as she had initially thought.
Emboldened a little, Frey kisses him again in the same spot, then moves to the tip of that pink-ish ear. She trails kisses, delicate and teasing and just a little bit wet, down the shell of his ear. As she gets to his lobe, giving the fleshy end of it just a tiny nip, she feels a tremor go down Arthur’s body, so faint that Frey definitely wouldn’t have caught it, had she not been so close.
She keeps going on her path, using her hands now to brush the curtain of his hair and the fabric of his tall, stiff coat collar away so that she can gain access to his neck. His skin is flushed there, too, and the muscle is tense below her lips, as she continues to leave delicate, tender kisses.
“F-Frey,” Arthur says at last, as she applies a little more pressure to one of her kisses on the side of his throat.
“Hm? Yes, Ari?” she replies innocently, mumbling the words into his skin.
“I’m afraid I’m finding it a bit difficult to focus.”
Frey grins, just a little. “Oh? Why is that?”
Arthur groans in response, as she puts more pressure on a particular spot to suck on his skin, before soothing it over with her tongue.
She hears him take a breath, deep and steadying, and despite the slight tremor in his hand and the continued flush of his skin, Arthur’s voice is still masterfully calm. “Wouldn’t you rather I finish more quickly, so I can give you my full attention sooner?”
Pausing as if to think the question over, Frey holds her tongue. Literally.
Then she shrugs, and goes back to mouthing at the skin with her lips, tugging his collar back further so she can gain access to the nook of his neck and shoulder.
“I can wait.”
He lets out another little noise then, something delicate and strained, high-pitched but barely there, as she scrapes her teeth lightly against a particularly tender spot, before sucking harder. It’s definitely going to leave a mark— Arthur really does bruise easily— and she’s suddenly very, very thankful for how tall his collars are.
“Am I being a bother?” Frey asks, sincerely this time; though she loves teasing Arthur, she never wants to actually get in the way of his work if he’s not in the mood for something else.
“Never,” he says immediately and earnestly, briefly flashing his rust-red eyes up to her. He smiles warmly, gaze melted and kind, and his cheeks are, in fact, slightly pink. She smiles back, and then he goes back to work.
It becomes something of a game, then, Arthur continuing to read from a book on his desk and copy something down onto his sheet of parchment as Frey continues to pepper him with attention. She wonders how much she can do before his composure breaks— if it can break at all. She’s not sure it can. Arthur has always been very dedicated to his work, and terribly good at keeping even composure. But she also knows that (very, very luckily for her) he loves her dearly, and he’s always rather reactive on the rare occasions that she teases him like this.
So, she tries.
She leans forward, letting her chest press close to him as she continues to kiss every inch of flesh she can uncover (which, admittedly, is not a lot, due to Arthur’s absolute abundance of layers) occasionally using her tongue or teeth to keep it varied. The shine of the office lights in his glasses largely hide his expression from her, but she can feel the quickening of his pulse, the warming of his skin, the way Arthur has to aim not once but twice to properly dip his quill into the pot of ink to freshen it up again.
There’s one moment where the side of his neck and tiny bit of his shoulder isn’t enough, so Frey’s fingers move to his cravat. She pauses with the delicate orange fabric beneath her touch, waiting to give him a second to turn this down. He doesn’t, though, instead leaning his head ever so slightly into her arm in an affectionate ghost of a nuzzle, as he flips the page of the book he’s reading from. Taking this as affirmation, Frey undoes the knot of the fabric expertly, and then lets it drop to the floor. She then starts to unbutton the top two buttons of his beige coat, just enough to give her access to the hollow of Arthur’s throat.
She has to shift her body to reach it well, and Arthur shifts around her to be able to keep working as she presses hot, open mouth kisses on his skin. Still, when Frey glances over to his desk she notices that he’s made a lot less progress in the last few minutes of his work, having barely written anything since when she last looked. Still smiling against his skin, Frey nuzzles at the line of his jaw before dipping down to press another hickey into his neck.
Arthur lets out a tremulous sound, then, not quite a moan but the beginning of one, and the noise sets her skin on fire.
Passion reignited, she presses more fervent kisses up his throat, then to his jaw, then lets her lips hover just a breath away from his.
The scratching sound of Arthur’s quill has stopped entirely now, and the room is bereft of any sounds except for the distant noise of the restaurant’s final dinner rush, and the heavy breathing of both Frey and Arthur. Still, she hovers, a little teasingly, until it’s Arthur’s who reaches up that last centimeter to press his lips to hers.
The kiss is chaste at first, delicate and tender and overflowing with love and affection.
And then in an instant it catches, like the flame of a candle, full of passion as Arthur’s hands reach up to hold her cheeks, keeping the kiss close and deep. Frey’s own hands drop down to his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric there, as her mind chants more, more, more.
Their noses brush as Arthur changes the angle, kiss deep but painstakingly thorough; he always kisses her like this, like he’s trying to memorize every single corner of her mouth, and Arthur’s words from earlier come circling back into the heady fog of Frey’s mind. ‘Undivided attention,’ he’d said.
Arthur’s undivided attention, Frey learned long ago, is a dizzying thing to have.
Feeling restless, her hands keep moving, down his chest, up his neck, in his hair, until she’s pressing closer, closer, closer. She moves to stand in front of him, and then steps over his legs so she can straddle him. They pause their kissing only so that Frey can settle herself firmly in his lap, as the dark maroon red chair beneath them takes the new weight easily.
Gods bless Arthur and his sturdy choice in office furniture, Frey thinks to herself, cheeks warming with some cross between lust and embarrassment.
It’s Arthur’s turn now, apparently, to lavish her skin with attention, though he has a much easier time of getting access to it considering the fact that Frey’s only wearing her blue, strapped night gown. Her skin still feels a little warm and damp from her bath earlier, muscles still soft and relaxed, but she melts even more under his attention. He seems to be dedicating himself to kissing every single inch of skin he can find, Arthur’s delicate and capable lips starting at her jaw and working their way down to the neckline of her dress, before stopping tantalizing and tipping back up to her shoulders.
“Tease,” she pouts, unable to stop herself from laughing lightly as she swats him without any real weight behind it.
Arthur tips his head up to smile at her, as if to say ‘Look who’s talking.’
Then he seems to notice her appearance for the first time, or at least has the presence of mind to put together the context clues.
“Were you at the baths?”
Frey nods, flushing under his observant gaze. She can’t quite make out his expression, something serious but a little pink around the edges, though it's largely obscured from her by the glare of light in his glasses again.
“I just got back,” Frey replies easily. “I thought I’d stop in on my way home.” He’s still staring at her in that same way she can’t quite parse, and she flushes a bit darker. “W-why do you ask?”
“Just an observation,” Arthur murmurs, reaching up to kiss at her jaw. She can see his ears going red, though, and with where her finger is against his neck, can feel his pulse pick up.
“What is it?” Frey asks a second time, with a slightly confused laugh. She should drop it, should give in to the heady, wet kisses around her throat, up to her ear, but Frey has a burning curiosity at the idea that Arthur might be… embarrassed about something?
Cupping his cheeks delicately, Frey tips her lover’s head back so she can stare at him more fully, angling her body so that she blocks the light of the nearby lamp and can thus look into his gaze fully. Just like she thought he is blushing, cheeks nearly as red as his eyes, and it makes her own pulse pick up as well.
“It’s nothing. I just—” Arthur’s voice trembles for a moment, as Frey shifts her weight a little around his legs, her blue skirt fluttering around her thighs. “Have always found it extremely attractive, when you’re fresh from the bath.”
Frey gapes at him a little, though she warms at the compliment. “Really?”
He nods, going back to kissing her cheeks, to nuzzling his nose against her. “Of course. There’s always a glow to your skin… and a lingering pinkness that’s unfairly cute…”
Frey lets out a noise of her own— something squeaky and only mildly mortifying— as she realizes for the first time that Arthur’s hand has trailed under her skirt, skirting higher and higher up her thigh. His fingers pause just at her underwear, delicately playing with the fringe around its border.
“Is this okay?” He asks, eyes smoldering.
Though it’s far from the first time they’ve done this, they’re in a more precarious situation than usual. Frey glances at the door to the restaurant, and notices that it’s locked. Distantly she can hear the chatter of its patrons, though it’s hard to focus on anything other than the man beneath her, and the pool of desire simmering between them.
She nods, and gasps in pleasure as he dips a finger under the fabric, wetting it between her already slick folds.
“Wh-what about your work?” Frey asks breathily, because she can’t help herself, even as she rolls her hips into his touch as Arthur uses his long finger to reach up and tease at her sensitive clit, despite the fabric in the way.
“It can wait,” Arthur echoes, and though she can see that he’s trying to look a little smug, it’s lost behind the absolute adoration glowing warmly in his eyes.
Then he pulls the fabric down her thighs, not managing to get it very far in their position but neither of them are willing to move. Still it’s enough for him to stroke her in earnest, and Frey is suddenly lost in a haze of lust as Arthur draws out the heat pooling between her thighs.
One hand is still above her dress, though it’s no less tantalizing— he cups her breast through the light fabric of her nightgown, drawing out the hard bud of her nipple as she shivers in pleasure. With his other hand Arthur uses his fingers expertly, long and well-practiced as they are, letting his thumb rub slow, thorough circles into her clit just how she likes it, as his index finger delves inside of her. Quickly he finds that bundle of nerves that drives Frey wild, and she lets out a rather loud whimper followed by an even louder moan at the spike of pleasure it sends through her.
“A-Arthur!”
He flushed red beneath her, though he simply murmurs into her ear, a little teasingly, “They’ll hear you, you know.”
She swats at his shoulder lightly, and Arthur just laughs, the sound pleasant if a little distracted as she rocks her hips above him. He curls his finger into that spot again, and this time Frey has to bury her face into his neck to stifle her moan.
Frey can feel his growing erection between them, hard and clearly straining against the fabric of his pants, and though it makes the area between their legs and fingers crowded as he continues to stroke her diligently, Frey loves the feeling of it below her, of his pleasure, of knowing he gets this hard just from touching her and listening to her.
Arthur’s bulge continues to grow as Frey rocks instinctively into his touch, and his breathing gets more and more ragged in her ear as she buries his name into his skin.
He slips another finger in, and after another minute slips in a third, rendering Frey a quivering mess of muffled whimpers and trembling pleasure above him. She can see the precipice coming, can feel the coil in her stomach grow tighter and tighter.
“A-Arthur I’m going to— I’m so—“ she can barely string the sentence together, having to busy herself with kissing his neck again to keep her voice quiet enough.
“Yes.” The prince’s usually calm, pleasant voice sounds like it’s being raked over coals as he pants into her ear. “Yes darling, yes.”
She clings tight to his shoulders, nuzzling fervently at his skin as his touch only gets faster, deeper, diligent and dedicated to her. Under the steady administrations of his fingers her climax builds, and builds, and builds, until she’s burying her face into his neck to muffle her cries as she’s tumbling over the edge, a wave of pleasure releasing against his fingers
Feeling once again boneless and soft— though for completely different reasons than her nap in the bath earlier— Frey slumps against him, appreciating the steady presence of Arthur beneath her as her chest heaves, attempting to catch her breath.
Arthur rubs soothing circles into her back with his other hand, not at all hurried despite the fact that she can hear the thundering of his heart.
The thought occurs to Frey to return a favor, and surely enough he lets out a ragged gasp of a moan as Frey slips her hands over the bulge of his erection, through his pants. But then a thought hits Frey, a memory, of him whispering between the sheets of her bed that he loves watching her as she comes undone, loves the expressions that she makes; though she had flushed with embarrassment at the thought, she had also realized she loves it too, to see him and be seen.
Still rendered barely coherent by the waves of pleasure that just washed over her, Frey reaches out a steadying hand to where he had been absently still rubbing at her thigh.
Arthur stops immediately, panting and hard beneath her.
Frey takes a moment to simply relish the proximity of him, the crisp, clean smell of Arthur’s throat and the familiar, loving mass of his body below her, against her. She takes a steadying breath, even as her body protests.
“Let’s go to bed, my love. I want to make sure you sleep tonight.”
She knows him, with an aching, endearing fondness, and knows that if they finish here he’ll simply go back to work afterwards.
My Arthur, she thinks. What am I going to do with you?
“But I—” he begins to protest, but Frey cuts him off with a kiss.
She knows what she has to do. She knows she has to use her secret weapon.
Frey pulls back from the kiss, and delicately plucks the silver-framed glasses off Arthur’s face before sliding them onto her own. The world goes fuzzy around her as her eyes strain against Arthur’s prescription, but the two of them are close enough that she can at least make out his face rather easily, and knows he can too even without them on his face.
“Please, Ari?” She asks, with her best pout on her lips. A small part of her feels a little ridiculous, but the embarrassment is instantly smothered by the way Arthur’s face goes completely crimson.
Below her, she can feel his breath shudder to a halt, his shoulders going rigid.
Then Arthur nods frantically.
He stands up so quickly that it’s only because of his hands landing around her shoulders that Frey doesn’t simply topple over; she barely manages to plant her feet on the ground before he’s grasping at her hand and tugging her towards the staircase, using his other hand to half-desperately shut his book closed and throw his quill at some other part of the desk.
Then he screeches to a halt, and through the fuzziness of her vision Frey can just make out the look behind Arthur’s eyes, like the gears in his head are churning a mile a minute.
“My bed, or yours?”
Unable to help herself, a slightly naughty smile comes across her lips. “I think everyone’s busy at the restaurant, so we don’t have to worry about the walls being thin upstairs…” As she answers, Frey uses her own free hand to slip the glasses off her face and put them back onto Arthur, so that neither of them are stumbling up the stairs without being able to see. “So I guess we don’t have to be that quiet…”
Letting out something of a strangled noise, Arthur’s nodding again as he pulls her upstairs. His fingers are laced tightly between hers, squeezing with a lustful urgency but also an adoring earnestness, as his thumb traces loving circles into the skin there.
The motion is oddly reminiscent of what he was doing not a minute ago, and Frey’s face catches fire again. Her legs are a little wobbly, but thankfully Arthur’s presence is as steady and dependable everywhere as her brain keeps focusing on more… distracting thoughts, to say the least.
To herself, she thinks, I think that might be the same hand too.
She nearly trips onto the landing.
They’re in his room in a heartbeat, and Arthur pulls Frey forward into a kiss in the same motion that he leans back against the door to close it. She happily crowds him against it, kissing him back fervently and grinding against the feeling of his erection pressing into her stomach in a way that makes him moan.
Her own moans come out fast and easily as well, as Arthur draws them out of her with his kisses, his teeth and tongue, his reverent touch. Frey’s legs and core are still shaky from the orgasm earlier, and though it makes her noises come out extra needy it also adds a certain excitement to the kiss, a passionate want that just makes her even more excited. And Arthur can clearly sense it, in his all-encompassing kisses, in the way his hand roams over her body.
That puts a thrill in her too: the way all of Arthur’s decorum goes out the window as his hand skirts lower, and lower, until he’s cupping at her ass and pulling Frey even closer in. She loves this side of him, without masks or politely hidden truths; just Arthur’s sincere desires, his earnest love, and hers in return. When they have moments like this, full of desire and respect, Frey really does feel like she and Arthur may be twin flames. A not-quite princess and a not-quite prince.
A little bit lost in thought, both in the swirling romance of it and the heady sensations devouring her body and soul, Frey doesn’t notice that Arthur has started walking the two of them towards the bed, his kisses and his heaving chest beneath her palms having turned nearly desperate.
Frey pulls back just a little, enough to admire his flushed, lust-addled face, such a rare break in his pristine composure.
Almost absently, his lips move to chase after hers. But she holds him steady with her palms flat against his chest. The look he shoots her is questioning, but not at all impatient.
“Let’s take off these, before we break another pair.” Frey takes the glasses delicately off his face again, blushing against the embarrassing memory as she folds the frames and sets them on his nightstand. “And do something about this, before your lips distract me all night,” she teases, making quick work of the remaining buttons on his coat.
With a bemused smile on his face, Arthur watches her for a moment before shrugging off his cloak, and then his coat once she’s opened it.
“Would that be so bad, dear?” he asks. “The distraction?”
“N-no,” Frey protests, cheeks warming, as her hands fidget with the waistline of his pants. “But it’s just not what I had in mind.”
He dips his head towards her shoulders again, slipping the straps of her nightgown off of them and kissing the trail. “What did you have in mi—” His voice breaks, cutting off the question as Frey finally frees his erection from his layers and layers of clothes, and immediately slips her palm over the length. She strokes him, the weight of him, speed fast but still savoring, and the noises he lets out in response are completely gratifying.
“What was that, my love?” Frey asks in return, though the teasing in her voice is surely undercut by the fact that she can’t stop watching him, gaze adoring and attention rapt on his expression, his reactions, his blonde, delicate eyebrows drawing upwards and scrunching in pleasure.
Arthur swallows, the lines of his throat tight, and he whimpers as she drags her thumb deliberately across the head of his cock, wetting her finger on the beads of arousal already forming.
“F-Frey,” he pants into her ear, as he reaches out an arm to steady himself against the wall, and the flame of desire inside of her nearly erupts.
Reminding herself to be gentle— toppling over one’s boyfriend is typically not the most sexy thing to do— Frey pushes him down towards the bed, until he’s lying there against the sheets. She takes a moment to pause and take him, disheveled hair fanned out against the pillow and flushed skin standing out against the color of his sheets.
I finally got him away from work and into bed, Frey thinks to herself, a little deliriously. Mission accomplished.
Then she’s stripping off her own clothes, trying not to squirm too much at the intensity of Arthur’s gaze, as hazy as it is without his glasses. The hard squint to his usually soft eyes just looks unbearably fond and sexy though, or maybe she’s just that far gone on this ridiculous, wonderful man. She undoes her twintails, too, remembering that Arthur’s mentioned before that he likes the way the long, delicate strands fall against the hard lines of her body, her muscles carved from her hard work with the earth, how her hair falls around the littering of scars and freckles and calluses.
Then Arthur reaches for her, long fingers curling towards her like they’re trying to grasp at wisps of smoke, and who is she not to oblige him?
She straddles his lap, reminiscent of earlier, though as soon as they start kissing again Arthur is quick to grab her hips with one hand and flip them over. The movement is surprisingly quick and smooth, though she realizes that he’s cupped the back of her head to keep it from hitting the pillows too hard, despite the fact that they’re quite soft enough.
He hovers over her, curtain of hair falling around her face and meeting hers, like an intertwining watercolor painting of mint and gold. She can’t help but trail her eyes downwards, appreciating the smooth, willowy plains of his frame, down to the hard line of his cock pressing achingly, teasingly, against her stomach between them.
“Frey,” he murmurs, drawing her attention back up to his gaze.
“Ye- sssss,” she had meant it as a question, but it comes out as more of a pleasured hiss as Arthur slips one hand back between her legs, where she’s already achingly wet.
“I love you.” With this thumb back around her clit he curls his index and middle fingers inside of her, hitting that spot again and making her hips buck as she cries out. He uses his other hand to cup her breast, and what mobility he loses with using that same arm to prop him up on the bed, he makes up for with the long, dextrous curl of his fingers reaching the taught pink flesh of her nipple easily.
“Y-yes— I— ahhh— I love you too. I love you, Arthur.”
“Again?” he asks, pleading, unusually demanding as his voice cracks— though whether it’s from pleasure or the lingering aches of his past loneliness, she’s not sure. She knows there’s things he’s hiding, things Arthur keeps close to his chest, that he has yet to tell her.
She doesn’t care, though. She’ll indulge, and indulge, and indulge, until he has no choice but to believe that she means it.
“I love you, Arthur, I love you, I— ahhh— I love you,” she half-moans, half-presses into his skin, like if she repeats it enough she could carve it into his heart like his love is carved into hers.
He lets out another noise, the sound nearly raw with want. Then Arthur replaces his fingers with his cock, slowly but fully, until he’s sunken into her completely.
“Ah, ah, Arthur!” she cries, unable to be quiet when he’s thrusting inside of her, slowly but deeply, hitting that spot he knows she loves. Frey is infinitely, infinitely glad for this idea to come upstairs, where there’s no one around to hear them at the moment.
“Frey,” Arthur pants, like he’s forgotten every other word that’s ever existed.
As Arthur starts to pick up the pace Frey snaps up her hips to meet each thrust, taking him in as deeply as she can as she wraps her legs around his slender waist. Above her, Arthur trembles with a mix of desire and exertion. Frey clutches at his shoulders, his hair, his back, anything she can get her hands on, as her pleasure builds and her moans only get louder. Arthur’s continuing to whisper barely coherent sweet nothings in her ear, which mostly consist of her name and occasionally the words ‘love’ ‘good’ ‘yes’ over and over as he peppers more kisses against her jaw, her throat, her other breast.
“Arthur! I’m about to— I’m so—” Frey starts to whimper, and then he uses his free hand to circle her clit again, letting his index finger run tight, smooth circles around it as he matches the tempo with his hips.
His other hand is still cupping her breast appreciatively, but as soon as Frey’s body starts to tense and quake, he pulls his head back from kissing her just enough to see her face. Though her eyes squeeze shut with pleasure as she comes undone beneath him, Frey can feel his gaze on her, intent and loving and full of desire.
Barely a moment later, she can feel him shuddering and gasping, always his telltale sign. With a quiet, choked moan— like he can’t quite believe it, the pleasure— he comes undone inside her as well, and the two of them ride out their climaxes together in a mingling of heavy breaths, and moans, and mumbled words of love.
When Frey comes back to a relative amount of coherency, she notices that even after pulling out Arthur is still trembling above her, spent as he is, as if he doesn’t want to collapse on top of her without asking first. Always polite. With a slight smile she wraps her arms more tightly around his shoulders and pulls him down to her chest, readjusting with a quiet giggle as errant strands of his blonde hair tickle at her chin. Turning off the bedside lamp with her free arm, Frey holds him close with her other; she feels Arthur readjust before comfortably snuggling his head into her chest. One of his arms brackets her side, still, and the other snakes beneath her waist to hold her closer, like even cuddling skin to skin is barely enough.
Muscles thoroughly well-spent and mind hazy with pleasure and comfort, Frey’s eyes immediately start to droop. Still, she manages to mumble, “Hey, Arthur?”
“Mmm?” she hears him reply, and she lets out another quiet giggle at how exhausted and serene Arthur sounds as well.
“I love you.”
She feels him smile against her skin, and she knows without needing to look that it’s one of his most genuine, soft, beautiful smiles.
“I love you too, Frey. Always.”
Frey drops a kiss to the crown of Arthur’s head again. In response, he presses one to her chest.
And Frey’s not sure what it is— if it’s the pleasantly familiar sight of his ceiling above her, or the comforting weight of him on top of her, or the slightly delirious and giggly state of sleepiness that she’s in, but Frey finds herself wanting to tease him just a tiny bit more.
“Are you sure you don’t have more work to do tonight? I can carry you downstairs if you’re too tired to walk.”
She feels him huff out a quiet laugh, his torso shaking with the movement. Then he kisses her again, and again, a trail up her chest and to her neck, before Arthur’s lifting himself off the bed just enough to peer into her eyes again. In the low lighting she can barely make out the color of his eyes, something nearly mahogany, but she can see the gentle fan of his eyelashes, the elegant planes of his cheeks, and most importantly, the adoring, indulgent expression on Arthur’s face.
“I think work can wait.”
And with that, the two of them share one last kiss and then soon afterwards fall asleep.
The last thing Frey remembers is thinking to herself, Mission accomplished for sure.