There is something exceptionally unique in how avoidant Qifrey and Easthies are compared to Utowin, Olruggio, and Luluci.
Qifrey, in all his charm and grandeur he presents to his family of apprentices and friends, shudders and flinches at your touch. Who moves away from you when you shuffle next to him and recoils as though you've wounded him when you go to touch him. Do not take this for fear or disgust, however, as he seems to be a glutton for suffering. He will recoil but just as quickly chase your affection. Your quickly withdrawing is one he will jump at to grab and hold, your shocked expression smoothed over with a hand to the cheek or a forehead touch.
Olruggio, on the other hand leans into touch. Completely melts onto you should you fiddle with his clothes or tassel; finding ways to lean along your shoulders and dip his head in the curve of your neck to simply breathe you in. He tries his best to act unaffected and uncaring, but the moment you are out of his sight he can't help but fiddle and flutter about with utter worry; laying upon his pillows and hammock and dreaming of you, you, and you. He is, and perhaps always should be known as not Olruggio of the Torch, but the bearded puppy in the way he tails you like a duckling.
Luluci is perhaps a special case in that her affection, though hard earned, is perhaps the calmest of these bunch. A soft squeeze of the shoulder when passing by or smile when you happen to make eye contact. This affection and care is not in the absence or excess of affection, but rather a completely different form altogether formed through loyalty and trust. Her affection is certainly hard earned, but her reliance on your presence is one most needed.
Utowin, on the other hand, can only ever be described as a nuisance. His affection is one not commonly sought after, but when it is obtained and mutual he can flip from arrogant man child to loyal caretaker. His care is not in his untruthful words and fake bravado but rather the meals he keeps warm when you arrive home despite his schedule. Random gifts and treats left in your bags and pockets when you aren't looking soon become a commonality with this man but never approach him about it or else he'll fluster and blunder.
Easthies. His love is one hard earned and never truly followed through. His fear and subsequent depression regarding his actions and reality make him lethargic, moody, and avoidant. His love, or perhaps rather yearning is characterized in his hidden but intense stares and his random appearances and acts of oddly goodwill towards you. Perhaps his dreams— or perhaps nightmares— will cease as soon as you leave his underwater city of El Dorado. Or perhaps not, his mind can't seem to ever stop coming back to you no matter how far you are.
AN: writing this as chill as possible as if I wasn't begging my mutual to write this scenario 🤞 @omniprescent
The stories about Brimhats were always the same: dangerous, deceptive, consumed by forbidden magic and darker paths.
You had long stopped caring. Let people whisper. Let them stare. Still, out of everyone, one person's judgment irritated you more than it should have. Qifrey. Calm, intelligent, endlessly composed Qifrey with his gentle smile and eyes that seemed to see right through people. He looked at you with caution every time your paths crossed, and you found that expression increasingly irresistible to ruin.
Your meetings became strangely frequent after the first one. Forest paths, market corners, quiet villages at dusk—it was almost ridiculous. Every time, Qifrey would stop, his shoulders tightening ever so slightly at the sight of your broad brim hat and dark cloak. Every time, you'd catch that little pause before he remembered to look annoyed. And every time, you smiled. "You know," you told him once, leaning lazily against a tree while evening light filtered through the branches, "you stare at me an awful lot."
"I absolutely do not."
"Oh? Then perhaps I've imagined it every single time."
"You have."
You grinned. "Liar."
Qifrey narrowed his eyes immediately. "You enjoy provoking people."
"No," you corrected smoothly, stepping closer. "Just you."
Silence. Wonderful, wonderful silence. Because for a split second he looked completely caught off guard before his expression hardened again. Yet despite all his irritation, despite every sharp response and sigh and glare, he never walked away first. Never. And you noticed things. The way his posture shifted when you stood too close. The way his eyes flickered away before returning. The way his patience around you seemed stretched thinner and thinner each time.
That evening beside the old river bridge, violet twilight spread across the sky while cool wind danced through the trees. Qifrey stood with his back partially turned when he heard your footsteps, and the look he gave you over his shoulder nearly made you laugh. Immediate irritation. Immediate defeat. "You again."
"You sound disappointed." "I am." "Liar."
His eyes narrowed. "Stop saying that."
You hopped down from the bridge railing and walked toward him slowly. "Why? Because I'm right?" You stopped directly in front of him, close enough now to see the faint tension in his shoulders. "You keep acting like you can't stand me, but somehow you're always here."
"You assume too much."
"And you avoid too much."
For a moment neither of you moved. Wind brushed softly between you, carrying the scent of rain and distant flowers, and Qifrey's gaze held yours steadily. There was frustration there. And something else. Something that had been growing for weeks, maybe longer. You looked down briefly then, eyes catching on the belt around his waist, and before he could question the look on your face, you hooked your fingers there lightly and tugged.
Just enough. Qifrey stumbled half a step forward. Suddenly there was almost no space left between you. You felt him freeze instantly.
His eyes widened. Just slightly. Enough.
Enough for your smile to slowly spread.
"Oh?" you whispered softly. "Interesting."
Qifrey stared at you.
You could practically feel the tension snapping tighter and tighter between you, his composure hanging by threads. Yet you only tilted your head and smiled wider. "What's wrong?" you murmured. "You look flustered."
"I'm not."
"No?" You leaned in just slightly closer. "Then why haven't you moved away?"
Silence. Absolute silence. Then suddenly his hand caught your wrist. Not rough. Not angry. Just certain.
His eyes searched yours for a long moment, and for the first time all evening, there was no irritation there. No careful distance. Just something startlingly honest breaking through all those walls he kept around himself.
"You never stop," he said quietly.
Your smile softened. "No."
Another beat of silence passed.
Then Qifrey sighed—small and defeated, like someone finally losing an argument he'd been having with himself for far too long.
And before you could tease him again, before another smug remark could leave your mouth, he leaned forward and kissed you.
Not because he planned to.
Not because he meant to.
Because after all that tension and frustration and denial, there simply wasn't room left for anything else.
For a split second you forgot how to think entirely. Then your eyes slowly closed.
And somewhere beneath violet skies and river light, Qifrey finally realized—with complete horror and absolutely no hope of denying it anymore—that he had made a terrible mistake.
Because now you were smiling against the kiss.
And that meant you were never letting him live this down.
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himmel the hero set an unrealistic standart for all fictional love interests. the guy spent his entire lifetime making sure his crush would feel his love for centuries and he didn't even see her for most of it. his love was so truly unconditional that he didn't even need to be loved back, he did it all so she could see it after his passing. at his funeral frieren lamented not even knowing him much. years later she's looking for his favorite flowers because that madman played such a long con that he managed to rizz up an immortal from the grave
AN: I haven't been seeing a lot of Olruggio fics and since the anime came out a few days ago I wanted to do him a bit of justice 🖤💙
The workshop was quieter than usual tonight, the kind of quiet that felt like it was holding its breath rather than resting. The lamps burned low, their golden light pooling over scattered papers and half-finished diagrams, and the faint scent of ink and parchment hung in the air. You sat near the long wooden table, carefully tracing over a circle you’d already redrawn three times, trying to steady your hand—but your focus kept drifting, pulled instead toward the soft, rhythmic sound of someone turning pages behind you.
Olruggio had been there for hours.
He always worked like this—silent, precise, completely absorbed—but tonight there was something softer about him. Maybe it was the way his shoulders weren’t as tense, or how he occasionally paused, not to correct something, but simply to think. Or maybe it was just the quiet itself, wrapping around the two of you like a shared secret.
You didn’t realize you’d stopped drawing until his voice broke the stillness.
“You’ve been staring at that same line for quite some time.”
It wasn’t teasing.Olruggio rarely teased, but there was a faint warmth beneath the observation. You turned, startled, only to find him already looking at you over the edge of his book. His eyes, sharp as ever, softened just slightly when they met yours.
“I… was thinking,” you said, which wasn’t entirely untrue.
“Mm.” He closed the book with a gentle thud, setting it aside. “Your thoughts seem to be interfering with your work.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, setting down your pen. “You make it sound like that’s unusual.”
“For you? Not particularly,” he replied, rising from his seat. There was a faint rustle of fabric as he moved, slow and deliberate, until he stood beside you. “But usually, your distractions are more… animated.”
You tilted your head. “Animated?”
“You talk to yourself when you’re thinking too hard.”
Your cheeks warmed. “I do not.”
“You do,” he said simply, though there was no judgment in it; only a quiet certainty that made it impossible to argue. He leaned slightly over your shoulder, his presence close enough that you could feel the faint warmth of him, the subtle scent of something herbal and clean clinging to his robes. “This circle—your spacing is uneven here.”
His hand reached past you, long fingers gently guiding yours as he adjusted the curve. The contact was light, barely there, but it sent a small, unexpected flutter through your chest.
“There,” he murmured. “You were overcorrecting.”
“I was not,” you insisted, though your voice came out softer than you intended.
“You were.”
You turned your head just enough to glance at him, and immediately wished you hadn’t, he was closer than you expected, his expression calm but attentive, as if he were studying not just your work, but you. It made your breath catch for a moment.
“…You’re doing that thing again,” you said.
“What thing?”
“Observing me like I’m part of an experiment.”
A pause. Then, almost imperceptibly, his expression shifted.
“If you were,” he said quietly, “you would be a very difficult subject to study.”
You blinked. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It is a statement of fact.”
You couldn’t help it—you smiled. And for a brief moment, something in his gaze softened further, as though the sight of it settled something in him.
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It stretched gently, comfortably, until you found yourself leaning back slightly in your chair, your shoulder brushing against his arm. You half-expected him to step away—he was never one for unnecessary closeness yet he didn’t. Instead, he remained where he was, steady and quiet, as though your presence there was… acceptable. Wanted, even.
“You should take a break,” he said after a moment.
“So should you.”
“I am not the one redrawing the same line repeatedly.”
“And I’m not the one who’s been reading without moving for hours,” you countered.
“…Fair.”
You turned fully this time, resting your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand. “Come on. Just a short break.”
He hesitated. You could see it—the brief internal calculation, the weighing of tasks and time and priorities. But then his gaze flickered back to you, and something in it shifted again, quieter now, more personal.
“…Very well.”
It felt like a small victory.
You stood, stretching slightly, and motioned toward the side room. “I made tea earlier. It should still be warm.”
He followed without protest, his steps soft against the wooden floor. The side room was dimmer, lit only by a single lamp, and the kettle sat where you’d left it, faint steam still curling from its spout. You poured two cups, handing one to him.
“Careful,” you said. “It’s still hot.”
“I am aware,” he replied, though his fingers brushed yours briefly as he took the cup, and he didn’t pull away quite as quickly as he could have.
You both settled onto the low bench by the window, the quiet outside pressing gently against the glass. For a while, neither of you spoke. You sipped your tea, letting the warmth settle in your chest, and listened to the soft rhythm of his breathing beside you.
“…You were distracted,” he said eventually.
You sighed lightly. “I told you. I was thinking.”
“About what?”
You hesitated. Then, softer, “About… this. Being here. With you. All of it.”
He didn’t respond immediately, and for a moment you worried you’d said too much. But then he set his cup down carefully, his movements precise as ever, and turned slightly toward you.
“…And what conclusions did you reach?”
You looked down at your tea. “That I like it. More than I expected to.”
A quiet pause.
“…So do I.”
You blinked, glancing up at him. “You do?”
His gaze met yours, steady and unguarded in a way you didn’t often see.
“Yes.”
That was all he said—but somehow, it was enough. The simplicity of it, the certainty, made your chest feel warm in a way the tea never could.
You smiled again, softer this time. “…You’re not very good at saying things like that, are you?”
“No,” he admitted. “But I am trying.”
“That counts.”
Another pause, gentler now. And then, after a moment of quiet consideration, he reached out—slowly, deliberately—and rested his hand over yours where it lay on the bench. His touch was warm, steady, grounding.
You stilled, your breath catching slightly, but you didn’t pull away.
“…Is this acceptable?” he asked, his voice quieter than before.
You laced your fingers with his.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “It is.”
And in the quiet glow of the lamplight, with the world outside held at a distance and the workshop forgotten for just a little while, the two of you stayed like that—close, warm, and quietly, undeniably happy.
The warmth of his hand lingered, steady and grounding, your fingers still laced together as though neither of you quite wanted to test what would happen if you let go. The quiet in the room felt different now—not just peaceful, but full, like something gentle had settled into place between you.
Olruggio didn’t move for a while. He rarely rushed anything, but this time it felt more deliberate, as if he were carefully memorizing the moment—the weight of your hand in his, the way your shoulders had relaxed, the soft, almost sleepy look in your eyes.
“You’re quieter now,” he said softly.
“So are you,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
“…I suppose I am.”
You shifted just slightly closer without thinking, your shoulder brushing more firmly against his. He didn’t pull away—if anything, his fingers tightened just a fraction around yours, subtle but unmistakable.
The tea had long since cooled, forgotten on the small table beside you.
“You know,” you murmured, glancing down at your joined hands, “if someone saw us right now, they’d probably think something strange was going on.”
“Strange?” he echoed.
“Mm. You, willingly taking a break. Sitting this close to someone. Holding hands.”
“…Is that so unusual?”
“For you? A little.”
He seemed to consider that, his gaze lowering briefly to where your fingers intertwined. Then, almost absently, his thumb brushed against the back of your hand, a small, tentative motion, like he was testing something new.
“I do not find it unpleasant,” he said.
Your heart gave a soft, traitorous flutter. “…That’s a very Olruggio way of saying you like it.”
“…I believe I already stated that.”
“Yeah, but this is different.”
“How so?”
You hesitated, searching for the right words, then laughed quietly. “It’s just… softer, I guess.”
He went quiet at that.
For a moment, you wondered if you’d said something wrong—but then you felt it: the way his hand shifted, the way his posture changed ever so slightly as he turned more fully toward you.
“…Then I will try to be softer,” he said, almost to himself.
Your breath caught, just a little.
“You don’t have to try so hard,” you whispered. “You’re already—”
You stopped, suddenly aware of how close he was now. At some point, without either of you really noticing, the distance between you had nearly disappeared. You could see the fine details of his expression—the faint crease between his brows when he was thinking, the way his gaze lingered on you like he was trying to understand something important.
“…Already what?” he asked quietly.
Your voice came out softer than intended. “…Already enough.”
Something in his expression shifted again—not dramatically, not suddenly, but like a slow, careful unraveling. The guarded edges of him softened, just enough to let something warmer through.
His free hand lifted slightly, hesitating in the air for the briefest moment before coming to rest gently against your cheek.
The touch was careful. Almost reverent.
You stilled completely, your breath catching as his thumb brushed lightly along your skin. His hand was warm—warmer than you expected—and steady, though you could feel the faintest hint of hesitation in the way he held you, as if he was giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
Instead, you leaned into it, just slightly.
That seemed to be all the reassurance he needed.
“…May I?” he asked, his voice low, quieter than you had ever heard it.
Your heart was beating too fast now, your thoughts slipping over themselves, but you nodded anyway.
“Yes.”
It happened slowly.
He leaned in with the same careful precision he applied to everything else, as if even this—especially this—deserved his full attention. His fingers tightened just slightly where they held yours, his other hand still cradling your cheek, grounding both of you in the moment.
For a brief second, you could feel his breath, warm and close—
And then his lips met yours.
Soft. So soft it almost didn’t feel real at first, like the gentle press of warmth rather than something solid. There was no urgency in it, no rush—just a quiet, tentative affection that made your chest ache in the best way.
You felt him pause, just barely, as if making sure you were still there with him.
You were.
Your fingers tightened around his, and you leaned in just a little more, returning the kiss in a way that made his breath hitch—soft, but certain.
That seemed to undo the last of his hesitation.
The kiss deepened, just slightly—not overwhelming, not intense, but warmer now, more sure. His hand against your cheek shifted, his thumb brushing gently along your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening either.
When he finally pulled back, it was slow, reluctant.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
You stayed close, foreheads nearly touching, your breaths still uneven in the quiet space between you.
“…I see,” he murmured after a moment.
You blinked, still a little dazed. “…You see what?”
“…Why you find this… preferable.”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed softly, the sound warm and a little breathless. “That’s your conclusion?”
“It is an accurate one.”
You smiled, your hand squeezing his gently. “…You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he said, his voice softer now, “you remain.”
“I do.”
A quiet pause.
Then, almost shyly—something you never thought you’d associate with him—he leaned forward again, just enough to press a second, lighter kiss to your lips. Quick, but no less gentle.
This time, when he pulled back, there was the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
“…We should return to our work,” he said.
You raised an eyebrow. “After that?”
“Yes.”
A beat.
“…Perhaps after a few more minutes.”
You laughed again, leaning your head lightly against his shoulder. He didn’t hesitate this time—his arm came around you, careful but sure, holding you just a little closer.
And for a while longer, the workshop, the studies, the responsibilities waiting for you both… none of it mattered.
There was only the quiet warmth between you, the soft brush of his hand against yours, and the unspoken promise that this—whatever it was—would continue, steady and certain, just like him.
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Olruggio was having a normal day three hours ago. He was coming home after a long day at work looking forward to seeing his husband best friend and eating a warm dinner. Pat the kids on the head and then go lie down. NO Qifrey says I have obtained another child she's a part of an active criminal investigation and a sign that I am dipping back into my worst destructive behaviors that you thought I'd set down years ago you have to be okay with this right now or else I'll lobotomize myself. Also there's a rat in the living room.
You shifted uncomfortably on the edge of the bed, your hand pressed against your chest as another wave of pressure built beneath your palm.
"She still won't take it?" Zuko's voice came from the doorway, concern in his tone.
You shook your head, frustration and discomfort in your expression. "She turns away every time. I don't know what's changed. Yesterday she was fine, and now..." You winced as you adjusted your position, the movement sending a sharp ache through your breasts.
Izumi had been fussy all day, refusing to nurse despite your repeated attempts. The wet nurse had suggested she might be teething early, or perhaps going through one of those inexplicable phases that babies sometimes experienced. Whatever the reason, the result was the same—your breasts had grown increasingly swollen and heavy throughout the day, filled with milk that had nowhere to go.
Zuko crossed the room, his footsteps quiet on the polished floor. He knelt before you, golden eyes searching your face. "How bad is it?"
"It hurts," you admitted, your voice tight. "They're so full, Zuko. I've tried releasing some manually, but it's not enough. The pressure just keeps building."
His gaze dropped to your chest, and even through the fabric of your robe, he could see the difference. Your breasts were noticeably larger, swollen and round, straining against the silk. Small damp spots had begun to appear where milk had started to leak through despite your best efforts to contain it.
"Let me see," he said softly, his hands moving to the tie of your robe.
You hesitated only a moment before nodding, allowing him to part the fabric. You took off your breast bindings hours ago when they'd become too tight, and now your breasts were fully exposed to his view—heavy and engorged, the skin stretched tight and shining in the lamplight. Your nipples were darker than usual, prominent and already glistening with beads of milk that had begun to leak unbidden.
Zuko's breath caught audibly. "Spirits," he murmured, his voice dropping low. "You're so swollen."
"I know," you whispered, embarrassment heating your cheeks even as another droplet of milk formed at your nipple and traced a slow path down the curve of your breast. "I look ridiculous."
"No." His contradiction was immediate. His hands came up to hover near your breasts, not quite touching. "You look incredible. May I?"
You nodded, and his warm palms cupped you gently, his touch was gentle as though afraid of hurting you. Even that contact made you gasp—your breasts were so sensitive, every nerve ending heightened by the engorgement.
"They're so warm," Zuko observed, his thumbs brushing carefully along the undersides. "And heavy. This must be painful."
"It is," you confirmed, biting your lip as his exploration sent confusing signals through your body—discomfort from the pressure, but also something else, something that made heat pool low in your belly despite the ache.
Zuko was quiet for a moment, his eyes fixed on your chest, watching as another bead of milk formed and began to drip. Then he looked up at you, and there was something dark and hungry in his gaze that made your breath hitch.
"I could help," he said, his voice rough. "If you'd let me."
You understood immediately what he was suggesting, and your heart began to pound. "Zuko..."
"The wet nurse said Izumi might not nurse for days," he continued, his hands still cradling your breasts with exquisite gentleness. "You can't stay like this. Manual expression isn't working well enough. But I could..." He swallowed hard, his pupils dilating. "I could drink from you. Relieve the pressure."
The suggestion sent a bolt of arousal straight through you, unexpected and intense. You'd never considered such a thing, but now that he'd said it, the image filled your mind—Zuko's mouth on your breast, his lips sealed around your nipple, drawing out the milk that made you ache.
"Would you want to?" you asked breathlessly.
His answer was to lean forward and drag his tongue slowly up the trail of milk on your breast, collecting the droplets. His eyes fluttered closed and he made a low sound of appreciation. "You taste sweet," he murmured against your skin. "Like honey and cream."
Your fingers tangled in his hair, your body trembling. "Please zu..," you whispered, no longer sure if you were begging for relief from the physical discomfort or from the sudden, desperate need that had ignited in your core.
Zuko shifted closer, positioning himself between your thighs as you sat on the edge of the bed. His hands cupped your right breast, lifting it slightly, and then his mouth closed over your nipple.
The sensation was overwhelming. His lips formed a seal, warm and soft, and then he began to suck—gently at first, then with increasing pressure. The milk let down immediately, flowing into his mouth in a warm rush that made you cry out. The relief was immediate and intense, the pressure easing as he drank, but it was accompanied by a pleasure so acute it bordered on pain.
"Oh, agni," you gasped, your head falling back as Zuko nursed from you. His tongue worked against your nipple, encouraging the flow, while his hand kneaded the swollen flesh gently, helping to express the milk. You could hear him swallowing, could feel the pull of his mouth with every draw, and it was the most erotic thing you'd ever experienced.
He drank deeply, his eyes closed in concentration and pleasure. One of his hands remained on your breast, massaging carefully, while the other slid up your thigh, pushing your robe further open. You were already wet, arousal slicking your inner thighs, and when his fingers found your center, you moaned aloud.
Zuko pulled back just long enough to murmur, "You're soaked," before returning his mouth to your breast. His fingers stroked through your folds, teasing, while he continued to nurse. The dual sensations—his mouth drawing milk from your breast and his fingers working between your legs—had you trembling and gasping within seconds.
Your breast was beginning to soften slightly, the terrible tightness easing, but you were still so full. Zuko seemed to sense this, and he shifted his attention to your other breast, his mouth closing over that nipple with the same hungry devotion. The milk flowed just as readily, and you whimpered as the relief-pleasure washed through you again.
"So good," Zuko murmured between draws, his voice muffled against your flesh. "You taste so good, and you're giving me so much."
His fingers found your clit, circling it with practiced skill, and you bucked against his hand. The combination of sensations was driving you toward climax with startling speed—the relief of your breasts being emptied, the eroticism of your husband drinking from you, the skilled touch of his fingers on your most sensitive places.
"Zuko," you panted, your fingers tightening in his hair. "I'm gonna—oh, please—"
He increased the pressure of his sucking, his hand kneading your breast more firmly to encourage the milk flow, while his fingers worked faster between your legs. The pleasure built and built, tension coiling tighter in your core, until finally it snapped.
You came with a sharp cry, your body convulsing as waves of ecstasy rolled through you. Your breast leaked more heavily as you climaxed, milk flowing freely into Zuko's eager mouth, and he groaned against you, the vibration adding to your pleasure. He didn't stop nursing, didn't stop touching you, drawing out your orgasm until you were shaking and oversensitive.
When you finally came down, gasping and trembling, Zuko released your nipple with a soft pop. His lips were wet with your milk, his eyes dark with lust. "Better?" he asked, his voice rough.
You nodded weakly, looking down at your breasts. They were noticeably smaller now, though still fuller than normal. The terrible tightness had eased considerably, leaving only a pleasant heaviness. "Much better," you breathed. "But you're not finished, are you?"
His smile was predatory. "Not even close."
He stood, and you could see the prominent bulge in his pants, evidence of his arousal. He'd been hard since he first started nursing from you, and now he was clearly aching for relief of his own.
"Lie back," he commanded softly, and you obeyed, scooting further onto the bed and reclining against the pillows. Your robe fell completely open, leaving you bare to his hungry gaze.
Zuko stripped quickly, his movements economical and efficient, revealing the lean, scarred body you knew so well. His cock stood proud and hard, the tip already glistening with precum. He climbed onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs, and leaned down to capture your mouth in a deep, claiming kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue—the sweet, creamy flavor of your milk—and it made you moan into his mouth.
"I wanna be inside you," he murmured against your lips, "while I drink more. Can i…?"
"Yes," you gasped, already aching to be filled. "Please, Zuko."
He positioned himself at your entrance, and you were so wet that he slid in easily despite his considerable size. You both groaned at the sensation—the stretch and fullness, the slick heat, the perfect fit of your bodies. He began to move with slow, deep strokes, and then he lowered his head to your breast once more.
The sensation of being filled by his cock while he nursed from you was indescribable. Every pull of his mouth seemed to echo in your core, tightening around him, while every thrust drove him deeper. Your breasts were still producing milk readily, and Zuko drank greedily, alternating between them, his hands roaming your body possessively.
"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured between draws, his hips maintaining the steady pace. "So full and soft and perfect. I could drink from you for hours."
"Zuko," you whimpered, your hands clutching at his shoulders. The pleasure was building again, faster this time, your body still sensitive from your first orgasm. "Harder, please."
He complied immediately, his thrusts becoming more forceful, driving deeper. His mouth worked at your breast with matching intensity, sucking hard enough that you knew you'd have marks tomorrow—not enough to bruise.. The thought made you clench around him, and he groaned.
"So tight," he panted, releasing your nipple to kiss and lick at the curve of your breast, following the trails of milk that had escaped. "Squeezing me so perfectly. Are you gonna cumagain? Gonna cum on my cock while I drink from these beautiful breasts hm?"
"Y-yes!," you gasped, your nails digging into his back. "Yes, I'm close, so close—"
His hand slipped between your bodies, finding your clit again, and that was all it took. You shattered, crying out his name as your second orgasm crashed over you. Your inner walls clamped down on him rhythmically, and you felt a fresh surge of milk let down, flowing freely as your body convulsed in pleasure.
Zuko captured your nipple again, drinking deeply as you came, and the sensation prolonged your climax until you were sobbing with the intensity of it. His thrusts became erratic, and then he was following you over the edge, burying himself deep as he found his own release. You felt him pulse inside you, filling you with his seed, while his mouth continued to draw from your breast in long, satisfied pulls.
He collapsed against you carefully, mindful of your still-tender breasts, his softening cock still inside you. For long moments, you both simply breathed, hearts pounding in sync, bodies slick with sweat and milk.
Finally, Zuko lifted his head, pressing a tender kiss to your breast before meeting your eyes. "How do you feel?" he asked softly.
You took inventory of your body. Your breasts were much softer now, the painful engorgement relieved, though they still held milk. Your body was pleasantly sore, satisfied in a way that made you feel boneless and content. "Perfect," you murmured, running your fingers through his hair. "Absolutely perfect."
He smiled, that rare, genuine smile that he reserved only for you and Izumi. "Good." He pressed a kiss to your lips, sweet and lingering. "Though you know this might become a regular thing if Izumi continues to refuse."
A shiver of anticipation ran through you at the thought. "I think I could live with that."
"Mmm." He nuzzled against your neck, his hand coming up to cup your breast again, thumb brushing over your nipple almost absently. "We should probably clean up. You're covered in milk."
You laughed softly. "So are you."
"I know." His voice was smug, satisfied. "I can still taste you."
Heat bloomed in your cheeks, but you made no move to get up, content to lie there with your husband's weight pressing you into the mattress, his hand gentle on your breast, his seed slowly leaking from your body. There would be time to clean up later. For now, you simply wanted to savor this moment—the intimacy, the pleasure, the deep connection that bound you together.
Outside, the sun had fully set, and the palace was quiet. Somewhere in the nursery, Izumi slept peacefully, unaware of the gift her refusal to nurse had given her parents. And in the Fire Lord's chambers, you and Zuko held each other close, already anticipating the next time your breasts would swell with milk and he would relieve you with his mouth and hands and body.
It was, you reflected drowsily as Zuko's breathing evened out against your neck, a very satisfactory solution to the problem.
The next morning, you woke to the familiar pressure building in your breasts again. Izumi had still refused to nurse at her dawn feeding, and the wet nurse had reported that she seemed perfectly content with a bottle instead.
Zuko stirred beside you, his hand immediately finding your breast, testing its fullness. His eyes opened, meeting yours, and a slow smile curved his lips.
"Again?" he murmured, his voice still rough with sleep.
You nodded, already feeling the ache, the need. "Again."
He wasted no time, pushing you gently onto your back and settling between your thighs. This time there was no hesitation, no tentative exploration. He knew exactly what you both needed, and he took your nipple into his mouth with confident hunger.
The milk flowed readily, and you gasped as the pleasure washed through you once more. Zuko's hand slipped between your legs, finding you already wet and ready, and he groaned against your breast.
"Every morning," he murmured, his fingers sliding inside you while he continued to nurse. "I wanna wake up like this every morning, drinking from you, making you cum."
"Yes," you whimpered, already close to climax. "Yes, Zuko, please—"
He brought you to orgasm twice before he was satisfied that your breasts were sufficiently relieved, and then he made love to you slowly, thoroughly, until you were both sated and trembling. Afterward, as you lay tangled together in the rumpled sheets, you couldn't help but laugh softly.
"What?" Zuko asked, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"I was so worried when Izumi stopped nursing," you admitted. "I thought it was a problem.."
"Now it isn’t," he finished, his hand cupping your breast. "I intend to enjoy it thoroughly for as long as it lasts."
You smiled, turning to kiss him properly. "I love you."
"I love you too," he murmured against your lips. "My beautiful wife. My perfect Fire Lady."
What do you think would make Jud finally break and fuck reader?
ok so trick question but I don't think it would be fucking. I think things would culminate into a nice, slow kiss that builds from there. Maybe when he's praying for you with his big hands on your face, with your head pressed to his and your mouth so, so close. He doesn't mean to actually do it, but he leans in and kisses you, nice and sweet.
And by that point, it's like a wildfire spreading through his veins that he can't control. He just wants to kiss and kiss and kiss you. To be on you, in you. It's been so long that just letting himself think about it makes him feel dizzy. If his thoughts are an inferno, his actions are a slow boil. Laying you back on the couch in the rectory, kissing along your throat, knowing he should stop. But your pretty church dress hikes up around your hips, and he can see a wet spot in your panties and he's craving you like he hasn't craved in years.
He has to taste you, because this is the last time, and he swears to god this will never ever happen again. And you taste divine, like the sweetest honey on his tongue, and your moans are like angels singing in his ears. Each lap of his tongue over your overheated, slick cunt is like worship at your altar.
He makes you come, dripping onto his tongue, and he still can't stop. The taste of you is so sweet, and he wants to remember it forever. He wants to die still tasting you on the back of his tongue. But you pull at his hair, and you want more. He feels it, he knows what you want. What he wants. He thinks that if this is a test, it's a pretty fucking cruel one.
But he sinks into you. Tight, wet, hot heat swallowing him up. And, Jesus, he'd forgotten how good it could feel. The ecstasy of bodies joining how god intended, bodies made specifically for this very purpose. And he kisses you, because it feels right and it muffles his soft, prayerful cries of your name.
It doesn't last long, but who could expect it to? And when he comes inside of you, you come with him, an answered prayer. He dresses with shame in his heart and lust in his soul, watching his come drip from your swollen cunt. God's will be done.
