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Namor always appreciates you in the sanctity of your shared chambers, where there is sprawling bed that he may take ability to savor every inch of your body’s terrain.

Where he may make marked tribute to a body that he has known thousandfold over, yet it is delicacy to unwrap every instance he may do so. 

He’s a passionate lover, to be certain, but he takes his time—taking the right of his station to while the time in exploring you. In finding every spot that he has given course to biting, lingering kiss, so that he may invoke the pleasurable symphony of your voice.

In influencing the delightful synapse that may make you react to his overtures to your union with notes only he has. 

After all, you are a gift—and Namor does not take any gift given him lightly. He treats them well—and you most revered of all. 

Yet what you don’t expect, though you have found yourself successfully charmed, defenses whiled away by it, is his need to seduce you with spoken word. 

And how he speaks it well, much as he does now, as he kneels at your feet, bereft of all clothing. Cloaked only in desire for you that is articulated through every taut muscle of his body yet to find locomotion. As he surveys you with imperious stare, his hands not yet staking claim to that which you freely give. 

Namor has a skill for oratory prowess, and you find it demonstrated in quiet subtlety as his muscular arm yearns across the satin sheets.

Sumptuous treasures in this chamber alone, awe-inspiring view of aquatic kingdom from kingly window: and yet he seeks only the opportunity to take firm grip on the heel of your foot. 

To lean up to you and approach the threshold of the bed, and begin. 

“If I were king, love,” He begins in that rich, low timbre of regality laid bare to you, “Ah love, if I were king—”

He presses loitering kiss into the column of your ankle, letting his hands wrap around a width he knows like air. His eyes never slack from the reaction you make, of quiet, anticipatory exhilaration. 

“What tributary nations would I bring,” he continues, and his hand glides up in deliberate pace up the journey of your calf, the heat of his mouth with it.

Now he takes knelt posture as he advances into the bed’s territory, his grip implacable. You have consented to his touch, his words—so he pursues as is given. 

His eyes burn, his mouth scorches as he rasps teeth up the crook of your leg, summoning evocative shiver open-mouthed on your behalf. 

“To stoop before your sceptre and to swear,” he informs the slope of your knee with another oath of fealty documented in kiss, “Allegiance to your lips and eyes and hair.” 

He takes his time to ensure that he expresses his appreciation of the joint, his broad hands taking berth on the underside of your thigh. Namor’s fingers draw gently yet undisputed in their approach, memorizing the pulse of veins, the warmth your body invites him in with.

As he makes journey from knee to the inside of your thigh, you see the barest ghost of a smile as your fingers curl into glossy sheets, a protracted gasp pushing past your soft palate. 

“Beneath your feet what treasures I would fling—”—His breath sends shock of sensation up sensitive, overexposed skin. You feel the muscle of your thigh make taut and then relax at the lap of his tongue up the exposed flesh.

And something pulses with desperate conviction in between your legs as he maintains the press of his stare upon you. And still his hands refuse to release what is his. 

“The stars should be your pearls upon a string,” his words are punctuated in syllable, the iamb of verse emblazoned onto the sear of your body, “The world a ruby for your finger ring—”

You feel his exhale ghost over the throb of nascent need that hikes in desperate quality as he nears. You don’t need to see the smile he presses against you as he speaks, to give you taste of what is to come. 

“And you should have the sun and moon to wear,” He informs you with unsubdued lust taking foundation in his voice, “If I were king.”   You know he takes his time; he shall not reward you with the euphoria of his mouth so soon. He enjoys the race of a heart spurred into frenzy by his ministrations, your sensibilities eroded away by the care he takes to make it so.

So all you are given is a lingering lap of his tongue that has you close your eyes for one agonizing moment. And then you feel the approach of your husband as he drapes himself over you. 

As his mouth seeks to taste the slope of your stomach, the divot of your navel, the salt of your skin as he sucks bruises into curves his alone to navigate. How your whimpers and stunted gasps do nothing to spur him along until he alone decides to continue. 

His leg, toned and coiled with the exertion that houses the lust he restrains, draws between your own. But all you can see are the caging of arms that are taking residence on either side of you, the spread of shoulders that frame your sight. And above you, a handsome, elegant face carved in landscape that is yours to call entitlement over—as he does yours. 

You can appraise the desire caged in those dark eyes with greater detail, feel it in the snarl that thrums through you as he descends upon your collarbone. 

“Let these wild dreams and wilder words take wing,” He growls, and you can’t help but ease your arms around the muscle that responds to the balm of your touch. As something grows and nudges needfully at the juncture of your legs. 

“Deep in the woods I hear a shepherd sing,” Namor groans, his words dire in syllabic meter, his tongue taking delayed evaluation of your shoulder, “A simple ballad to a sylvan air.”

He approaches in the horizon of your view, as his leg coaxes the expanse of your legs for him. 

And you hear murmured against the everlasting tempo of your pulse, “Of love that ever finds your face more fair.”

Then he is determined to sacrifice attention to commemorating the staccato of your pulse to the wet heat of his mouth. And his hands have found stately mooring on either side of your shoulders, allowing him to regard you face-to-face. 

“I could not give you any godlier thing,” He whispers as you feel the summation of his desire, his love, his lust, press against your entrance, “If I were king.”

And when he finally claims the kiss he has earned from you, you feel the glide of his body against, into you—and see what other talents a king may possess. 

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“What do you think?” Gal asks, an undercurrent of hesitating need—a desire to be satiated, appeased, reassured—nestled in the foundation of her voice. She huffs an insistent sigh through her nose, the roll of her muscles scoring back as she puts herself on display for you. 

And what a display it is—from the swell of her tits, the sculpted tone of her abs, the formidable tone of her arms—delicious. You knew she would be a sight to see the second that you peeled her out of her clothes, finally stripped away all the defenses that she’s battened up. 

But she’s not asking about that. What she is asking about, from the wretched knit of her brow, the way her jaw is set in primary bastion of regulation—is what your eyes are currently resting on. 

It’s not a bad cock, honestly. It’s just small, pink and flushed with arousal, housed in the fine curls that you can’t wait to appreciate with your tongue. But you can tell, from the way she draws stiff—from the way that her feet are shifting weight to dissipate nervous energy—

“Whatcha think?” She repeats again, and it’s clear she wants—no, she needs an answer.

From the way that her eyes are mesmerized by the ken of your expression—neutral, impartial, introspective as you take kneeling stance before her. She swallows hard, and if you strain, you think you can hear the millstone of her teeth grinding against each other. 

“I like it,” you grin, huffing an empathetic chuckle against her cock; it twitches at the sensation, bobbing up up and down in almost mesmerizing fashion.

There’s a flush blooming on the apple of her cheeks, taking foundation on the nape of her neck, blossoming down her shoulders. Oh, she’s so fucking cute like this. 

“Yeah?” She puts up a front like she always does, scowls down at you. “Y’really think so?” 

You catch in your peripheral as her fingers roll into a fist, flex, unclench—an involuntary movement she might not even be aware of. But it speaks volumes to everything she won’t say. 

Say you like it again. Say it doesn’t change anything. Say that you still want me the way I’m aching for you. 

And above all else—a plea. Please, please, please—

“Let me convince you,” you purr as you look up at her from where you’ve taken stance at her feet—your fingers work around the shaft.

It’s no difficult task, considering the size, and you roll your thumb up that sensitive cluster of nerves that you know will put her exactly where you want her. 

And when her breath hitches, her voice becomes nothing more than a hollow groan—her hands curl into fists again—you know that now’s the time to strike. And while she’s still lost in the sensation, you lick your tongue in wet stripe up the underside of the shaft. 

“Oh, fuck—”—She hisses, and her fingers dive in instinctive means to clutch at the crown of your head, desperate, needy—“—Fuck—”

When you glide your tongue up it again, you are given a broken, punched-out gasp. There’s a fine tremble that her body takes under the ministration of your tongue, that is made more pronounced the longer that you extend the lave of your tongue to that bundle of nerves. 

You can feel the way that her thigh draws into stark coil as you continue to devote your attention there, feel the way that her hands are taking hesitant presence over the slope of your brow.

As though she is almost afraid to take physical purchase on something that feels so heavenly, something that is given greater definition the longer that you stay in between her legs. 

You can feel the way that the her cock stiffens and nearly document the way that the pulse of blood through it is emblazoned on the flat of your tongue. The way that her moans are growing more stuttered and panicky—as though she’s not ready to come yet.

Her fingers dig into your scalp, finally finding necessity to be able to grab you. As though the only overture that she may touch the sanctity of your body with is when she is lost to the throes of pleasure. 

Breath sings arterial and jagged, the flush of her body grows deeper at the spread of her collarbones, over the slope of her tits. Even at the fingertips that have settled on your shoulders—something that fills you with a touch of endearment.

You can feel the twitch of her small shaft under your tongue, see the way that she is more unmoored—and you decide to engage in momentary controversy. 

There’s almost an endearing look of stupefaction as she watches you pull away, as you rise to standing with a game grunt. Dissatisfaction and confusion cohabitate on her face as you draw level to regard her face-to-face.

The color on her face is heady, the cant to her eyes are glassy as she appraises you. You swipe the drool that has pooled down the corners of your mouth in rivulets, and Gal finds the words to speak.

“You—why’d you—?” Is the incomplete sentence on her tongue. But she has yet to actually complete the question before you let a wicked smirk take residence on your face.

And the drag of her eyes is slow, sluggish, uncomprehending as she watches your finger point to the unoccupied bed behind the two of you. 

“Go lie down on the bed,” You say in that same velvet tone—though this time, there is an unspoken command written into the meter of it—“—And put your ass in the air.” 

You watch as her jaw sets, teeth working against each other so audibly that you can hear it, anxiety making itself known.

Yet the manner that she thickly swallows, the way that her eyes dilate with such immediacy, the color returning with such swift alacrity—and how her cock twitches at the suggestion—

You know that she wants it more than anything. 

When she speaks, her voice is hoarse, but there is no argument from her end. 

“Alright,” She agrees, and then she takes deliberate, maintained step towards the edge of the bed as you depart in opposite direction to the closet.

You know that she’s eyed the strap that you’ve had there before, clean and glossy and curved. You know that even as she obeys the directive that you’ve given her, she watches at awkward angle, looking as you suit yourself up. 

And when you turn so that she can admire you not just from profile but dead-on sights, you see the way that her thighs clench together, the way that her body stiffens. The sucked-in breath that is so pronounced you would chuckle if it didn’t make her defensive. So all you do is walk over and take perch on the edge of the bed. 

The air is electric for one perfect moment, drawn thick with lust that has yet to be sated. And then, before she can react: you reach out and clench a curled hand around the span of her ankle. And you pull her back with strength she doesn’t expect. 

“What—”—You can hear the over-compensatory bluster that she makes to disguise how woefully aroused she is from this, displayed clearly by the tremble of her thighs—“—What’s the—”

The spank that you settle on the cleft of her ass, leaving the definitive shape of your palm against her skin, quickly silences her complaint. In fact, all it does is replace it with a strung-out moan. 

“Oh, fuck—”—She echoes from previous iteration. You spank her again, making the same image in double beside your first staked claim. Her back arches deliciously, a sheen of sweat already making faint distinction. 

“Do that again—”—She begs, and you’re wont to oblige, making an even three as you slap your hand down on the flesh and squeeze. 

This groan that she makes is more wanton, more broken, more desperate. You think she’s warmed up, so you take purchase around the muscle of her waist with one hand, manhandling her roughly enough that she makes a choked gasp.

With the other hand you slap the curve of the strap against her hole. Something twists in you needfully as you watch how her body draws still, rigid to a fault under your hand. 

“You want this, Gal?” You ask with a quiet deliberacy. As her body already speaks the answer when she presses against the shaft. But you won’t make it so easy. 

“Say it,” You warn with gentility, making another territorial slap against her. She shudders, and then you are rewarded with shaky nod, disheveled response. 

“Please, please, please,” She begs, and you think that you’ll enjoy hearing her begging for the rest of the night.

But you think, for now, that you’ll give her brief reprieve. And so you nose the head of the strap at her hole—and you find yourself surprised by how easily it glides it in, how ready she already is for the stretch. And the noise that she makes is dirty, guttural—and so, so fucking hot. 

Her body arches into you, her hole trying to swallow up as much of it as she can, a needy keen falling from her lips. Expletive and sounds of invoked pleasure are made in tandem as you continue to ease it in, to see exactly how much Gal can take. She’s so eager for it, so euphoric in the way that she says your name over and over again. 

“Fuck, I need it, I need you, please—”—She practically sobs. When you bottom out into her, nudging the slick skin of your thighs against her, she sounds the most heavenly she ever has.

You let her luxuriate in the pleasurable agony, rolling your hips to coax your way into space she doesn’t have left—but oh, how gorgeous she sounds with it. 

“Fuck me,” She gasps, intaking heavy circulation of breath between her teeth. 

“Whatever you say,” You acquiesce—and then you glide the strap out so that you can get to work on fucking her into the mattress.

It’s so satisfying, how quickly she collapses onto her hands and knees, pushing her face down into the pillow so that she can stifle her moans—though this does little to accomplish the fact. How her body reacts to every thrust that you fuck into her, the lewd noises of how the strap sounds as it pumps into her so wonderfully obscene. 

Her body is perfect like this, so responsive to every twitch you make of muscle as the length glides in and out of her. How her body already trembles in such moderation that you know she’s not long for her orgasm. That’s okay—you know she’ll have more. 

And when she does, she practically howls—her whole body goes still, every muscle drawn into a crescendo of sensation. You can’t help but smile as you continue to fuck her through it, as she soaks the sheets underneath her with her release. As she curses and groans and says an “I love you,” that you’re far too chivalrous to make mention of. 

When she finally is reduced to nothing but a sweaty, panting heap, you squeeze her waist. You’re given a grunt in response from the jelly-limbed woman known as Gal Gardner crumpled in your sheets. 

“You want more?” You ask Gal, already knowing the answer. Knowing as you watch her clench around the strap you still have inside of her. 

“Fuck yeah,” She says weakly; you can’t help but chuckle. Something so adorable about how the spirit is willing, yet the flesh—well, the flesh will make do. 

“Okay, honey,” You soothe, “We’ll take it slow.” 

She laughs as you begin to start up again, and the night continues on with a bang. 

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