brat tamed in the office ☆ smoker
smoker x reader
nsfw, smut, brat tamer, office sex, on the desk, bratty!reader, p in v, blowjob, spanking
♡ where you're just feeling playful today, a little bratty, and where Smoker has to put you in your place.
it's bad long, 5k lol
You hate it when Smoker leaves early in the morning without saying goodbye. And it’s not really his fault, he just doesn’t have the heart to wake you up so early. You look so peaceful when you sleep, your little face relaxed, cheeks soft, arms wrapped tightly around your pillow.
Of course, he knows better than anyone what kind of mood you’re in when you wake up and he’s not there. Especially when he’s already gone from your apartment. But Vice Admiral Smoker has duties he can’t afford to ignore. So yes, sometimes he forces himself to leave at dawn, his throat tight as he walks away from you.
The morning dragged on endlessly. Smoker had to start the day by teaching two classes to the new recruits. He could almost feel their minds buzzing, entirely distracted by tonight’s Marine charity gala. Once a year, the Marines organize a grand fundraising event to support the population, make political connections, and of course, stuff their wallets. The rest of his morning had been no better. Between the new directives from HQ and the endless paperwork piling up on his desk, his patience had already reached its limit. Everyone wanted something from him, and all he wanted was a moment of silence
When lunch finally came around, he pretended not to hear the recruits begging him to eat with them and headed straight for the quiet of his office, his lunch neatly wrapped in a square of cloth you’d prepared the night before tucked under his arm. When he finally reached his desk, a low sigh escaped his lips. He swept aside the pile of documents, pushing them into a corner before setting his bento down on the solid wooden surface.
He leaned back in his chair, and opened the bento you’d made for him. The scent hit him immediately – the kind of familiar comfort that almost made him smile. He sat there for a moment, chopsticks in hand, staring at the neat little portions of food arranged with care. You’d always pay attention to the smallest details, even when pretending not to.
He sighed again and reached for the den den mushi resting on the corner of his desk. The shell vibrated softly as he turned the dial, the little creature’s eyes blinking open with a yawn that reminded him of you.
When you picked up, your voice was thick with sleep. “...You left.”
He smiled a little. “Morning to you too.”
“You could’ve said goodbye.”
“I didn’t want to wake you.”
You made a noise that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh. “You never do. You just disappear like I’m not even there.”
Smoker rubbed his temple. “You were sleeping.”
“Maybe I wanted you to wake me up,” you shot back, your tone already sharper. “Or maybe I like knowing when my boyfriend decides to vanish at dawn.”
He could picture the look on your face, your messy hair, an attitude written all over your face and your voice. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“No,” you reply, almost smugly, then you sigh. You start telling him about your possible plans for the day. And he complains about his day, which is far from over.
“Eat your lunch,” you muttered, not hearing him chew, “and don’t choke on it thinking about how mean you are.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh. “You’re in a mood.”
He let the silence sit, his voice finally dropping, calm and heavy. “You still coming tonight?”
“Maybe,” you said, voice dripping with attitude. “If I feel like it.”
“...You’ll come,” he said simply.
You didn’t answer, but he could hear the faint smile in your breath before you hung up.
Smoker leaned back in his chair, staring at the den den mushi that now mimicked your little pout. He muttered under his breath, “Brat.”
The gala was already in full swing by the time you arrived. The Marine hall glittered with polished uniforms and laughter that felt too rehearsed. Chandeliers cast soft light and the air smelled faintly of smoke and expensive champagne. You hated these kinds of events, and you hated even more that Smoker had left you to walk in alone.
You moved through the crowd, your expression carefully composed, a polite smile on your face. From across the room, Smoker stood in his formal coat, white and crisp against his broad shoulder, speaking with a group of officers. He hadn’t seen you yet, too absorbed in duty, posture straight.
So you decided to find someone to talk to. A tall officer, younger, smiling so easily. You didn’t even remember the name he gave you when he presented himself, but you laughed at something he said a little too loud, your hand brushing your hair back deliberately.
You feel it before you even see him. Smoker’s hard, piercing gaze fixed on you from across the room. His sharp eyes follow you closely, watching the deliberate way your body moves, the way your hand lingers a little too obviously on that young man’s arm.
He excuses himself from his group, and with a few long, purposeful steps, he’s already closing the distance between you. Just as you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray, Smoker catches your hand, firm, but careful.
You freeze at the touch. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and steady, the kind of grip that doesn’t hurt but doesn’t leave room for argument either. When you turn, he is tall, composed and his expression unreadable. The faint scent of smoke clings to him, familiar and grounding.
“Enjoying yourself?” His voice is low, just above a whisper, but it cuts through the music easily.
You lift your chin, smiling faintly. “I was, yes.”
Smoker doesn’t answer. He takes the glass of champagne from your fingers, setting it back on the tray as the waiter passes. “You know you can’t handle a drink.”
You scoff, crossing your arms. “I wasn’t even drunk.”
“Not yet,” he replies dryly. “But I’ve seen how that story ends.”
You tilt your head, that familiar smirk tugging at your lips. “You act like I’m a kid.”
“Sometimes you act like one.”
That earns him a glare, but he only exhales. His gaze drags over your face for a long moment before settling on your eyes again.
“You should’ve warmed me when you arrived,” he says.
“Where’s the fun in that?” you counter. “You looked too busy being Vice Admiral to notice me anyway. Didn’t want to interrupt.”
Smoker’s jaw flexes — not anger exactly, but control. He exhales slowly, the breath curling like smoke between you. “You think you’re funny.”
You smirk, but don’t answer his question. Instead, you turn to the young man who had been silently watching this little verbal sparring between the two of you.
“I was just talking with my new friend, that’s all…” you let the words hang, a charming smile on your lips.
The younger officer chuckled awkwardly. “Vice Admiral, I was just– ”
“That’ll be all,” Smoker interrupted, not even looking at him. The man nodded quickly and disappeared into the crowd.
You tilt your head, teasing, “You didn’t have to scare him off.”
Smoker’s jaw flexes. His hand is still around yours, thumb brushing the back of it. He was so close that you could feel the warmth of him through his uniform. His gaze held yours, steady, unreadable, and you knew he was weighing every word, deciding how much to let slide. Every part of him radiates restraint. Then, finally, he leans in just slightly. “Behave. At least until this is over.”
You glance up at him, smile soft but defiant. “No promises.”
He shakes his head, a quiet sound escaping him that might’ve been a laugh or something closer to frustration. Then he releases your hand, straightening to his full height again.
For a long second, neither of you spoke. The tension hung heavy between you, thick as the smoke curling from the cigars he usually lit. Finally, he exhaled, the sound quiet but deliberate. “You like testing me, don’t you?”
You tilted your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Maybe.”
Smoker let out a low hum, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re lucky I’m still on duty.”
You stepped a little closer, your voice barely above a whisper. “So what happens when you’re not?”
His eyes darkened slightly, but his expression didn’t change. He leaned in just enough for his breath to brush your ear. “Then,” he murmured, “try and you’ll find out.”
Afterward, he slips away, someone calling him from across the room. You remain there for a moment, frozen, before catching a passing glass of champagne and draining it in one go. You join a new group, finding unexpected delight in their lively chatter, charming both the gentlemen and the ladies, who seem genuinely thrilled to finally meet the person sharing Vice Admiral Smoker’s life.
“It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you. We hear so little about you,” says a woman whose face is half-hidden beneath an enormous purple hat. Her smile is syrup-sweet, and though you sense she means well, her words sting just a little.
You keep your expression composed, replying politely, expressing how glad you are to meet the people who surround your partner every day. Every now and then, when the topic drifts toward something that couldn’t interest you enough, your eyes instinctively seek out Smoker.
And each time you find him, his gaze is already on you.
People around him are gesturing animatedly, caught up in what looks like an intense discussion, but he’s not listening. He’s only watching you. Raising one eyebrow, like saying : you all right? You answer with a mischievous smile.
Excusing yourself from your companions, you look for a discreet corner, somewhere out of sight. You can feel Smoker’s eyes following you with every step as your hips carry you gracefully toward a quiet spot behind an enormous, vividly colored plant.
During that brief moment alone, you hurry, wriggling out of your lace panties. They’re delicate, small enough to disappear entirely in your hand, your fingers curling around them completely.
When you emerge from your little hiding place, Smoker is still watching you. This time, his brows are drawn together in that familiar, unmistakable way.
You play it cool, pretending nothing’s happened, grabbing a canapé from a table nearby and popping it into your mouth before heading toward him.
“Well, who might be this charming young lady?” asks one of the guests as you reach the group.
Smoker’s hand finds your waist with practiced ease. “My partner,” he replies simply, giving you a small, discreet glance.
“Oh, if only we’d known Vice Admiral Smoker was so well accompanied…” laughs another man, cheeks flushed with alcohol.
You chuckle softly, slipping easily into their conversation. As one of them launches into a passionate debate about the proposed naval strategy reforms – or perhaps the precarious balance between the Marines and the World Government, you take the opportunity to slide your hand into the wide pocket of Smoker’s jacket and leave your little gift inside.
You feel him tense beneath your touch, but he doesn’t react, not wanting to draw attention to you both. And you take advantage and let your hand trails lightly along the small of his back.
He shoots you a questioning look, eyebrows raised, but you only give him a dazzling smile in return.
While you feign interest in the conversation, you feel him shift slightly beside you, his hand slipping into his pocket. Even though there’s no longer any contact between you, even though he doesn’t say a single word, you can almost hear his thoughts racing.
His stare is heavy, and it almost makes you laugh.
The thrill of it all makes you feel suddenly weightless, almost giddy, and you throw yourself into the discussion you’d barely been listening to before.
But Smoker’s dark, stormy gaze begins to betray him. “Everything all right, Smoker?” One of the guests asks, catching him slightly off guard.
“Yes,” he answers curtly. His voice could cut glass. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
You know it’s not really a question. Smiling politely, you excuse yourself. “Something wrong darling?” you ask innocently as Smoker catches your wrist and leads you away.
You cross the grand reception hall in a few long steps, Smoker cutting through conversations with curt nods, you smiling and tossing quick, polite replies as you’re dragged along until you finally reach the tall double doors.
A few more steps take you into a cold and grey hallway. He pauses, scanning the space with a soldier’s precision, making sure no one’s within earshot and then presses you against the wall, one large hand braced beside your face.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His tone is low, dangerous, exactly the way you like him.
You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
Smoker’s hand still cages you against the wall. His breath is slow, controlled, too controlled. The kind that hides a storm underneath. “You really think I wouldn’t notice?” You can hear authority in his voice, he uses that tone often when he’s giving orders to his men.
You tilt your head, feigning innocence, though your lips can’t hide a smirk. “Notice what, Vice Admiral?”
His eyes darken. That’s when you know you’ve gone too far – or maybe exactly far enough. He grabs your wrist again, firmly enough to make you follow without question.
He doesn’t say another word as he drags you down the hall. The click of his boots echoes against the marble floor, your pulse matching his pace, excitement curling in your stomach. When you enter his office, the door closes behind you with a dull thud, and the lock clicks shut a moment later.
Smoker doesn’t speak right away. His back is to you, broad and rigid beneath the gray uniform, shoulders rising and falling with each slow breath. A coil of smoke drifts from his cigars. “You really thought you could get away with that?”
His voice is so rough that it makes you flinch. You swallow, trying to sound nonchalant. “Get away with what exactly?”
He turns. The look in his eyes makes your pulse stutter. It’s not just anger. It’s something heavier, darker, more dangerous. He takes a step forward, then another. The scent of smoke and leather fills the space between you. “You’ve been pushing me all day,” he growls, stopping just close enough for the edge of his coat to brush your thigh. “Flirting, teasing, in front of everyone. You think that’s amusing?”
You meet his glare. “Maybe I just wanted your attention.”
He laughs once, short and humorless. Then he catches your chin between his fingers, firmly enough that you can’t look away. His eyes are sharp and shiny, his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth like he’s testing how far he’ll go.
“Oh, I noticed,” he murmurs. The room feels smaller now. You can hear your heartbeat echoing in your chest, your breath coming shallow as he leans in just enough for his voice to brush your ear.
“And then,” he continues, his tone dropping lower, “you had the nerve to slip this into my pocket.”
He pulls the small scrap of lace from his jacket, holding it up between two fingers. It looks indecent in his hand, fragile and daring. His jaw flexes.
“You think that’s some kind of game?”
You meet his gaze, a spark of defiance in your eyes. “Maybe I wanted to remind you of me.”
Smoker exhales through his nose, controlled, even if his control looks like it’s hanging by a thread. He tosses the lace onto the desk behind you and plants both hands on either side of your hips, boxing you in completely. “You really don’t know what you’re asking for,” he warned you.
You smile at him, naturally, almost instinctively, as if it were second nature for you to do that whenever he’s close – but your fingers trace over his bare chest.
For a long moment, he just watches you. Eyes tracing every flicker of your expression, every unspoken challenge. The air feels charged and electric. Then he leans even closer. “You’ve been begging for a lesson all night,” he says, almost to himself. “Now you’re going to get it.”
The way he says it makes your stomach twist. Not in fear, but in anticipation. His shadow swallows the space between you, his voice rumbling against your skin like a distant thunder. “Hands on the desk,” he orders.
You hesitate, just for the thrill of it, and the corner of his mouth twitches in a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Still want to play?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, and guides you to turn around, his hands way bigger on yours, and pushes you against the desk. His hand slowly moves up the small of your back to your neck, allowing him to press you against the surface, your cheek now against the cold surface of the furniture.
He grabs the edges of your dress and pulls it up. You feel the cold of the room on your legs all the way up to your round buttocks. You feel him kneading your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh. Then, with a sharp, controlled motion, his hand came down on the curve of your ass. The sting made you gasp, sharp and hot.
“Too bold for your own good,” he murmured, voice low, almost amused, as he spanked you again, this time slower, more precise.
You shifted slightly, trying to contain the growing warmth, but being disciplined by Smoker was always irresistible. “Such a brat,” he growled, leaning closer so the tip of his cigar brushed your ear, the smoke curling around your hair. “Always pushing… always testing…” His hand moved again, precise, measured, tracing over the marks he had left, making your body shiver in ways you hadn’t expected.
Smoker straightened, letting a hand linger at the small of your back, keeping you perfectly still on the desk. “Count,” he ordered.
You nodded, cheeks flushed, and began, your voice steady at first. “One…” His hand landed sharply again, making you flinch, but you kept going. “Twoo… three…”
He continued for a while, your voice growing weaker and more broken by the sting of each slap on your buttocks. Then something in your mind scrambled. Your words faltered, a stutter creeping in as your body betrayed you. “Se-se… seven…” you gasped, and a sharp sting from his hand made you gasp again.
He growled when he realized that you had made a mistake in the counting. “You lost your count. Brats like you can’t even count properly… Are you already dumb?” He asks, his words bite harder than his hand.
"I'm not dumb," you complain, holding back as best you can the tears that threaten to roll down your cheek and onto his desk.
"I didn't ask you to comment, did I?"
You sniff, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand. “I didn’t lose count,” you mutter, still facing his desk. “You just –”
He cuts you off, his voice low and sharp. “You just what?”
You hesitate, then tilt your head back a little, testing him. “You just… distracted me.”
There’s a pause, long enough for you to feel the weight of his stare even without looking. “Distracted you,” he repeats, slower this time, like he’s tasting the words. “You’ve got an excuse for everything, don’t you?”
You hum, a tiny smirk tugging at your lips. “Maybe you like it.”
“Say that again,” he warns.
You can’t help yourself, the corner of your mouth curves wider. “I said, maybe you like it when I talk back.”
There’s a low rumble from his chest, not quite a laugh, but close. “You’re lucky I tolerate that mouth of yours.”
“Tolerate?” you echo, turning your head just enough to catch his expression. “That’s a strong word for someone who keeps asking for my opinion.”
He leans closer. “I don’t ask. You just can’t stop giving it.”
You shrug, casual now. “Maybe you should try harder, then.”
For a moment, there’s silence. And just when you thought you were about to receive another round of spankings for your disobedience, you feel his warm body pull away from yours. His boots clatter against the floor and very quickly he's sitting in his office chair. “Come here.”
Your damp cheek peels away from the solid wood of the desk, smeared with your saliva. Your whole body reacts to the pain you feel on your buttocks, as if the pain is vibrating beneath your skin. You discreetly massage your sore ass before getting on your knees and crawling on all fours under the desk to reach his legs, spread wide open to welcome you.
“Show me how you're not dumb in that case,” he says. And your fingers move on their own and you unzip his trousers, the muffled sound of the zipper against the teeth echoing in the office. “Hmm,” you could almost hear his voice rumbling inside his chest. “Not so stupid after all…”
He doesn't help you at all, but you finally manage to get his dick out of his underwear. It's hard and glistening against your fingers, and you involuntarily lick your lips. Perhaps it's that gesture that makes him suddenly grab your hair just as you were about to put it in your mouth.
“Don’t be stupid, now. You really think this is a gift?” you whimper, the sharp pull at your scalp sending a jolt down your spine. “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you,” he growls, and the way he says it makes your breath hitch. “Since you’re so eager to act clever, always answering back, I guess I’ll have to teach that mouth of yours some manners next. Understand?”
You whimper and give a tiny, reluctant nod. He watches you. “Good,” he says softly. “Now look at me.” You raise your face. He doesn’t smile. “Open your mouth,” he orders. Your throat tightens but you obey, jaw working as if the command has weight enough to move your bones. He leans in, so close you can feel the cold of his breath. “Wider,” he says and you obey right away.
Smoker tightens his grip in your hair. “That’s it… behave. I think you need a reminder of who is in charge.” A slow, deliberate motion, and a taste of him hits your tongue. He watches your reaction carefully. “Swallow.”
You hesitate for a moment, then obey, letting the taste roll down your throat, your eyes meeting his. A grunt of approval escapes him. “Good girl… now show me how much you appreciate it.”
You move immediately, taking him into your mouth, your hands steadying yourself on his thick thighs. You can feel his body stiffen under your fingers, and you know you are doing exactly what he wants.
“Look at me,” Smoker growls, and with some difficulty, you raise your gaze towards him, his member still throbbing in your mouth. “That’s right… my brat knows her limits,” he comments, leaning closer so his breath fans your face. “And now… I want you to work for it. Show me you can take me properly, all the way.”
Your tongue swirls around him, teasing, then taking him deeper, testing his patience while secretly craving his praise. He grunts, hips shifting slightly, and you feel the weight of his control in every sharp tug of your hair.
“Ah… yeah don’t stop,” he says, teeth clenching as he leans back, gripping the desk for support. “You like being told what to do, don’t you? That little mouth of yours… thinks it’s clever, but it’s mine. Do you understand?”
"Yes sir," you try to say, but every effort makes your throat tighten around his cock, making him groan.
Your hands wander, gripping his thighs for balance as you move up and down, desperate to earn his approval. Every muffled groan, every sharp intake of breath from him sends shivers down your spine.
Then you feel his grip tighten on your hair, pulling your hair to free you from his member, he leans forward and spits into your mouth once again. You gag for a second, but he holds your hair firmly. “Swallow. Now,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for hesitation.
He groans, low and approving when you obey, and that sound alone makes you moan. "I can't hear you."
“Good girl…” he murmurs, dragging a hand through your hair. “Now show me how thankful you are.”
Your lips tighten around him again, your movements more eager now, your tongue swirling over him with a mix of devotion and bratty urgency. Every pull of your hair, every sharp glance from him, every growl that escapes his chest drives you crazier, and you lose yourself in between being scolded and rewarded at the same time.
A sharp pull of your hair jerks your head up, and suddenly he’s hovering over you, eyes scanning your flushed face. “Good. Now… I want you on the desk, on your knees properly. Hands behind your back. Show me you’re ready to obey completely.”
You move immediately, eager to please and climb onto his large desk, the solid wood beneath your knees. He steps closer, pressing himself to you again, and you feel his warmth, the solid weight of him anchoring you in place.
“Pathetic brat…” he growls, his hands ghosting over your sides. The first thrust was hard, unrelenting, a brutal reminder of the discipline that had brought you here. The desk almost vibrated beneath you as he pushed, each movement precise, powerful, forcing your body to respond whether you wanted it to or not.
He slammed into you again and your lungs collapsed around a cry, your fingers clawing at the wood as your body jolted.
“Already shaking?” he growled, leaning over you, his breath hot against your ear. “I haven’t even started.” The force of his thrust rips the sound right out of you. Whimpers spilled out against your will, your mouth falling open.
Every hard thrust pushed the lesson deeper. “Count again,” he demanded, his voice so thick it sound dangerous. “Out loud… don’t fuck it up this time.”
“O‑on… o‑one… t‑two… th‑three!” you stuttered, your voice broken, tears of frustration prickling at your eyes as your body jerked with every impact.
“That’s better,” he murmured, though his thrusts didn’t slow. Each one pulled a gasp out of you. “Keep counting… and don’t think about stopping.”
“F‑four… f‑five—ah!” You broke again when he angled his hips, hitting exactly where your body couldn’t handle it.
“That’s it… feel it,” he growled, one hand sliding up your thigh to force your leg wider, the other pressing your lower back into the desk. “Not so mouthy now, hm? All that brat attitude gone the second I fuck you properly.”
The mix of discipline, pleasure, and your own inability to hide your reactions overwhelmed you. Your moans came out uncontrolled now.
“You’re going to finish this count,” he said, voice almost possessive, his hips never stopping. “Even if I have to fuck the numbers out of your throat.”
Your breath stutters, your leg trembling violently where he holds it open. His grip is bruising, possessive, keeping you exactly where he wants you.
“Six…” You gasp the number out as he drives into you again, the desk groaning beneath you. “S‑seven ah, fuck–”
He growls immediately, slamming his hips forward so hard your voice cuts off. “Language,” he warns you, his hand coming up to grip your throat, not exactly squeezing, but just to remind you who is in control. “Count. Not commentary.”
The last number tears out of you in a broken cry, and your whole body collapses onto the desk, shaking. He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even hesitate. The satisfaction in his breath tells you he was waiting for you to fall apart under him.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, leaning over your back, his chest heavy against you. “That’s my girl. That’s how you count when you remember who you belong to.”
He grabs both your wrists, pressing them flat onto the desk above your head, pinning you completely. His hips move slower now, deeper, cruelly deliberate. Every thrust hits that same spot inside you, over and over again. “You’re close. You’re already clenching like you want to cum all over me.”
Your thighs shake uncontrollably now. “Smoker… please–”
“Begging already?” He smirks against your neck. “Pathetic. And you were so mouthy earlier.”
He pulls out of you just enough to make you sob, your body chasing him automatically. “Oh, you want it that bad?” he teases you, letting the tip tease your entrance, sliding just barely inside before retreating again. “You want me to fuck you until you can’t stand?”
“Ask nicely then,” he says, smacking your ass.
“Please… please sir– fuck me, I’ll be good–”
That breaks him. In one smooth motion, he slams back into you burying himself to the hilt. Your scream echoes in the room completely needy. “Ohh that’s it, cum for me…”
He pounds into you even harder, one of your hands joining his on your hip. He's so big inside you, rubbing exactly where you need him the most. And then your body snaps, your back arching and your vision becoming blurry.
Smoker groans, deep and feral, gripping your hips as your body convulses around him. “Good girl,” he growls, fucking you through it, relentless, using your orgasm to take you deeper. “God, look at you… shaking like you’re about to fall apart.”
Your name breaks from his mouth as he thrusts one last time, burying himself deep, his hips shuddering against you as he cums hard, groaning into your neck.
You feel his weight against your back, and that weight prevents you from keeping your sanity for a moment. His warm breath still crashes against the back of your neck as you feel his grip loosen, now caressing your hips.
“You did good,” he mutters against your skin, voice rough but softening. “Are you okay ?”
You hum, even if you feel your legs getting numb from being in this position. Smoker finally pulls back just enough to let you slump against the desk, completely spent. Your legs wobble, your chest heaving, and you barely have the strength to lift your head.
His hands are soft now, brushing the damp strands of hair from your face. “Hey… shh,” he murmurs, voice low and soothing. “It’s okay. You did so well.”
You shiver at the warmth in his tone, the contrast to earlier commands. He lifts you carefully into his arms, letting your head rest against his chest, his strong body is so comforting against you. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he murmurs, pressing soft kisses to your hair and temple.
