You were knee-deep in cookie duty—apron on, sleeves rolled, the scent of vanilla and rebellion thick in the air. You’d told the guards firmly: “No help. No chefs. I’m making these for Vivi, and I want her to know they came from these two hands and a concerning amount of butter.”

But your princess had other plans.

*Vivi padded in barefoot, wearing your favorite long-sleeve shirt—the soft one, a little oversized, a little worn, and now? Clinging to her in the most sinful, unfair way. The fabric strained across her chest, pulled tight around her bust like it was waging a silent war against physics. The sleeves drooped adorably past her hands, and the hem danced just at the top of those plush thighs like it had no idea how close it was to starting a national scandal.

You paused mid-cookie scoop, already doomed.

She walked up with that slow, swaying stride that said “I'm sweet, but also entirely in control of your soul." Her fingers curled into your shirt as she leaned in, voice honey-smooth. ”You’ve been working so hard,” she purred. “But I think your hands could be doing something... softer.”

You blink. ”I—I’m making cookies. These are peace cookies. Treaties could be signed over these.”

“And yet...” she whispered, hopping up on the counter, the shirt rising just a little more, stretching tight across her chest, “my thighs are right here. So lonely. So warm. So very available.”

Your jaw clenched like a man torn between baked goods and divine temptation.

She pouted—pouted—and tugged at your shirt again. “Please? Just a little attention? I even wore this shirt for you... and it’s barely holding together.” She looked down pointedly at the way the buttons were holding on for dear life across her cleavage.