‎‎꯱ׁׅ֒ɑׁׅ֮ժׁׅ݊ꫀׁׅܻ'ꫂ᭪݁

By the end of June, the Marigold Hills Country Club Aquatics Center had stopped feeling like a summer job and started feeling like a sun-baked gladiator arena where the weapons were whistles, sunscreen bottles, customer-service smiles, and the rare but devastating guest compliment delivered directly in front of your manager’s clipboard.

The clipboard mattered.

You weren’t the kind of person who needed external validation from a man named Craig who wore khaki shorts with a braided belt and treated the aquatics staff like you were all one bad Yelp review away from public execution, but somewhere between Memorial Day weekend and the fourth consecutive shift of Christopher Bang smirking at you over the rim of his stupid mirrored sunglasses, Summer MVP had become less of a workplace incentive and more of a blood oath.

The prize wasn’t even that good.

A reserved parking spot near the front entrance for next summer, a fifty-dollar gift card to the club restaurant, and a laminated certificate Craig would probably hand over with a toothy grin.

It should not have mattered.

It absolutely mattered.

Because Chris had made it matter.

At the beginning of the summer, during the first staff meeting of the season, when Craig stood in front of the lifeguard office explaining “member experience standards” while everyone sweat through their uniforms, Chris had leaned against the lockers beside you with a blue raspberry lollipop tucked into one cheek, his sunglasses pushed up into his black hair, and the kind of easy, irritating smile that made you want to throw a rescue tube at his head.

“You hear that?” he’d murmured. “Reserved parking.”

You had not looked at him. “Congratulations. You discovered incentives.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, voice low and amused, “don’t worry when I win. I’ll wave at you from the good spot.”

You had turned then, slowly, because some moments demanded eye contact before violence.

Chris looked back at you with his lashes lowered, his mouth glossy from the candy, his shoulders already broad and sun-warm under the red guard tank he had somehow made look indecent by existing inside it.

You smiled. It was not a nice smile.

“And here’s my wave,” you said, giving him the finger.

His grin spread.

And just like that, because men were a plague and pride was a disease you had apparently caught through chlorine exposure, your entire summer turned into a competition.

It was ridiculous and humiliating, but it was also the only thing keeping you from losing your mind while working eight-hour shifts among screaming children, over-served parents, and rich people who believed the phrase “country club standard” could summon fresh towels out of thin air.

Marigold Hills itself was beautiful in the overfunded, morally suspicious way country clubs tended to be beautiful—all white cabanas, blue umbrellas, polished stone, glassy pools, and flowers kept alive by people whose hourly wage could not afford the salad menu. The aquatics area sprawled across the back of the property like a luxury resort had gotten drunk and reproduced. It had a main pool, lap lanes, a lazy river, a splash pad, two hot tubs, a diving board, a shallow family area, and enough lounge chairs to support every affair, divorce, and passive-aggressive brunch conversation in the county.

Which meant there were a lot of lifeguards.

There had to be.

On busy weekends, your red-uniformed little army spread across the pool deck in rotations, scanning water, blowing whistles, bandaging scraped knees, dragging umbrellas across the concrete, fishing abandoned goggles from filters, and pretending not to hear club members say things that should have gotten them banned from polite society and possibly pepper-sprayed in the parking lot.

You had worked there with Chris since high school, back when both of you were sixteen and new enough to the job that a screaming toddler could send your adrenaline into orbit. Through senior year, through college summers, through certification renewals and first-aid refreshers, through the annual chaos of Memorial Day opening weekend, you and Chris had returned to Marigold Hills like cursed migratory birds in matching red.

Somewhere along the way, Chris had gone from cute in an annoying, dimply, boy-next-door kind of way to offensively hot.

He was cocky about it too, which made the whole thing worse.

He walked the pool deck shirtless whenever he could get away with it, sunscreen gleaming on his shoulders, rescue tube tucked under one arm, whistle resting against his chest, black hair damp and curling over his forehead in thick, messy pieces whenever he got out of the water. He wore his sunglasses like a man auditioning for a calendar called May Cause Divorces, and he always had a lollipop in his mouth, because apparently being broad, tan, Australian, and annoyingly good with children wasn’t already enough of a public nuisance.

The mothers loved him. That was not an exaggeration.

The mothers stared at him in a way that made their husbands stare angrily into their gin and tonics, because no amount of money, golf memberships, or boat shoes could compete with Christopher Bang crouching beside the kiddie pool to help a toddler fix her floaties while saying, “There you go, sweetheart, now you’re ready,” in a voice warm enough to fog sunglasses.

You watched it happen every shift.

You watched Mrs. Delaney touch his forearm while thanking him for finding her son’s goggles.

You watched Mrs. Cavanaugh ask whether he worked “every weekend” with faux casual interest. You watched a woman named Bianca, who wore a diamond ring large enough to count as a flotation device, drop her towel three separate times in front of him.

Chris picked it up every time.

He also winked every time.

And Craig wrote something down every fucking time.

“He’s such a whore,” muttered Alex from the adjacent lifeguard chair one afternoon, peering through his sunglasses as Chris handed a pool noodle to a little boy and somehow got thanked by the child’s mother with a smoothie.

“He’s not even subtle,” you said, watching Chris accept the smoothie with a smile so bright you hoped his teeth overheated.

Alex tilted his head. “Do you think Craig gives points for slut energy?”

“Craig gives points for whatever makes the members happy.”

“Then Chris is Summer MVP of the century. Half these women look like they’d renew their membership for another glimpse of his abs.”

“Don’t say abs.”

“Why?”

“Because then I think about them.”

Alex turned to look at you slowly.

You kept scanning the pool.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Shut the fuck up, Alex.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say you’re handling this competition with a lot of maturity.”

“You were not.”

“No, I was about to call you a whore.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Unfortunately, your own tactics were not exactly noble.

Chris had mothers. You had men with wedding rings and the audacity of medieval kings.

It had started accidentally, sort of, when Mr. Ralston asked whether you could help him find the locker rooms despite the sign being directly above his head, and Craig, standing nearby with his clipboard, had written something down after you smiled, guided him politely, and did not tell him that literacy was free. The next day, Mr. Halverson asked for sunscreen recommendations and complimented your “attention to detail” when you explained SPF like he was not staring at your boobs through the entire conversation.

Craig had written that down too.

From there, the moral slope got slippery.

You carried lemonade pitchers for older men who called you “darling” in ways that made your spine try to leave your body. You helped Mr. Leighton find his missing sunglasses, which were on his own head, while his wife sat five feet away pretending not to hear him ask if you gave private swim lessons. You told a father of three that his butterfly stroke looked powerful even though it looked like he was having an actual stroke, because Craig was watching from the towel station and you were not above lying for the parking spot.

“Powerful?” Chris repeated later, appearing beside the first-aid cabinet while you restocked bandages. “That man swam like he was five seconds away from dying.”

You didn’t look up. “He appreciated the encouragement.”

“He appreciated your tits.”

You snapped your head toward him.

Chris’s jaw tightened like the words had come out sharper than he meant them to, but he did not take them back.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s a creep,” Chris said.

“He’s also a member.”

“He’s still a fucking creep.”

“And Mrs. Cavanaugh asking if you do personal swim coaching isn’t creepy?”

Chris opened his mouth.

You lifted a brow.

“That’s different,” he said finally.

“Oh, I cannot wait to hear this.”

“I didn’t flirt with her.”

“You winked.”

“She winked first.”

“You smiled like you were picturing her naked already.”

Chris laughed despite himself, and the sound annoyed you because it was too warm for the amount of irritation you were trying to preserve.

“You jealous?”

“Of middle-aged women who smell like Chanel and marital dissatisfaction? No.”

“Then why are you watching?”

“Because you’re loud.”

“I was standing completely still.”

“You’re loud standing completely still.”

His grin returned, slow and poisonous. “You spend a lot of time noticing me.”

You slammed the first-aid cabinet shut. Chris stepped back just enough to avoid losing a finger, still smirking.

“You spend a lot of time being noticeable,” you snapped.

“Good.”

“Bad.”

“Liar.”

You hated him. Or, more accurately, you hated the way he made hating him feel like a contact sport.

Because the worst part was not that Chris was hot, although that was irritating enough to require some sort of training. The worst part was that he was actually good at the job. When he was scanning the pool, nothing slipped past him. When a kid panicked in the deep end, Chris was in the water before anyone else had finished inhaling. When a toddler busted her chin on the splash pad, he had her laughing through tears within thirty seconds. When elderly members needed help adjusting umbrellas or carrying bags, he treated them with a patience that looked irritatingly real, not just performative for Craig.

It would have been easier if he sucked. Instead, he was competent. Competence, tragically, was hot.

By the third week of July, the other lifeguards had started treating your competition with Chris like a staff-wide entertainment program.

Mia kept score on a napkin taped inside the guard office.

Felix, who worked mostly swim lessons, had created categories with little hearts and skulls beside them.

“Guest compliments,” he said one morning, clicking a pen as you and Chris stood on opposite sides of the break table glaring at each other over a container of grapes. “You have twelve. Chris has thirteen.”

“Bullshit,” you said.

“Mrs. Redding complimented me twice yesterday,” Chris said.

“Mrs. Redding wants to climb you like pool furniture. That doesn’t count.”

“It does if she says I’m attentive.”

“She said your shorts looked snug.”

Alex, lounging on the bench, choked on his iced coffee.

Chris laughs annoyingly. “My shorts work hard keeping my huge—,”

“Stop right there, slut.”

Felix pointed his pen at you. “Sassy points for you.”

Mia leaned in from the doorway. “Does that count as harassment?”

“Only if a complaint is filed. But I kinda liked it,” Chris said, grinning around his lollipop. It was cherry that day, red and glossy and deeply obnoxious.

You wanted to snatch it out of his mouth and throw it into the pool filter. You also wanted, very briefly and very shamefully, to taste it. That thought was so unacceptable you threw a grape at him.

He caught it in his mouth and the room erupted.

“Fucking show-off,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

Chris chewed, swallowed, and winked.

Craig chose that moment to enter with his clipboard, which meant everyone immediately scattered into suspicious productivity.

“Good energy today,” Craig said, squinting at the room.

“Team morale,” Felix said brightly.

“More like ‘more hell’,” Mia muttered.

Craig ignored her. “Big Saturday crowd tomorrow. I expect focus, professionalism, and strong member engagement. Summer MVP is still anyone’s game.”

Chris looked at you. You looked at Chris.

Saturday arrived with the kind of brutal, glittering heat that turned the entire pool deck into a griddle and made every guest behave as though sunscreen, patience, and basic manners had evaporated by noon.

Children ran, screamed, cried, cannonballed, stole each other’s diving rings, and treated “walk, please” like a foreign concept. Parents drank frozen margaritas under umbrellas and pretended they did not see their offspring attempting minor crimes near the shallow end. The lazy river jammed twice because one child refused to exit his tube and another had somehow smuggled in a pool noodle suspiciously shaped like a dick. Someone dropped nachos near the splash pad. Someone else lost a retainer in the lap lanes.

It was chaos with cabana service.

You were stationed near the family pool, scanning through the glare, when you spotted Mr. Halverson near the bar with his phone in one hand and confusion wrinkling his sunburned face.

Perfect.

Mr. Halverson was gross, yes, in the damp, overly familiar way of men who treated wedding vows like background noise, but he was also influential, wealthy, and exactly the kind of member who would corner Craig near the office to compliment “excellent staff responsiveness” if you solved a minor inconvenience while smiling through your suffering.

You climbed down from the chair.

Across the pool, Chris noticed immediately.

He was crouched beside a little boy with a scraped knee, one hand pressing an ice pack gently to the child’s shin while the kid’s mother hovered nearby, gazing at Chris and his stupidly sculpted back. Chris’s eyes slid past her shoulder and locked onto you as you headed toward Halverson.

His jaw shifted.

You smiled—not at Halverson—at Chris. Then you turned all your polished, poisonous sweetness toward the man by the bar.

“Mr. Halverson,” you said, bright enough to make yourself nauseous. “Everything okay?”

He looked up, relief blooming across his face, eyes scanning your swimsuit-clad body from head to toe. “There you are,” he said, which immediately made you want to walk into the deep end with rocks in your pockets. “This damn app keeps asking for my cabana number.”

You glanced at the brass number mounted directly beside his head. “You’re in cabana twelve.”

He followed your gaze, laughed, and touched your side.

You didn’t flinch. You became marble.

“Guess I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached,” he said.

“Good thing we’re trained for emergencies,” you replied, smiling hard enough that you could hear your teeth grind in disgust.

Behind you, a whistle chirped.

You turned. Chris was already walking over, wet from some recent dip into the pool, black hair pushed back from his forehead before falling forward again in damp pieces, sunglasses hooked into the waistband of his trunks, lollipop tucked into one cheek, and expression pleasant in a way that made you instantly suspicious.

“Everything alright over here?” he asked.

His voice was polite, but his eyes were not.

Mr. Halverson’s hand dropped from your side.

“We’re fine,” you said.

Chris looked at you, then at Halverson, then at the phone. “App trouble?”

“I have it handled.”

“Of course you do,” Chris said, smiling. “You’re very helpful.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Halverson chuckled, delighted by tension he had no business enjoying. “You two always like this?”

“Unfortunately,” you said.

“Only when she misses me,” Chris said.

You snapped your head towards him. He smiled around the lollipop. Somewhere behind him, Craig materialized near the towel station, clipboard lifted like a weapon from hell.

Chris noticed. You knew he noticed because his posture changed by half an inch, straightening into that effortless lifeguard golden-boy stance he used when guests were watching, the one that made him look responsible and fuckable in the same breath, which was frankly very inconsiderate.

“Actually,” Chris said, reaching gently for Halverson’s phone, “I can take care of this. Y/N’s been running around all afternoon, and we don’t want her overheating.”

Oh, that smug, shirtless, candy-sucking bastard.

Your smile froze. “How thoughtful,” you said.

Chris leaned closer as he took the phone, enough that the scent of chlorine, sunscreen, and green apple sugar slipped under your skin with humiliating precision.

“You do look a little flushed,” he murmured.

You kept smiling because Craig was watching, but your voice dropped. “You do look a little killable.”

Chris’s mouth curved. “Cute.”

“I’m not being cute.”

“You are when you threaten me.”

“I hope a pool noodle lodges in your ass.”

Halverson made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.

Craig’s pen moved.

Chris solved the app issue in less than ten seconds, handed the phone back, and earned a hearty clap on the shoulder from Halverson, who announced, “Thanks, Chris. You’re a lifesaver.”

Chris looked directly at you.

“That’s what the certification says.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you said.

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re a parasite.”

“With great member feedback.”

Your manager wrote something down again, and something inside you snapped cleanly in half.

The rest of the shift became war. Not metaphorical war. No, no, no, no. An actual war…if war involved customer service, fake smiles, and two college-age lifeguards competing to see who could be more publicly helpful without getting fired for making it erotic.

Chris helped a crying child locate a missing stuffed turtle named Gregory, then returned it with such gentle sincerity that even you, against your will, felt a tiny flicker of warmth before remembering you hated him.

You carried three lunch trays to a cabana full of women who called you “honey” and asked whether Chris was single.

You told them he had a personality disorder.

One of them laughed and said, “That’s okay. Sometimes you need a little crazy,” with a wink.

Chris heard about it within five minutes because Alex had the loyalty of a politician.

“You told Mrs. Bellamy I have a personality disorder?” Chris asked when your rotations crossed near the diving board.

“You told Mr. Halverson I was overheating.”

“You were.”

“I was plotting.”

“Sure you were.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ask nicer.”

You nearly swallowed your whistle. Chris smiled like he knew exactly what he had done and jogged backward toward the shallow end before you could commit a felony in front of children.

At four, you found Mrs. Redding struggling near the towel shelves, her cane balanced against her hip while she reached for a stack placed just slightly too high.

A gift from God.

You moved instantly. Chris also moved instantly. The two of you converged on the towel station from opposite directions like heat-seeking missiles with lifeguard certifications.

“I’ve got it,” you said, arriving first by half a second.

Chris’s hand reached over yours and grabbed the stack anyway.

“We’ve got it,” he said, handing Mrs. Redding two towels with a smile so bright it could blind.

Mrs. Redding looked between you, eyes bright behind her oversized sunglasses.

“Well,” she said, delighted, “aren’t you both attentive?”

“Yes,” you and Chris both said.

Mrs. Redding laughed, touched both your arms, and wandered away.

Craig watched from near the snack bar, pen not moving.

You and Chris stood in silence. Then Chris said, “Joint credit.”

You looked at him. “That’s worse than losing,” you said.

“I know.”

For one dangerous second, you both laughed.

It startled you more than it should have, the shared burst of it, easy and sharp and familiar in a way that reached backward through years of summers, years of chlorine-soaked shifts and closing duties and training drills. Years of Chris being the person who irritated you most consistently and somehow knew exactly when to hand you water without saying anything about it.

Then he ruined it by biting down on his lollipop and crunching it between his teeth.

You grimaced. “You’re disgusting.”

“You were smiling.”

“I had heatstroke.”

“You’ve been flushed all day.”

“You’ve been staring all day.”

His eyes dipped to your body, then lifted. “Yeah,” he said.

Then a child screamed near the lazy river, and the moment shattered back into chlorine, noise, and professional responsibility.

By closing, you were exhausted enough to feel personally victimized by Christopher Chan Bang.

The last members packed up, the cabanas emptied, the pool lights clicked on beneath the blue surface, and the aquatics center shifted into that strange post-chaos hush where everything smelled stronger: wet concrete, sunscreen, fried food from the snack bar, damp towels, and the faint metallic bite of pool water cooling under evening air.

Craig gathered the staff near the guard office for end-of-day notes.

Everyone looked like shit. Beautiful shit, maybe, because summer staff sometimes looked golden and half-feral after too much sun. But shit nonetheless.

Chris stood beside you, hair still damp, shoulders warm, lollipop gone but mouth no less irritating. Every time his arm brushed yours, your body reacted like he had done it on purpose. Which he probably had.

“Good work today,” Craig said, clipboard tucked against his chest. “Strong member engagement overall. A few preventable issues with towel inventory, but good responsiveness, especially during the lazy river backup.”

Mia muttered, “The dick noodle fucked us.”

Felix coughed.

Craig paused. “Please don’t refer to pool equipment that way.”

Mia shrugged. “It knew what it did.”

Craig wisely moved on. “I also want to recognize both of you,” he said, nodding toward you and Chris, which immediately made every other guard perk up like gossip-starved meerkats. “You’ve shown initiative throughout the month, and today especially, I noticed several examples of guest support, teamwork, and conflict management.”

You whispered, “Conflict management my ass.”

Chris whispered back, “You offering?”

You elbowed Chris hard.

He grunted, then laughed under his breath, and the sound grazed every nerve you had been trying to keep disciplined.

Craig’s eyes narrowed. “Something funny?”

“No,” Chris said.

“Yes,” Mia deadpanned.

Craig sighed. “Summer MVP will be announced next Friday. Until then, keep up the professionalism.”

“Absolutely,” you said.

“Always,” Chris added.

Felix, too softly for Craig but loudly enough for you, murmured, “Lying in the house of chlorine.”

The meeting ended. People scattered toward closing duties and locker rooms, laughing under their breath, dragging rescue tubes, stacking chairs, collecting lost toys. You headed toward the guard office for your bag, fully prepared to rinse off, go home, and spend the night not thinking about Chris’s blunt little “yeah” when you accused him of staring.

Naturally, Chris followed. Because he was a rash in human form. “You okay?” he asked behind you.

You grabbed your bag from the hook. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Do that.”

“Ask a normal question?”

“You don’t ask normal questions.”

“You look pissed.”

“I am pissed.”

“At me?”

You turned sharply. Chris stopped close enough that your bag bumped his thigh. “You cut me off with Halverson,” you said. “You stole towel credit with Mrs. Redding. You spent all day making Craig think you’re Summer MVP Jesus in tight swim trunks, and then you have the nerve to ask if I’m okay like you’re not the problem.”

Chris’s expression shifted, amusement dimming. “Halverson had his hand on you.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“He touched you.”

“So?”

“So he’s a creep.”

“You said that already.”

“Because it’s still true.”

“And that gives you the right to sabotage me?”

“No.” Chris dragged a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back before it fell forward again in those dark, messy pieces that made your irritation feel less structurally sound. “It gives me the right to be pissed.”

You laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You were pissed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He looked at you like the answer should have been obvious, which only made you angrier, because if the answer was obvious then your body had known it before you did, and you did not appreciate being betrayed by your own organs.

“Use your words, Christopher.”

His jaw flexed. Around you, the remaining staff noise faded down the hallway, leaving the two of you in the heavy quiet of the nearly empty guard office.

Chris took a step closer. “Because I don’t like watching him touch you.”

Your pulse jumped. “That’s not your business.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to act jealous.”

“I know.”

“You flirt with half the pool deck.”

“So do you.”

“For points.”

“Bullshit,” he said, and there it was, his own temper finally sparking through the charm. “You do it because you know I’m watching.”

You could have denied it. You should have denied it. Instead, you tilted your chin up and said, “Maybe you shouldn’t make it so easy.”

Chris’s laugh was low, humorless, and a little wrecked.

“Fuck,” he said, looking away for half a second. “You drive me insane.”

“Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He looked back at you. Something hot and stupid moved between you, dragging every unfinished argument, every ugly little spark, every glance across the pool deck into one narrow stretch of air.

“You’ve got a hell of a way of saying you like me,” he said.

“I don’t like you.”

“No?”

“No.”

Chris’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “Then tell me to fuck off.”

“Fuck off.”

“Mean it.”

You said nothing.

His smile returned, but it was different now, not bright or performative, not meant for mothers or managers or the cheering section of nosey lifeguards listening from around corners. This smile was smaller, slower, aimed directly at the space where your confidence had begun to smoke. “That’s what I thought,” he said.

You pushed past him before you could do something catastrophic in the guard office.

“Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you,” Chris called.

You threw him a look over your shoulder. “You do it all the time.”

“Yeah, and it pisses you off.”

“That’s because everything you do pisses me off.”

“Then don’t follow me.”

You stopped. He had turned toward the men’s locker room.

The bait hung there, obvious and glittering. You knew it was bait. Chris knew you knew it was bait.

Felix, from somewhere near the supply closet, whispered, “Don’t do it.”

You turned your head slowly toward the sound. A cabinet shut very quietly.

You stood in the hallway for two seconds, maybe three, which was enough time to consider your choices and reject wisdom as a concept. Then you followed him.

The men’s locker room was empty, humid, and coolly lit, smelling of cedar benches, chlorine, clean tile, aerosol deodorant, and the lingering chemical ghost of teenage boys who had once believed spraying themselves in a choking cloud of body spray counted as hygiene. Rows of gray lockers lined the walls. Water dripped somewhere in the shower area with a patient, echoing rhythm.

Chris stood at his locker, spinning the combination. He glanced back when the door swung shut behind you, eyebrows lifting. “Pretty sure this is the men’s locker room.”

“Pretty sure you invited me.”

“I said don’t follow me.”

“You said it like an asshole.”

“Because I knew you would.”

You crossed your arms. “You are so fucking smug.”

“And you’re in the men’s locker room giving me shit after hours, so maybe don’t climb too high up that moral ladder.”

“I came in here because you’ve been acting like a territorial dick all day.”

Chris opened his locker with a metallic clank. “I was acting like a dick before today too. Don’t erase my history.”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think if I don’t laugh, I’m going to do something very stupid.”

The honesty of that landed harder than the joke.

You watched him pull a towel from the locker shelf, watched the muscles in his shoulder shift with the movement, watched the damp ends of his hair cling to the back of his neck. He looked too casual for how charged the room had become, too comfortable in the tension, like he had been living inside it all summer and was only now letting you see it fully.

“What stupid thing?” you asked.

Chris turned. His eyes were darker in the locker room light.

“You know what stupid thing.”

Your mouth went dry. “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re arrogant.”

“Definitely.”

“You’re still avoiding the point.”

“I’m trying not to make one.”

“You never try not to make points. You’re made of points. Horrible little ones.”

He laughed, real and warm, his head dipping for a second before he looked back at you with something dangerously fond in his expression. “God, you’re mean.”

“You deserve it.”

“Probably.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Then why are you still here?”

The question settled between you.

You could feel the answer in your body, which was unfortunate because your body had terrible politics and no respect for narrative pacing. It had been answering him all day, in every glance, every flare of irritation, every stupid rush of heat when he got too close and smelled like sugar and sun-warmed skin and man.

Chris watched you realize it. Then, with the kind of casual cruelty only a truly confident man could manage, he reached for the waistband of his red swim trunks.

Your eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Changing.”

“In front of me?”

“You’re in the men’s locker room.”

“That does not mean you get to just whip it out like a hostile work environment.”

Chris barked a laugh, bright and startled. “Whip it out?”

“Do not repeat my words when I’m angry.”

“You followed me into my locker room.”

“To yell at you.”

“Then keep yelling at me.”

“I am yelling.”

“You got quiet.”

“Because you’re undressing, you lunatic.”

He shrugged, thumbs still hooked in the waistband, mouth tilted like he was enjoying himself far too much. “You can leave.”

The challenge was obvious. Obscene, really.

You should have left. Instead, you turned your head toward a row of lockers with the stiff dignity of someone who had just lost a staring contest with the waistband of a man’s swim trunks.

Chris laughed under his breath. “Oh, now you’re shy?”

“I’m being respectful.”

“That’s new.”

“I hate you.”

“You keep saying.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

“Sure.”

Fabric shifted. Your soul briefly left your body, checked the hallway for witnesses, and returned with a clipboard full of complaints.

“Tell me when you’re decent,” you snapped.

“That depends on your definition.”

“Christopher.”

“I’ve got a towel on.”

You made the mistake of looking.

The towel was, technically, on.

It was just low enough on his hips to suggest it had signed a contract with Satan. His chest was still bare and his hair fell over his forehead in damp black pieces that made him look like he had stepped out of a swimwear ad designed specifically to ruin your ability to win arguments.

You forgot what you were saying.

Chris noticed. His grin went slow. “Careful,” he said. “Craig might give me points for member engagement.”

“You’re not engaging members.”

He looks down at himself, bulge pressing against the fabric.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re the one staring at me.”

“You dropped trou in front of me.”

“Then report me.”

“Gladly.”

“To Craig?”

“To God.”

Chris laughed again and turned toward the showers.

You watched him go, watched the towel sit low on his hips, watched his wet hair curl against the back of his neck, watched the muscles in his shoulders shift with every easy, arrogant step, and for one blistering second you hated him so much you could feel it in your teeth.

Then you realized it was not hatred. Or not only hatred. It was the same thing that had been burning beneath every argument all summer, every look across the pool deck, every stupid little competition, every insult that landed too close to flirting, every time his eyes dragged over you when he thought you were too busy pretending not to notice.

You were tired. Tired of smiling at disgusting married men for Craig’s clipboard. Tired of watching mothers touch Chris’s biceps like the country club had installed him for recreational use. Tired of pretending his lollipop, his hair, his body, his mouth, his entire cocky, chlorine-soaked existence did not make you want to spread your legs for him.

So when he reached the shower entrance, you said, “Fuck it.”

Chris paused and turned slowly, one hand braced against the tiled wall, and the amusement on his face shifted when he saw your hands go up.

“What?”

You reached for the straps of your swimsuit and pulled it down, peeling the damp fabric away from your skin with far less grace than you would have preferred, but apparently seduction looked different when you were half-feral from sun exposure and rage. The suit landed somewhere, your whistle followed, bouncing once against the bench before going still.

For once, Chris did not have a joke ready.

His gaze moved over your naked form, quick at first, almost instinctive, before he dragged it back to your face with visible effort—like a man forcing himself to remember that staring too long without an invitation would ruin the very good thing clearly unfolding in front of him.

His mouth curved slowly. “Goddamn, baby,” he said.

The words slid down your spine.

He took one step toward you, towel hanging low on his hips, erection straining against the front of it, damp hair falling over his forehead in messy black pieces, and the look on his face was pure trouble, all heat and arrogance and restraint held in place by the thinnest fucking leash.

He stopped close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, close enough that the air between your skin and his felt charged, but he still didn’t touch you. He stood there looking like sin in a staff locker room, smug as hell, and still left the last inch to you like he knew he didn’t need to chase.

His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, like he was trying not to grin too wide and lose the last scrap of composure he had.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re trying to get me fired.”

“You’ve been asking for it all summer.”

“I’ve been asking for a lot of things all summer.”

The way he said it made your pulse kick hard.

Chris’s gaze dropped again. This time, he let himself look. His dark eyes followed the curves of you, from your breasts to your legs, pausing at the junction of your thighs. Then his eyes came back to yours.

“You good?” he asked.

It was casual, almost lazy. But there was a line beneath it, clean and unmistakable, and you knew that if you gave him anything other than yes, if your expression shifted wrong, if your body backed up even half an inch, he would stop.

Cocky bastard. Respectful bastard. Fuck, you wanted him.

“Yes,” you said.

Chris’s smile returned, slower this time. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

He leaned in slightly, still not touching. “Say it twice.”

Your breath caught, and he noticed. Chris noticed everything when he wanted to, every swallow, every glance, every crack in your voice and tremor in your attitude.

You stepped closer. “I’m good,” you said, quieter, meaner, because if he wanted the words then he could choke on them. “I want this. I want you. Happy?”

For a second, the smugness slipped. Just a second. Then he exhaled a low, pleased curse and reached for you. “Fucking thrilled.”

His hand caught your waist, hot and firm, dragging you against him with the kind of confidence that made it very clear he had been waiting for permission and now considered permission a loaded weapon. His other hand slid to the back of your neck, not gentle exactly, but controlled, his fingers curling there as he brought his mouth down to yours.

The kiss was filthy immediately. Chris kissed you like he had been imagining your mouth for weeks and was pissed he’d had to wait this long, all heat and pressure and slick, cherry-sugar memory, his teeth catching your lower lip just enough to make your hand fly to his shoulder.

You dug your nails in, making him groan against your mouth.

“Shit,” he breathed, smiling into the kiss. “You like that shit, baby?” Chris smirked, dark and delighted, and backed you toward the lockers.

Your back met metal with a dull thud, and before you could snap at him about bruising, his hand was already there behind your head, cushioning the impact like it was muscle memory, mouth still on yours, body still pressing close, arrogance still humming through every inch of him.

“You’re still annoying,” you said, breathless, when he dragged his mouth down your jaw.

“You’re still naked letting me kiss you,” he said, voice rough against your throat.

His hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your hip with enough grip to make your thoughts scatter. He tilted his head, caught your gaze, and gave you one last out with nothing but his eyes and a low, wicked murmur. “Tell me no and I stop.”

You stared at him. He stared back, water-dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth swollen from yours, towel barely hanging on, every inch of him looking like a bad decision that knew exactly how bad it was.

You reached for the edge of his towel.

Chris’s grin went sharp. “That’s not no.”

“No shit.”

The towel dropped, his control with it.

He kissed you again, harder this time, and whatever had been left of the argument collapsed under the heat of his hands, the slick press of damp skin, the obscene satisfaction of finally letting the whole stupid summer sharpen into one impossible point.

“You have no idea,” he said, breath hot against your mouth, “how many times I’ve thought about this.”

You laughed, but it came out shaky.

“In the employee locker room? That’s disturbing.”

“On the pool deck,” he said, kissing down your throat. “In the office. Behind the towel station. Every time you bend over to pick up some rich asshole’s sunglasses and then look at me like you know I’m watching.”

“You are so gross.”

“You love it.”

“I hate you.”

“No,” he said, lifting his head, eyes dark and certain. “You don’t.”

You growled, pulling him closer by the back of his neck. “No,” you said, mouth brushing his. “I don’t.”

Chris’s smile flickered, less smug for half a second and more real, which you absolutely could not tolerate under current conditions. So you kissed him before he could do anything stupid with it.

He made a rough sound into your mouth, gripped your waist, and dragged you tighter against him, all cocky hunger and barely leashed restraint, the kind of man who knew how badly he was wanted and still waited for you to choose it anyway.

Chris hauls you into the shower stall, his grip iron-tight on your wrist, and the fluorescent lights catch the hard lines of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the way his cock juts out from his hips, thick and angry and already leaking at the tip.

"You're insane," he hisses, shoving you under the spray before the water's even warm.

The initial blast is ice-cold and you gasp, back arching away from the wall, your nipples pebbling instantly, your skin erupting in goosebumps. Chris steps in after you, his body crowding yours, his hands planting on either side of your head against the tile.

"Insane," he repeats, "following me in here like that. Getting me fucking hard."

The water warms and steam billows around you both. You're drenched now, your hair plastering to your shoulders, water streaming down the valley of your breasts, rushing over the curve of your hips. Chris is just as wet, his dark hair slicked back from his forehead, his dark eyes sharp and hungry as they roam over your body.

Then his lips are on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips, his hand fisting in your wet hair, his hard cock pressing against your belly and smearing precum across your stomach. You kiss him back like you're trying to consume him, your hands sliding over his slick shoulders, digging into the muscles of his back.

He leans back, biting your lower lip, tugging it, and letting it snap back. "On your knees, beautiful."

The tile is hard and cold under your knees but you don't care, don't hesitate, don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you waver. You're eye-level with his cock now, watching it bob with his pulse, thick and flushed, a vein running along the underside that you trace with your fingertip just to watch him twitch.

"Stop teasing."

"Stop being desperate." You look up at him through your lashes, water streaming down your face, and you see the exact moment his patience snaps.

His hand is in your hair again, guiding you forward, and you open your mouth without resistance because you want this just as badly as he does. Maybe more. Maybe you've wanted this all summer, every argument just foreplay, every insult a way to get his attention without having to admit you craved it.

The head of his cock passes your lips and you seal them around his shaft, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tasting salt and skin and something uniquely Chris. He groans above you, his hips jerking forward, pushing deeper into your mouth.

"Fuck," he hisses, his head falling back. "Fuck, that's—your mouth is—"

You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, breathing through your nose as you swallow around him. Your hand wraps around what you can't fit, stroking in time with your mouth, twisting on the upstroke, your other hand cupping his balls and rolling them gently in your palm.

"God, you're fucking good at this." His voice is strained, wrecked. 

You hum around him and his whole body shudders. Your eyes water but you don't pull back, don't stop, setting a rhythm that has him cursing under his breath, his thighs tensing under your free hand. You can feel him getting close—the way his balls draw up tight, the way his cock swells on your tongue, the way his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain.

"I'm gonna—" He yanks you off suddenly, and you gasp, drool and precum stringing from your lips to his cock. "Not like that. Not yet."

He pulls you to your feet and spins you around, pressing your front against the wet tile wall. The water beats down on both of you, running in rivulets down your spine, pooling in the hollow of your lower back. His body cages yours, his chest against your back, his cock sliding between your thighs, notching against your entrance but not pushing in.

"Tell me you want it."

"I want it."

"Tell me you need it."

"I need it, Chris. I need your cock inside me. Please."

"Please?" He laughs, dark and low. "Where's all that fight now? Where's the girl who was going to steal my MVP title?"

"Inside me. Where your cock should be."

"Filthy." He notches himself at your entrance and pushes in, one long, relentless thrust that has you crying out, your palms slapping against the wet tile. He fills you completely, stretching you, the slight burn mixing with the pleasure until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He fucks you hard, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the tile, mixing with the spray of the water and both of your moans. His hand finds your throat, tilting your head back, and he bites along the column of your neck, sucks a bruise into the junction of your shoulder.

"This pussy is mine," he growls against your skin. "Say it."

"Yours. This pussy is yours."

"Every fucking inch of you." His free hand slides down your stomach, over your hip, dipping between your thighs to find your clit. He circles it with rough, relentless pressure, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. Going to make sure you never think about another cock without remembering how I feel inside you."

"Yes, god, yes—"

"Going to fill you up." His voice drops lower, rougher, and you feel his cock twitch inside you. "Going to pump you full of my cum, watch it drip down your thighs when I'm done with you."

The words hit something deep in your core, something primal and desperate. You push back against him, meeting each thrust, your nails scraping uselessly against the tile. The pressure is building, coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm creeping closer with every stroke of his fingers, every snap of his hips.

"Chris, I'm going to—"

"Not yet." He slows his pace, torturously slow, and you whimper. "Not until I say."

"Please, please, I need—"

His thumb shifts, sliding back, pressing against your asshole. You tense for a moment, then force yourself to relax, and he groans at the way your body yields to him.

"Look at you," he breathes, jaw dropping at the visual of his thumb rubbing your tight hole. "So fucking desperate for it. Huh, baby? You'd let me do anything, wouldn't you?"

"Anything. Anything you want."

He pushes just the tip of his thumb past the ring of muscle, and the fullness has you seeing stars. He resumes his pace, fucking you hard again, his thumb working in and out in counterpoint to his cock. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pushing you higher and higher, and you're sobbing with it, begging with sounds that barely qualify as words.

"Come for me," he says in your ear. "Come on my cock and make me come inside you."

You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, every muscle clenching and releasing at once, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans loud enough to echo. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just fucks you through it, drawing out every last wave until you're shaking, until your legs barely hold you.

"Good girl." His rhythm stutters, becoming erratic. "Good fucking girl. I'm gonna fill you up now, baby. Gonna breed this pretty pussy."

"Yes, god, yes, give me everything—"

He slams home one final time and holds, his cock pulsing inside you, rope after rope of hot cum flooding your core. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh fuuuuuck,” he groans loudly. You can feel it, feel him marking you from the inside, and the sensation triggers another smaller orgasm that has you writhing against the wall.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of water and breathing. Then he pulls out, and you feel his cum immediately start to slip down your thighs, mingling with the water, washing away the evidence of what you've done. His hands are gentle now, turning you around, brushing wet hair from your face.

"You're still not winning MVP," he says, but his voice is soft.

"We'll see about that." You're breathless, wrecked, but you manage a smile. "I think I just proved I can make you lose your mind. That's got to count for something."

He laughs, this real sound, and kisses you again—slower this time, less frantic.

"We're not done," he murmurs against your lips. "Not even close. You started a war when you followed me in here, and I intend to win it."

"Bring it on, Chris."

He grins, and there's something wicked in it, something that makes your spent cunt clench in anticipation.

"Round two in the locker room," he says, already reaching for you again. "I want to bend you over one of those benches and hear you scream."

The water runs cold around you both, but neither of you cares. And something tells you that by the end of it, neither of you will remember why you were fighting in the first place.

Or maybe that's exactly why you started.

𑣲 EVENT TAGLIST:

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

sw: dirty talk, breeding kink, mutual masturbation, daddy kink, unprotected sex, creampies, degradation, cumplay if u squint?, humiliation if u squint?, anal fingering (f rec), oral (f rec), edging maybe briefly, sex with feelings

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

You hated going home for the holidays.

You were a rich kid, to put it simply. Your mother loved to leech off the men that she was with, marrying them quickly and trying to suck as much money as she could out of them in gifts and straight up cash before they eventually clued on and left her. It had been why your father had left when you were a mere infant, but you’d always lived in luxury due to the incessant payments that he was forced to give. You’d never met him, but there was a plus side - he was paying your college tuition, where you met your best friends.

Perhaps if you thought about it a bit more you’d realise that the only reason you went to college was to get away from your mother. She pissed you off, sauntering around the house in silk kimonos with a maid trailing behind her, pausing to look in mirrors so that she could choose where her next round of botox would hit. She frustrated you beyond belief, but you still had to go home for Christmas. Annoyingly early, too, because she had a surprise for you.

Okay, well, it wasn’t a surprise. She’d FaceTimed you a week earlier, an irritatingly wrinkle-free face popping up on the screen as she sipped mulled wine and revelled in your absence. She had a new boyfriend, she said. You’d love him, she said. Your opinion matters most to me, she said. The last one you knew to be a lie. God, you hated her. 

Still, you lugged your suitcase through the front door and huffed, booting the side with your foot to try and shake some of the snow off. No surprise, she hadn’t helped you in from your taxi. She hadn’t even come to get you from the airport a mere twenty minute drive away. You dropped the suitcase on the floor, giving it another kick just for good measure, and then you were trudging into the kitchen. You’d heard voices from there, so it had to be them.

“Oh, honey!” Your mother chirped upon seeing you. You couldn’t see the face of the man washing dishes behind her, his white shirt sleeves rolled up and back facing you. You didn’t care anyway. “You made it home safe, then.”

“Yeah. The taxi driver was super nice and let me call him mum,” You quipped. She furrowed her eyebrows, lips pursed. 

“Okay, you’re being weird already,” She mumbled, and then shook her head, shrugging it off. She walked to the man by the sink, spinning him around by his slender waist to display him to you. “This is Chan!”

You felt silly, stood in the kitchen doorway in oversized clothes and covered in ivory snow. The man’s eyes found you, shocked by your mother’s harsh manoeuvring, and he blinked with surprise at your figure. You blinked with surprise, too.

Chan was hot. Incredibly so, actually, and he looked young. Younger than your mother, with a big nose you wanted to ride and plush lips parting as he raised one hand to wave at you, still wet with soapy dishwasher. You wanted to lick him clean. The white shirt he wore stretched across broad shoulders, and the sleeves were fit to burst around incredibly toned biceps. You allowed your gaze to wander down, eyes focusing on the thick thighs in the black dress trousers he wore. 

There was no way this was real. “Okay,” You burst out laughing, eyes darting between Chan and your mother. “And, who is Chan? A friend? A colleague? He’s not your boyfriend.”

Chan’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “No, I am. I’m your mother’s boyfriend, sweetheart.”

His voice was deep - too deep, deep enough to haunt your dreams and those late night sessions you had in your bed with your trusty vibrator. This was going to be trouble. You were going to be trouble.

“You’re shitting me,” You couldn’t get the amused smile off of your face. No fucking way. Your mother hadn’t bagged that. “You’re fucking with me. You have to be. Mum, he’s closer to my age than he is to yours.”

“I’m thirty, actually,” He mumbled, looking sheepish. Your mother stared at you in shock, jaw dropped at your brazenness. 

“I rest my case,” You concluded, nodding decisively. When the two of them just continued to stare, you bristled slightly, starting to hop from one foot to the other. Awkward. “You… are you actually together?”

“Yes, honey,” Your mother confirmed, still looking shocked. You scoffed.

“Okay, I really need to go, actually,” You gushed, turning around to leave the kitchen. “I’m- I’m going to my room. Really nice to meet you, Chan, really.” 

Shooting upstairs, you completely ignored your suitcase still leaking snow all over the hardwood floors and darted into your bedroom. It still looked exactly how you’d left it, band posters all over the walls and teddies littering the end of your bed. You threw yourself on top of the mattress, fingers yanking your phone out of your pocket and clicking the button on the most recent group call on FaceTime. Immediately, your college best friends picked up.

“There’s already a problem?” Felix scrunched his nose up, face way too close to the camera. Changbin was on the other side, face looking confused in the little square designated to him on your phone screen.

“I just met my mother’s boyfriend.”

“Oh, right, how did that go?” Changbin questioned, tilting his head to the side. You caught sight of your face in your own little square, flushed and appalled.

“He is thirty years of age, Changbin,” You began. Felix gasped, tiny hand moving to cover his mouth. “He is thirty years of age, and he is really fucking hot.”

“Oh my god,” Felix mumbled, muffled behind his hand. “Oh my god, you have to fuck him.”

Changbin choked on air. “She has to- No, Felix, no!”

“No, I can’t do that. It would be fucked up,” You mused. Or.. “Wait, would it even be that fucked up? He is closer to my age. I hate my mother.”

Felix’s hand fell, and he giggled before speaking in his trademark goblin voice - “Fuck him.”

“Don’t!” Changbin shrieked, his phone shaking in his hand. “I really think this is a bad idea.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Felix grinned, looking smug. “I’d do it.”

“There’s not a lot you wouldn’t do,” Changbin retorted. Felix stuck his tongue out at him. You, however, were silent, musing on the situation and staring at your wall. Could you do it? Changbin noticed, sighing. “Baby, please no.”

You licked your lips, nodding. You could do it. You wanted to do it - needed it, even. Those biceps were going to plague your life forever otherwise. “Operation fuck my mother’s boyfriend is a go.”

Felix screamed in delight. Changbin ended the call.

SATURDAY

It was time. Your mother was out at brunch with some friends, and you had plans to invade Chan’s personal space because you had a feeling he’d be too polite to tell you otherwise. You knew he’d set up the spare room as his own home studio, because your mother had delighted in telling you how Chan was a super successful music producer and was often tinkering away in there these days. You were going to let yourself in, try to get to know him a bit.

The knock you landed on the door was anything but subtle. Your fist rapped on the door and you heard a little hum in response, so you swung open the door, eyes landing on Chan hunched over his desk. He looked even younger like this, beanie pulled down over dark curls and headphones positioned on his head. He continued to stare at the file on his computer, head bobbing absentmindedly, so you strode up to him and tapped him on the shoulder.

He spun around on his computer chair, blinking confusedly at you. “Oh, hello.”

“Hi,” You beamed. “Sorry about last night. I was rude. I was feeling kinda weird, y’know, with the travelling.”

“No, I completely get it,” Chan put his hands up as if to diffuse the atmosphere. You nodded, still smiling. Chan stared at you when you didn’t respond instantly, and you crossed your hands behind your back, pressing against the plaid pattern of the dress you’d chosen for today. It was all part of the plan - the tight, short dress was perfect for seduction. He looked down at your chest, before clearing his throat, reverting his gaze to your eyes. “Um… did you need something, by the way?”

You gasped, as if remembering. “Oh, yeah! I did. My mother told me you were a music producer, and I was really curious. I was wondering if you’d show me some stuff…?”

It was Chan’s turn to smile, nodding excitedly. “Of course. Here, put these on.”

He linked two fingers around his headphones and handed them to you, to which you obediently put them over your ears. He was quieter now, but you could still slightly hear him mumbling as he found a spare chair for you to sit on. Your eyes scanned the files, eventually fixating on a file titled Drive. That one had to be dirty.

“Okay, so. I have this one, it’s my most recent one, and-”

“I want to listen to that one,” You cut him off, pointing at the song. When you turned to look at him, he was biting his lip nervously, pink tinting the ends of his ears and his cheeks. “What is it, Chan?”

“You- that one is a little, uh… heh. A little inappropriate.”

Unsurprisingly, you darted over his desk to grab the computer mouse and double click on the file. Chan squealed, but you ignored him, listening to the song. You were right. It was dirty, the two singers crooning about something that was a thinly-veiled innuendo about driving. It took you a second and then you clicked. One of them was Chan. This was Chan singing, on a song about sex. God, could he get any hotter?

You slid one of the ear cups off of your ear, turning to Chan with a shit eating grin. “This is you singing? You’re really good, Chan.” You weren’t lying. He was really good, and it had you wondering why he was a producer and not singing.

“Yeah, well, it was just an experimental track. Me and my mate were just messing around,” Chan mumbled shyly, hand scratching the back of his neck. You tried to avoid staring at the way his biceps tensed in his tight t-shirt at the movement. He was still blushing, but you had to kick it up a notch.

“It is kinda inappropriate, though, isn’t it?” You chirped excitedly. Chan’s lips parted, as if he was looking for something to say. His eyes stared into your own, piercing and dark and all-consuming. “I think you’re a little dirty, Channie.”

Chan’s eyebrows furrowed at your use of the nickname. “That’s- you can’t say that. That’s inappropriate.”

“What?” You feigned shock-horror. Play dumb. “I can’t call you Channie? Why not?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Chan groaned, pointing an accusing finger at you. You giggled anyway, jumping up and slipping the headphones back onto his head. You made sure to trail your fingertips down his neck after doing so. He shivered noticeably. You smiled.

“That was super good, Channie, thank you.”

You didn’t miss his groan of disbelief as you bounded out of the room. You had him, and it was easier than you’d expected it to be.

SUNDAY

Something was happening. You weren’t sure what, just yet, but something was happening. Chan was acting a little weird after what happened the day before, and you’d already caught Felix and Changbin up on the nonsense plan you had. 

“I think you need to accept that this is just down to you having a fat crush on him and severe daddy issues,” Changbin mused, and you gasped. He was right though. This wasn’t completely about getting back at your mother in a sick, twisted way. You wanted him.

Phase two of your plan was underway as soon as you caught sight of him on the sofa. He was watching some cheesy Christmas movie, your mother tinkering away in the kitchen - when had she ever cooked? - so it was prime seducing time. He had one of the thick throw blankets over his lap, fingers playing with the fluffy fabric absentmindedly. You hopped into the living room in your short pyjamas, frowning at Chan when you felt the goosebumps on your legs.

“Whatcha watching?” You asked, making him jump when he realised your presence. He smiled nonetheless, motioning to the seat next to him, and you took it. You perched and ensured that you left no room between you both.

“Some cheesy film. The woman’s marrying a prince, I think.”

“Sounds awful. I can’t wait to watch it,” You smiled, and Chan chuckled, relaxing on the sofa. You managed to make it five whole minutes before you were rubbing your hands up your legs, trying to create a semblance of warmth. 

Chan turned to you, frowning. “Are you cold, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” You whined, pulling your legs up into your chest. “‘S cold in here, right?”

“C’mere,” He mumbled, reaching for the end of the blanket and throwing it over your lap. You hummed contentedly, inching a little closer under the guise of the cold weather. The blanket was warm. You were kind of jealous he’d been in such comfort this whole time while you’d been thinking of ways to get his cock inside your mouth. 

“Thanks, Channie,” Chan only nodded, continuing to watch the film. You had a feeling he was pretending to be so focused on it, given you weren’t sure he even knew the plot before your arrival. 

You squirmed on your seat, thrashing each way until you found yourself comfortable, hand splayed over Chan’s knee. He tensed under your touch. 

“You’re touching me, sweetheart,” He warned, his voice low and deep. You shivered, turning to him.

“Am I?”

“You are. You’re touching my leg underneath the blanket, aren’t you?”

You hummed. “Is that okay, Chan?”

Chan turned to you, his eyes not even holding any sign of shock. He knew what game you were playing, you realised, and maybe he was playing along. He licked his lips, head back against the sofa, and then he shrugged dismissively. 

“It doesn’t bother me.”

You left your hand there for the whole film. 

MONDAY

The showers at home were something you’d missed. The ones in college didn’t quite cut it - not even now that you lived with Changbin and Felix in your own student home. All three of you were young adults, after all, and that came with you being a little too messy.

At home, you didn’t have to worry about mess. Your mother had cleaners employed with your dad’s money anyway. Admittedly, you realised you were being a little spoiled, so you’d learned to clean up after yourself. The showers were still better, though. Bigger, and the water pressure hit you just right. 

Especially when you detached the shower head and pressed it to your clit. You felt pathetic. You’d only tried to seduce Chan for two fucking days, and there you were, legs shaking at the thought of him. Maybe it was the chase that got you feeling hot, or maybe it was the fact that you might actually be getting somewhere - you might actually be getting close to fucking him, muscles bulging as he ploughed into you. 

It had you pressing the shower head harder, your spare hand coming up to pinch your nipple. You whined, bucking your hips into the water stream. The steam was all over the bathroom by now, staining the shower with condensation and making your skin feel pruned and flushed. Or did you feel flushed from the thoughts of Chan? Maybe he’d fuck you the way you liked. He must have experience, you assumed, being a few years older than you. You thought about how he’d make you feel, how he’d touch you, and how you’d feel in his arms. You thought about how you’d feel when you came, and what it would be like to be with him. You wanted to feel him so badly.

Was he as big down there as he was everywhere else? Sure, he’s not too tall, but he’s every part a man. That much was clear. Would he bend you in half, pushing you into a mating press and fuck you raw the way you liked, cumming inside and letting you call him daddy and-

You wailed, legs trembling with one last buckle before you were cumming. You felt wet, too wet even just from the shower, and you belatedly realised you’d have to wash again. Ugh. This plan needed to end, like… yesterday. 

Coming out of the shower freshly washed, you wrapped a towel around your figure and checked the time on your phone. Your thumb slipped around the screen from the condensation in the bathroom, but the plan was going well. If you left the bathroom now, then hopefully Chan would be heading to bed, and he’d catch you in your towel. Ideally, he’d be so hot for you that he’d just have to have you, and then you could get the thoughts of him out of your head.

You burst out of the room in a flurry of steam and movement, almost tripping over your own feet when you noticed that it had actually fucking worked. Chan stood stock still at the other end of the hallway, his eyes fixated on the way the towel wrapped tightly around your chest, at risk of falling. You smiled, waving innocently, and he stalked towards you. He was seeing red. You could tell from the way he cornered you, crowding around you with the small advantage he had on your height.

“You need to stop this,” He mumbled, eyes looking at your mother’s bedroom door. He was playing a dangerous game. You were, too, and you both knew it. “I’m dating your mother. You need to stop this, sweetheart.”

“Stop what?” You tilted your head, acting confused. “I just had a shower.”

Chan scoffed, shaking his head. “I fucking heard you in there.”

Oh. You couldn’t hide your smirk that time. “Yeah, I missed that shower head. Why were you perving on me, Chan?”

Chan rubbed his temples. He wasn’t wearing a beanie today, only a hoodie and baggy joggers. You liked it. You could see his hair like this, dark and curly and frizzy on his head. He looked cute. Wait, what?

He took a deep breath. His eyes moved to fixate on you, tongue running over his teeth. “Why would I be perving on you?”

“Oh, don’t lie,” You crossed your arms over your chest. Chan’s eyes moved down to stare at where your tits bulged over the towel. “I bet you stood there for ages, cock hard in your cute joggers, listening to me moan in the shower. That’s a little fucked up, no? Thinking about your girlfriend’s daughter like that-”

You were cut off by him pushing you to the wall, lips slamming into yours. He bit into your mouth instantly, letting out a deep groan and hands moving to grab your ass through the towel. You let your lips part in a whimper, pushing your tongue into his mouth and running your hands through his hair. It was a filthy exchange of tongue and teeth, and by the end of it, you were gasping, grabbing him by the waist and trying to pull him closer. You pulled away, breathing heavily and your eyes still locked on each other. You both stood there, not speaking, as you both processed what you had just done. You both knew it was wrong, but you wanted it so bad.

Chan stepped back, breathing out a heavy sigh. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You watched in shock as he turned around, walking into your mother’s bedroom and leaving you there. You were wet again. This was getting ridiculous now. 

In your room, Felix screamed so loud you had to turn the volume down on your phone. Changbin choked on air again. 

TUESDAY

You hadn’t seen Chan all day. You presumed he was in his studio, working away on another track while your mother was in work. You were bored. Felix had been spending time with his family, and Changbin was out doing rich kid things that you could sympathise with. Thrashing around on your bed, annoyed and huffing, you decided you were just going to go and annoy Chan. It was your newly favourite pastime to get under his skin.

Stalking down the stairs to his studio, you paused when you heard a voice. Not just one voice, two voices. Was your mother there? No, no way. She never goes into that room, it’s his work room. You’d been in there though. You tried to suppress a grin at that realisation. 

The other voice was a man’s. Chan had a call on speakerphone, judging by the tinny effect covering the unknown male’s voice and Chan humming every so often. Who was the other man? A colleague, or just a friend?

“It’s fucking ridiculous, mate,” Chan groaned. You could barely hear him, and you held your breath, coming closer to the closed door. “I want her so bad, and it’s so wrong. I- I kissed her last night, Minho.”

There were a few yells from the other end of the phone. “You kissed her?! Chan, you fucking animal. You want her so bad, just fuck her. She’s clearly hoping that’s the outcome here.”

You grinned. You were.

“She’s- it’s outrageous. She walks around in practically nothing, and she’s got such a tight fucking body, man. She makes my dick so fucking hard, I’ve never felt anything like it before. Even when I met her, in the kitchen, she was-”

Chan cut himself off with a sigh. ‘Minho’ hummed, waiting for him to continue.

“She’s so bratty. She’s exactly the type of girl I would’ve gone for, before I met her mother.”

“Seriously?” Minho questioned, and Chan agreed. “You have to do it.”

“Minho-”

“No, Chan. I’m serious,” Minho’s voice was firm. “If she’s fucking you up this bad, you can’t have liked her mother that much, yeah? Just do it. You know it’s going to happen anyway.”

“It’s-” Chan began. You could imagine him rubbing his temples in distress behind the door. “She’s younger than me. I don’t want her to feel as though I’m taking advantage, y’know? The ball’s in her court.”

The ball has always been in your court.

“It sounds like she wants you to take advantage, to be honest,” Minho erupted in a fit of giggles, and you found yourself almost laughing along. Minho was annoyingly right. You only hoped he could get rid of that stick up Chan’s ass and get you a good dicking down.

It meant it was time for the next phase of your plan. You assumed Chan had wanted you, embarrassingly so, but you weren’t quite sure until he’d kissed you the day before. After hearing this conversation? Well, you had to do it.

You returned to your room, scribbling a quick note on a piece of paper. If Chan found this, which he would, it meant that he’d come to your room tomorrow night and you could maybe talk about what the fuck was going on. The sexual tension was too much for you, and now you knew he felt the same. Why were you beating around the bush? You had to make something out of this.

You ignored the stuttering of breath you heard when you slid the note under his door, and returned back to your room with a cocky grin.

WEDNESDAY

Chan hadn’t mentioned the note. You didn’t think he would, but you felt disappointed nonetheless. You’d woken up in the morning, eaten breakfast with him and your mother - cringing when he kissed her on the cheek when she left for work - and you’d even done the dishes yourself, letting him slip off to do some work in the studio. It was prime time for him to mention what you’d written, and he hadn’t. It was pissing you off.

Still, good things come to those who wait. You were confident. Felix had been egging you on all day over text, Changbin had been sending random upset emojis. It was perfect. 

Settling on your sheets at night, you felt a little pathetic. You’d lit a few candles, left the curtains just right on the window so that the moonlight billowed in, and Chan hadn’t arrived. Maybe he hadn’t received your note. No, there was no way - you practically heard his response through the door when he saw it slid under. He got the note. Perhaps you’d made him uncomfortable, made him withdraw from you despite all the progress you’d made. Why had you put in so much effort? You didn’t like him, not like that. Or did you? You felt ridiculous, almost like a child waiting for-

A knock on the door brought you out of your self-loathing thoughts, and you jumped up, swinging the bedroom door open. Chan immediately crowded inside of your bedroom, pressing the door shut softly. You stood there in silence, taking him in. He looked cosy, in a baggy hoodie and plaid pyjama bottoms. It was hard to believe he was dating your mother, especially when he looked so vulnerable like this - dark, curly hair still slightly wet from his shower, and his eyes blown wide with an unreadable emotion while he looked at you.

Chan sighed. “You’re really playing with fire. Do you know how this could look, me coming into your room at night? Do you know how wrong this is?”

You faltered. For the first time since meeting Chan, you felt as though he was angry at you. “I- I heard you on the phone, Channie. I thought you wanted me too.”

You watched in awe as Chan crossed your bedroom, groaning and throwing himself onto the bed. He was hard, erect in his bottoms. You blinked confusedly. He was hard just from being in here?

“I do want you,” Chan said, but it was muffled, hidden behind his hands that he had placed over his face in distress. He let them fall to his sides, staring up at the ceiling. “I want you so bad that it’s pissing me off beyond belief. I know what you’ve been doing too, trying to seduce me. It’s so pathetic it makes me feel hot, y’know?”

You giggled, following his journey across the room and settling next to him on the bed. You sat cross legged, comfortable in your long pyjamas. The candlelight flickered, casting a glow over his face, and he turned to look at you. He licked his lips, and then he let out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief.

“This is ridiculous-”

“It’s ridiculous that you haven’t fucked me yet,” You responded, quick as a flash. Chan leaned up on his forearms, raising an eyebrow at you. Now was the time. You had to say it. “You know how bad I want you. I touched you up on the sofa, and you let me. You wanted me to, I think. Correct me if I’m wrong, and I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, but-”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable, and you’re not wrong,” Chan admitted. You could see the blush on his cheeks despite the dimly lit room.  He took a deep breath before continuing. “I want you, too.” 

Chan shot across the bed, leaning in and kissing you deeply, his hands tangling in your hair. It made you wet beyond belief that he just felt like he knew what he was doing, hands travelling down to your waist to softly press you into the sheets. His tongue swept into your mouth, pressing against yours and you whimpered, making him groan into the kiss. When his hands went up to your hair, he intertwined his fingers in the strands and pulled, making you gasp and let out a heady, hot breath. He pulled away, lips parted when he stared at you. 

“You are such a horny little thing, it’s so hot,” He mumbled, lips pressing to your neck. He bit your skin sharply, making you keen and spread your legs, allowing him to position his hips between your thighs. The movement pressed his bulge into your core, and you tried not to shift and move your hips in a rhythm of pleasure. His fingers traced over your skin, and he chuckled, a low, sexy sound that made your heart race. He pulled back, leaning back on his legs and staring at you, eyes blown wide with lust. “I want to see you touch yourself.”

You paused. “What?”

“I want to know what you like. Show me how you make yourself cum, and I’ll fuck you tomorrow night. How’s that sound?” He was propositioning you, teasing you, and you were falling for it - hook, line and sinker. 

You gave him a nod. Right. Touching yourself for him - that was something you could do. This was just another Wednesday for you, you loved putting on a show, especially for a man who was rock hard and obviously desperate for you. But with Chan… why did you feel so fucking nervous all of a sudden? You'd spent your whole day waiting to fuck him, and he’d taken back the power, thrown a wrench into your plans.

You leaned back on your bed. How did you sit sexily? You were stuck in your own head.

Chan moved backwards, hand moving over his clothed erection. He’d spread his legs, thick thighs parted for you to see the promising bulge between them. "Pretend I'm not even here, sweetheart," he said, eyes blown wide with lust. You almost rolled your eyes. Easier said than done, when he was sitting there with his dark curls and his thick, kissable lips and his impossibly huge bulge. “Touch yourself like you’ve done before. Show me how you make yourself cum, and I’ll fuck you tomorrow, I promise.”

Fuck it. You'd never let an attractive man break you down yet, and that wasn't going to change. You nodded timidly, hands moving to grip your breasts through your shirt. It made you sigh, and Chan responded with a noise of his own when you impatiently rucked the fabric up to above your chest. Sucking two fingers into your mouth, you whined when you traced the wet digits around your pebbled peak teasingly. 

“Ah, ‘s- I’m sensitive there, Channie,” You mumbled, and he nodded as if he was making a note for it for later. You trailed your fingertips across your nipples, pinching and twisting them almost painfully just to make your hips cant up into thin air. You were too impatient to do this how you normally would, so you scratched your fingernails down your tummy and shoved a hand in your pyjama bottoms. You were met with slick, wet folds, fingers sliding around in the mess you made. 

“Show me,” Chan said, eyes trained on where your hand disappeared beneath the fabric. “Show me that pussy. You’re meant to be showing me everything, remember?”

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” You huffed, and Chan shook his head in disbelief, grinning. You were shocked to see he actually listened, though, pushing his joggers down to his thighs and letting his erection spring out. It was impossibly hard, pearlescent drops accumulating on his cockhead and you licked your lips subconsciously. “I wanna-”

“No,” Chan cut you off, hand moving to wrap around his cock in a tight fist. He was long, thick and heavy between his thighs and you felt your pussy clench sadly around nothing. “Show me your pussy. I’m not asking again, let me take a look at it.”

You whined, pushing your pyjama bottoms down to reveal your slick core. Your clit was swollen, throbbing with need just from a few kisses and Chan’s general presence, and you could feel a rivulet of wetness sliding down between your lips. Chan groaned in approval, hand quickening on his cock just slightly.

“Spread it, show me your hole,” Chan said, and you moved your thighs further apart for him. Reaching down with two fingers, you moved them into a v-shape and spread your folds for him. Your hole quivered under the inspection, leaking more wetness and Chan’s eyes were hyper fixated on it. “Oh, baby. That looks tight. Has no one ever fucked that little pussy right, huh? Tell me.”

“N-No,” You shook your head, thighs quivering when you finally let two fingers rub over your clit. You started with a blistering pace immediately, making your toes curl into the sheets and your back arch upwards. “No, I- it’s only boys from college, I don’t-”

“Ah, I see. You need someone older, yeah? More experienced?” Chan questioned, his breath coming out heavy with every tightly fisted movement on his cock. You whined, nodding, and then you were breaching your hole with two fingers immediately. The stretch made you groan, head falling back against the pillow. “Is that why you tried to seduce me, yeah? Wanted to have my cock stretching you out just right, wanted to call me daddy while I made you cry?”

God, he’d got it. He was right on the mark. “Yes, y-yes, I- I wanted to, oh, I wanted to call you daddy, and- and feel you inside me, and oh, Channie, please-” You cut yourself off with a moan, perhaps too loud as you curled your fingertips up against your g-spot. Chan threw his head back, letting out a grunt as he pinched his cockhead almost painfully. 

“Say it then, baby. What’s stopping you?” He polished the head of his cock, moaning before he took it into his tight grip again. His precum served as lubrication, his hand now making wet slick sounds on his thick length. You gasped when he moved his free hand to his balls, rubbing calloused fingertips over them and letting out his own gasp. “Beg me for my cock. I know you want it, look at you. Fuckin’ desperate, yeah? Beg daddy for his big cock.”

“Oh, daddy,” You whined, moving your free hand to rub over your clit. Everything was so wet, sliding around your pussy and you were honestly surprised you could feel anything - but it felt so fucking good, having him watch you like this, learning what you liked so he could replicate it. “Fuckin’- daddy, daddy, please, can I have it? Been good, doin’ what you asked, I- hnnng, daddy, oh my god-”

“No,” He smiled, a cocky grin while he rubbed one hand over his cock and the other over his heavy balls. “No, baby. Not tonight. Make yourself cum tonight, and daddy will help you tomorrow.”

“I- need more, need more, I-'' Chan surged over the bed, leaning over your figure to press his lips against yours. His tongue dominated your mouth again, and you could feel his closed fist hitting your stomach as he worked himself to his orgasm. The sensation had you whining against his plush lips, fingers thrusting quicker into your pussy and your other hand sliding around your clit messily. When he pulled away, lips digging into your bottom lip teasingly, his lips were quick to move to your neck to suck some dark purple marks into the skin. You felt yourself trembling, your body tense as you felt yourself getting closer to the edge. Your fingers stroked your walls faster, pussy fluttering around your digits in delight, and your mouth opened in a gasp as you felt your body tense and tremble with pleasure. “I’m g’na- g’na cum, gonna cum, please, can I? Can I, daddy? Can I cum for you, please?”

“Yeah, baby,” He huffed, eyes rolling back into his head. He was practically drooling onto your skin, lips parted against your neck as you whined and thrashed on your bedsheets. “Cum for me. Been good for daddy, haven’t you? You can cum, baby, c’mon. Show me how pretty you are when you cum.”

You fell apart around your own fingers, your orgasm crashing through you like a wave. Your thighs tensed with your orgasm, your pussy clenching down impossibly tighter around your hand and flooding down to your knuckles with your cum. You begged and pleaded, your voice a barely audible babble as your body shook with the sensation. 

Finally, when you’d just felt like you were coming down, Chan pulled your wrist away from your pussy. The movement left you empty, your walls still clenching down except now it was around nothing, and you whined, bottom lip quivering in need. 

“Hands off,” He sighed, hand slowing down on his cock. He was trying to last longer for something - you weren’t sure what, but you let your other hand drop from your clit obediently. “Daddy’s gonna cum on this wet little hole, baby, okay? You gonna let me cum here, mark you as mine?”

“Yes,” You moaned, nodding. You couldn’t think of anything better, actually. “‘M yours, I’m yours, daddy, gimme.”

“Dirty thing, perfect little girl,” He grunted, and then he was positioning his cockhead at your hole. With a few more movements, increasing in speed, you watched as his face screwed up in pleasure. His hips bucked, and with a final thrust, he came. You felt his cum drip down your hole as he groaned through his orgasm, thick white cum plastering your pussy. It was definitely the sexiest thing you’d experienced, but you still felt a little disappointed - why couldn’t he have just done it inside you?

“Wan’it,” You whined, pulling your legs back. Chan chuckled upon seeing the pout on your lips. “Why couldn’t you- in me, wanted it in me, daddy.” 

“Greedy bitch,” He mused, and then he was delving down to your core. Your mind went blank when his tongue licked fat stripes up your folds, collecting all of his cum and your wetness in his mouth. You briefly thought you could cum from this, very quickly judging by the way he knew what he was doing, but he simply leaned over you and grabbed your jaw. 

Oh. You let your lips part, tongue lolling out of your mouth obediently, and he spat the mixture of your cum into your mouth. You felt him lick into your mouth again, groaning at the taste of your pussy and his load. He smiled against your lips and pulled away, your eyes wide as you tried to process what had just happened. 

Chan’s lips curved in satisfaction at your state, your chest still heaving with a blotchy rash that bore the truth of what you’d been up to. He ran his thumb over your bottom lip, and then he was standing up and leaving the room, bottoms barely pulled over his hips. You laid there, feeling an intense mix of pleasure and confusion.

What the fuck just happened?

THURSDAY

You hadn’t even processed what had happened last night. In all honesty, you’d run out of the house in the morning under the premise of a coffee date with friends you didn’t even have. You just sat in the cafe on call with Changbin and Felix and screamed way too loudly for a public area. The whole cafe knew of your predicament by the end of it.

Upon your return home, you’d beelined to your room and kicked the door shut as quietly as you could. Unfortunately, your foot slipped on the floor and you’d ended up face down with a groan.

Turning over onto your back, you huffed at the offending item that had caused your decline to the ground. A piece of paper met your eyes, neatly folded and written on with what looked like black Sharpie when you’d finally unravelled it.

Three words. Three words that changed your life and let you know that what occurred the night before had really happened. No, not ‘I love you’ - it was simple, a scrawled ‘your room, tonight’. It did happen. You touched yourself in front of Chan, and he was planning on coming back to your room to continue what you’d discussed.

You wanted to squeal and kick your feet, but beneath it all, you felt panicked. This plan had gone too far, and you’d perhaps started to think about spending time with your mother’s boyfriend - actual time, not just sexually charged meetings. It hurt a little bit, a pang in your chest when you remembered that what was happening really was just sexual. Your little arrangement being anything else just wasn’t fathomable.

Chan was interesting. He was a fucking music producer, for god’s sake. That was just straight up cool. That, and he was older than you - you did have raging daddy issues like your friends had said, after all. His friend had sounded funny on the phone, which meant he had to be funny, too. 

All things serious, you didn’t really know much about him, but you wanted to know. Felix had encouraged you to find out, and you felt like you owed it to him - or yourself, you weren’t sure. 

The knock on your door once the evening fell brought you out of your reverie. Chan didn’t wait for a response, swinging your bedroom door open and walking straight in as if he owned the house. You huffed at his demeanour, yet your eyes were still fixated on the way he walked over to your bed with intent. You threw your phone to the side. Felix would have to wait for your half-typed text message. 

“Back again so soon?” You quipped, and he raised an eyebrow. He was only in grey joggers, the thin material highlighting his thick dick imprint between his legs. The fabric hung low, showing off the body that you knew he worked so hard for. His chest was honey toned, yet covered in light, sparse freckles - you wanted to make yourself acquainted with every single one. You felt a little overdressed in just an oversized t-shirt and shorts.

Seeing the frustrated expression on your face, Chan’s own face fell. “Do you not want me here?” He said, voice no more than a whisper. “I can go, if you don’t want to see me tonight. I just thought-”

“I do,” You nodded, finally raising yourself from your position lying down to sitting up cross legged. Chan laid on the bed in front of you, one arm propping his head up. He gazed at you for a few moments, and you could see the relief in his eyes at your words. “I do want to see you tonight. I want to see you like… a lot. Don’t you think it’s weird though? I’m your girlfriend’s daughter, Chan, and we’ve kissed and- and done other stuff, and-”

He scooted over so that he was next to you, and you leaned into him subconsciously. He pulled you in with his arm around your shoulders, broad and muscled. You felt content, comfortable and most of all safe. It was a feeling you’d never felt before.

“I don’t think it’s weird,” Chan hummed, his chest vibrating beneath where you’d landed when he pulled you in. He chuckled, then, his hand moving to your hair comfortingly. “Okay, maybe it is a little weird. I’m just very interested in you. I know you heard me on the phone to Minho, and yes, you are my type - I want to know more about you. Like, even beneath the sexually charged tension, heh.”

Oh. You licked your lips, eyes fixated on a random spot in your wall. “You do?”

He nodded. “I do.”

You couldn’t help yourself. You raised your head, surging over Chan’s body to press a kiss to his lips. His hair was soft when you ran your hands through it, despite random curls getting caught in your nails and causing him to groan at the pain flooding through his scalp. His hands went to your waist, licking into your mouth while he effortlessly pulled you on top of him. The show of strength had you whimpering into the kiss, hands moving down to his jaw. It clenched and unclenched while he had full control over your mouth despite you being on top. 

You pulled away with a wet sigh, moving downwards to kiss at his neck. He groaned underneath his breath at the sensation of your lips on his skin. Your bed squeaked awkwardly as you moved down it, too quick for the old springs to handle. It felt naughty, kissing him like this in your childhood room - it felt even dirtier than the night before had, and you hadn’t done anything yet.

“I need you, Chan,” You whispered, nipping at his collarbone. “Need you. Please.” 

He gasped as he felt your tongue trace the outline of his collarbone. He flung one bicep over his dark eyes with a deep sigh, allowing you to kiss and bite all over his skin. He looked like he was trying to control himself. You didn’t want him to.

Your hips started to grind against him, and you placed your palms flat on his chest. Both of Chan’s hands moved back to your hips with a surprised noise, but he didn’t stop you. His dick was hardening in his joggers, and it was providing the best clothed friction to your aching, needy clit below your pyjama shorts. You saw how big it was before, yet the length of it still shocked you when you slid your clothed core up and down the shaft.

“Daddy,” You whined, hips starting to buck frantically. You were sure that you had never felt this needy in your life. “Daddy, daddy, I want you so bad. You turn me on so bad, make me feel so hot, please-”

“Baby,” Chan groaned, his head falling back against your pillows. The soft pink bed sheets juxtaposed completely with what you were doing, and juxtaposed completely with him - Chan, the muscled man with dark hair who wore black and grey clothes constantly. It was as if he was corrupting you, and he was in a sense, being so much older. “Baby, c’mere, come and lay on the bed. Let daddy eat you out, yeah?”

“No,” You shook your head, hips still moving on his erection. Chan’s chest had started to accumulate a thin layer of dewy sweat, slick on his skin and making you want to lick it off. “I want your cock. I don’t wanna wait, I don’t wanna wait, please, just put it in, I’m wet enough, I promise.”

He knew you were babbling, incoherent in your haze of lust, but he still entertained you enough anyway. You spread your legs wider when his hand met your thigh, and then he was pushing two fingers beneath your shorts. He was met with your slick folds, and you gasped at feeling the touch of his fingertips, calloused from years of working with music.

“Oh, fucking hell. Dirty girl, dirty fuckin’ girl,” Chan moaned, his eyes almost rolling back into his head. “This pussy’s so fuckin’ wet, baby. All we did was kiss. Are you that much of a slut for me? Are you that much of a slut for your mother’s boyfriend? That’s filthy.”

“Yes!” You wailed, nodding. You reached down, canting your hips backwards a little bit so you could spread your thighs wider before hooking your fingers in your shorts and pulling them to the side. The movement revealed your pussy, clit swollen at the top of soaking wet folds, covering your drippy hole. “I wan’it so bad, so bad, so bad, please, please. Just push it in, make it hurt, I don’t care-”

Chan shoved the fingers of his spare hand between your parted lips, effectively shutting you up. “Shut up. You’ve got to prove to me you deserve it, baby.”

With those words, he was pushing a finger past your entrance. It breached your hole easily, the digit sliding through your wetness and curving up past your g-spot. Chan shook his head in a mixture of disbelief and shock, and then he was pulling his finger out. With a quick movement, he’d yanked his joggers down and let his cock spring out. The coarse hair was trimmed above his long, thick shaft and you couldn’t help but imagine the type of friction that would give your clit - you couldn’t wait.

“You were right. That slutty pussy is wet enough,” He mused, pulling your hips over his bare cock. Your pyjama shorts were slightly in the way, and you pulled them aside even more, letting your folds leave wetness over his shaft. “Lower yourself on it. Stretch yourself out. Slowly.”

You did as he asked, lowering your body onto his length. You felt the stretch immediately. You moaned, loud and ringing off of your walls. You didn’t give a shit if your mother heard. Fuck, you needed this. You wanted to bounce all over his cock until there was nothing left and your hole could do nothing but remember the tight fit. Trying to sit down quicker, Chan grabbed your hips, stopping you while only half his length was in you.

“You're gonna hurt yourself like that, sweetheart. That hole is so tight around me.”

“Please, daddy,” Your head fell into the nape of his neck. You wriggled yourself in his tight hold, trying to get more of his length in your pussy. He shook his head against you, chuckling.

“You want it? Fine, but don't fucking cry to me when it hurts,” Chan said, letting go of your ass. You realised he'd been holding you up, and within a millisecond you'd slammed down onto him. You wanted to scream, the stretch more than you could take. He laughed again, raising his eyebrows at you mockingly. “Too big?”

"N-No, perfect," You retorted. He moaned, spreading his legs and placing his feet flat on the mattress. More. More. Fucking more. You began to raise on him, expecting to ride that perfect cock, but he started to thrust up into you at an unrelenting place straight away, his balls slapping against your ass. You moaned incoherently, almost babbling, hands digging into his toned biceps. He leaned up to nip at your neck, and then he was pulling your t-shirt off of your body.

“No fucking bra?” Chan laughed in disbelief. His mouth went straight to your nipples, biting and sucking on the hard peaks. You jostled on his lap with his thrusts. You wanted to rub your clit, but you felt like he probably wouldn't let you. “Knew you were fucking filthy, sweetheart. You didn't even care about me going raw, did you? You want my load in that dirty hole. And now I find out these pretty tits were only one layer away from me…”

His voice trailed off. You whined, leaning down to try and kiss him again. He shoved his two fingers back in your mouth, making you suck on them. His bruising sucks caused your nipples to hurt, and you fucking loved it. You knew he was marking you up and you'd just have to deal with it.

You tried to start riding him. He didn't let you, manhandling you off of his cock.

“Daddy!” You whined in protest. Chan chuckled. He lifted you and manhandled you so your back was facing him on your bed, and you immediately repositioned yourself so you were face down, ass up. He reentered you in one swift thrust, causing you to jolt in surprise.

“Fucking tight pussy,” He groaned, thrusting into you with the same vigor as before. You almost screamed, but managed to just moan incoherently. The mattress creaked, the sound of old springs ringing around the room. “Fucking dirty hole. Listen to that, sweetheart. Can you hear how wet your cunt is for daddy's cock? For your mother’s boyfriend’s cock?”

You tried to stop whining and moaning to hear what he was pointing out to you, hearing wet slaps. Your cheeks burned with humiliation, fingernails digging into the mattress. You knew you were dripping for a fact now. You could hear it, you could hear everything, his balls slapping against your clit as well as the wet noise of his heavy cock reentering you. 

You threw your ass back against him, trying to get the tip to hit that special spot inside of you. 

“I think that asshole needs me too, sweetheart,” Chan laughed mirthlessly, his hands resting firmly on your ass, encouraging your bouncing. You moaned in response, clenching your pussy tight. He was going to ruin you for everyone. You'd have to just keep coming back for more. “You want daddy's finger in there? You want me to finger your asshole?”

Oh, yes. “Please, daddy, need to be full,” You said, wiggling your hips against him. You vaguely registered him reaching around you and making you suck on the fingers that had previously been in your mouth. He was going to fill both of your holes, and he moaned loudly at the sight of you sucking his fingers. There was no way that the whole house hadn’t heard you both by now. You hoped they were sleeping.

You sighed in ecstasy, feeling the fingers begin to move inside your ass. His thrusting was now hitting your g-spot in your pussy, given the added pressure from being full in both holes. You felt the orgasm finally begin to build. You liked the way he wasn't rushing you to cum, not like those younger college boys. He was taking care of you and just having good fucking sex. “Feels so fucking good, daddy. Feels so good.”

You were now semi-incoherent, your words all joining together in one long moan. Chan loved it, judging by his moans. His cock was pulsing inside you. You wondered if he was close. You wanted him to fill you up to the point where it was dripping out of you. 

He pulled out of you again, grabbing your leg with one strong hand and flipping you onto your back. You were out of breath from the exertion, despite him doing all the work, and he looked fully composed save for the thin sheen of sweat on his body.

“Feels good, baby?” He asked, looming above you. You squirmed feeling your sweaty back rubbing against the blanket uncomfortably, but you nodded anyway. You wanted to please him. He looked down at your writhing body, letting out another groan. “So fucking sexy. You don’t know how much you fucking killed me, teasing me like that. Touch that pussy for me again, show me.”

He started pumping his shaft quickly, still staring down at you. You reached down with one hand and immediately pressed two fingers against your entrance, collecting the slick gathering outside before diving straight in. You curled your fingers against that spot inside of you, whining out. It wasn't enough. Not after having that fat cock in you. He definitely had ruined you for everyone else, including yourself. Nothing was ever going to feel the same again. 

“Mmm. Looks so wet, sweetheart. Daddy wants a taste, is that okay?” Chan questioned, moving back onto his knees. You pulled your fingers out and tried not to cry at the loss.

“Please, daddy. Wanna cum in your mouth,” You slurred out, pushing his head towards you. He moaned into your pussy, taking his fat tongue and licking one wet stripe up your slit. He pulled your pussy back, exposing that throbbing clit to him, and placed one lick directly onto your button. "Fuck, daddy, feels so good! Suck it, please, suck it. I - please - need to cum so bad!"

“Need to cum, huh, sweetheart? I'll make your little pussy throb for me and then I'm putting my cock right back in that tight hole, where it belongs,” He spoke. He thrust two fingers into your slit, much thicker and longer than yours. You spread your legs, holding them up against your chest. You literally almost purred when he started moving his fingers, curling them up into that spot and sucking on your clit whilst he did so. It wasn't going to take long. The man was clearly amazing at every part of sex. 

You focused on the feeling of his wet tongue rubbing up against your clit and writhed, feeling closer and closer to the edge. He knew what he was fucking doing. Your thighs started to shake, taking everything in you not to just let them go from your hold and clutch around Chan’s head. You wanted him to permanently live between your thighs. Your eyes clenched shut, a deep sigh leaving you. 

“Fuck, I'm g’na cum,” You mumbled out, chest heaving and flushed a shade of crimson. Chan pulled away, causing you to whine. You pouted, reaching up to grab his shoulders. "No, no! You said I could. You said you would help me.”

“What I said was that I'd make it throb for you and then I'm sliding back right in here, sweetheart. Be good for daddy, you'll get to cum,” He positioned his length at your core again, sliding right back into home. You both moaned, and he was fucking you in a mating press this time, almost as if you were a couple in love. You wished you were, and realised this was definitely your favourite position so far. The man fucked like an animal and now he was fucking you like he was going to breed you, and you loved it. He reached down with one hand to rub your clit rapidly, trying to bring you to the edge. “This is my fucking pussy. My favourite fucking pussy, my only girl, the only pussy for me, okay?”

“Fuck!” You cried of overstimulation, hands still wrapped around your legs. “G’na... getting close again, gonna-”

“Cum then, sweetheart, flood my cock. Make a mess for me, come on, do it," Chris encouraged, breathing heavily next to your ear. His eyes were focused on where he was entering you over and over again, taking note of the white ring of slick that had formed around the base of his cock, soaking the hair that rested there. You scrunched your eyes shut, feeling overwhelmed with bliss. “That's it. That's my good girl.”

White hot ecstasy overtook your body. You wanted to squirm, but with the pressure of the muscular man on top of your body, you had nowhere to go. You focused on the feeling of his slick chest rubbing against your sensitive nipples, whining and moaning as the orgasm coursed through your body and made it feel like you were being electrocuted. 

“Fucking clenching on my cock, shit,” Chan groaned, his hand falling away from your clit once your breathing had began to calm slightly. His hands went down to grab your hips, and before you knew it, he was lifting your hips up and fucking you senseless, treating you like a toy. “W-Wanted to be soft with you for our first time, sweetheart. I'm not normally like this, not at all, but this fucking pussy is driving me insane, fuck... I need to fill you up. Will you let daddy fill that pussy with my cum, sweetheart? Let me breed you, make you mine?”

You nodded quickly, unable to speak at this point. Your hole felt raw, sensitive and fucked open, but you needed his cum in you. You thought you might die if you didn't get it soon. His tip jabbed into your g spot incessantly, almost causing you to cum again, but you subconsciously knew you couldn't take another orgasm at the same level as the previous one. You might die. 

“Fucking- g’na breed you, sweetheart. Gonna make you mine. G-Gonna give you a baby, g’na fill you up, fuck!”

With an animalistic growl, Chan’s head dropped to your neck, biting into the skin there and definitely leaving a mark. You felt his hips still and cum flooded out of the tip of his length, flooding your hole with a new sense of wetness. You sighed with content and laid there until Chan’s breathing calmed, his body weight fully on top of you and yet not uncomfortable. 

“I have to be honest about something,” Chan sighed. You looked up at him from your position on his chest, and he looked down at you with an apprehensive look. He looked a lot shyer than he did moments before, when he was fucking you senseless and calling you a slut - he was blushing now, embarrassed. You were sure that’s what you liked about him. “You’re- it’s like you were made for me. I don’t know what the fuck to do, heh. I’m falling for you, I think.”