Katha

The rain in late autumn always felt less like weather and more like an eviction notice.

it streaked the glass of your small apartment window in long, foggy tears, a replication of your failing relationship.

You sat on the edge of your mattress, the fabric of an old, oversized jersey..not yours, never yours...scratching against your bare thighs. The air smelled faintly of stale cologne and the metallic tang of an impending storm. He had left twenty minutes ago. No note. No lingering glance at the threshold. Just the heavy click of the deadbolt and the sudden, vacuum-like silence that always followed his departures.

It was the fifth time this season. Or perhaps the sixth. The numbers had begun to liquefy in your memory, bleeding into a singular, exhausting cycle: the midnight text, the sudden arrival, the desperate, hollow heat of a physical transaction disguised as intimacy, and the inevitable dawn where he gathered his things while you pretended to sleep. He said it helped him. He said the noise in his head only quieted when he was buried in you, and because you were lonely, and because you mistook his dependency for affection, you let him in every single time.

A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door broke the quiet.

yoour heart skipped, a reaction you hated yourself for. You pulled a robe over your shoulders, tying the cord with trembling fingers as you hurried to the entryway. but when you swung the door open, it wasn’t the familiar, careless face of your undoing.

It was chris.

he stood under the flickering hallway light, his dark hair damp from the drizzle outside, a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. his eyes, usually warm and crinkled at the corners with easy laughter, were dark. the skin around his jaw was white hot with tension.

he didn't ask to come in; he simply stepped past you, his presence immediately filling the small room, heavy with an unspoken, protective fury.

"He was just here," chris said. it wasn’t a question. hiis voice was low, vibrating with a rough edge that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

"chris, please," you whispered, closing the door behind him. "not tonight. I’m tired."

"I saw him leave the lobby," chris continued, turning to face you. he didn't look at the disheveled bed, but you knew he saw it. he saw the shift in your posture, the way you wrapped your arms around your middle as if trying to hold your own ribs together. "How many times are you going to do this to yourself? How many times are you going to let him treat you like a pit stop when he's bored or broken?"

"You don't understand," you muttered, looking down at the plain floor. "He needs--"

"He needs a therapist, not you!" chris snapped, his voice rising, cracking the domestic quiet of the room. "He uses you as a sponge for his garbage, and then he leaves you here to dry out until he needs you again. He’s not loyal. He’s out at the clubs every weekend with girls whose names he doesn't even know, and you’re sitting here waiting for the phone to ring like he’s some kind of prize!"

The truth burned, raw and unvarnished, and because it hurt, you struck back. "It’s my life, chris! Why do you care so much? Why are you always standing in my doorway judging every single choice I make? He comes to me because I’m there for him. What is it to you?"

"Because you deserve someone who stays!" chris snapped back, stepping closer, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The veins in his forearms stood out, taut and rigid. "You deserve someone who looks at you and doesn't see a temporary fix! You’re brilliant, you’re beautiful, and you’re throwing yourself into a fire for a guy who wouldn't even pour water on you to put the flames out!"

"And who are you to decide that?" you yelled back, tears finally stinging the corners of your eyes, born from shame and exhaustion. "Who are you to tell me who loves me or who doesn't?"

"I’m the guy who’s been watching you break for a year! someone who watched that smile fade and those damn sparkles in your eyes to completely fade out. A guy who knows you way better than that freak." Chris shouted, his chest heaving as he closed the remaining distance between you, his shadow eclipsing yours under the dim bulb. "I’m the guy who knows every detail of your face, who knows how you take your coffee, who knows you’re terrified of the dark but pretend you aren’t! I am better than him in all possible scenarios!"

The words hung in the air like a physical blow.

Chris froze, his breath hitching in his throat. The anger vanished from his features, replaced instantly by a stark, terrifying vulnerability. his jaw slacked slightly, his dark eyes wide as the weight of what he had just uttered settled between you. I am better than him in all possible scenarios. It was a confession wrapped in a boast, an accidental tearing away of the veil he had kept drawn between you for years.

In the heavy silence that followed, it sounded wrong. It sounded arrogant, desperate, and entirely too close to the surface.

You let out a long, shuddering sigh, the anger draining from your limbs, leaving you feeling hollowed out. You looked at him--really looked at him--at the curve of his broad shoulders, the honest panic in his eyes, the way his fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach out but didn't have the right.

"I know," you said softly, your voice barely a breath. "I know he’s toxic, chris. i’m not stupid. but... it’s like a habit I can’t break. it’s a loop. whhen he calls, it’s just easier to slide into it than to face the empty room."

Chris looked down, a muscle working in his jaw. The silence grew smaller, gentler, though the air remained thick. when he looked back up, the fury was gone, replaced by a profound, aching sorrow.

"It’s going to scar you," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper that cut deeper than any shout. "Every time you let him in he takes a piece of you to fix his own holes, you lose something you won't get back. You think you’re just being kind, or just passing the time, but it’s changing how you see yourself. And one day, you’re going to look in the mirror and you won’t even recognize the girl I’ve been..." He broke off, swallowing hard. "The girl I’ve been looking at since the day we met."

He didn't stay long after tht. he couldn't. The air was too full of things that couldn't be unsaid. when he left, he didn't slam the door; he closed it with a soft, careful click that felt infinitely worse.

It took days for the scar tissue to form enough for you to move.

The breakup wasn't clean. Toxic things rarely die quietly; they thrash and strike out before they rot. When you finally told him--via a brief, trembling phone call--that it was over cause you didnt wanna face him, there was a possiblity he might try things which you would not want, you told him that he couldn't come by anymore, he didn't take it with the indifference very well. His ego, bloated by months of your compliance, revolted.

An hour later, he was at your door. Not knocking, but pounding. the wood groaned under his fists. When you refused to open it, the messages began—a barrage of vitriol, alternating between desperate pleas and vicious insults, tearing down your appearance, your character, your worth, everything he knew you were insecure about. He called you cold. He called you a waste of his time. He told you that nobody else would ever want someone so broken.

You sat in the corner of your kitchen floor, your knees pulled to your chest, your hands over your ears as his voice seemed to echo through the very walls, even after he finally gave up and kicked the base of the door before leaving.

Your phone was hot in your hand. Through the blur of hot, endless tears, you didn't think. You didn't calculate the risk or the history. You just dialed the one number that felt like a lighthouse in a storm.

"Chris," you choked out the moment the line picked up. "chris, he--he came here. It’s ugly. He said--"

"I’m coming."

The line went dead.

It took him less than ten minutes. When the lock turned, it wasn’t the hesitant chris from a few weeks ago. He burst through the door, his jacket half-unzipped, his knuckles white around his keys. His eyes swept the room instantly, checking, looking for a threat. When he saw you on the kitchen floor, small and shivering, the murderous tension in his shoulders shifted into something entirely different--something fiercely protective.

"Where is he?" chris rasped, his voice dropping into a register that was purely dangerous. he looked ready to take the stairs three at a time, to hunt down whoever had made you look this small. "did he touch you? tell me where he went."

"He’s gone," you sobbed, reaching out blindly. "He’s gone, chris, he just... he said such awful things."

In an instant, he was on the floor beside you. His large, warm hands caught yours, pulling you up against his chest. He didn't care about the sweat or the tears or the mess of your hair. He held you with an intensity that felt almost reverent, his chin resting against the top of your head, his breath shuddering against your scalp.

"You’re safe," he murmured over and over, his hands rubbing broad, soothing circles into your back. "I’ve got you. I’m right here. He’s never coming back into this apartment, you hear me? I’ll change the locks myself tomorrow. He’s done."

As you lay there, listening to the steady, rapid thumping of his heart beneath his shirt, the fog began to clear. You realized then, with the clarity of a sudden frost, what chris had meant during the argument. You realized the sheer depth of the gravity he had been pulling you toward all this time. He hadn't just been angry at the other guy; he had been grieving for you. He loved you with a quiet, ferocious constancy that made the other guy's affection look like a puddle of dirty rain.

But as the realization bloomed, so did the old, familiar rot of your own mind.

Look at him, the voice whispered. He’s whole. He’s good. And you’re the girl who spent months being used as a doormat. you’re covered in someone else's stains.

When you finally pulled back, your face was red and swollen. chris reached up, his thumb gently wiping a tear from your cheek, his touch so light it felt like a question.

"chris, I..." you started, but the words caught in your throat. You couldn't say it. You couldn't acknowledge the massive, glowing thing between you because you felt entirely unworthy of it. To accept his love now felt like dragging him down into the mud you had just crawled out of.

So, you avoided it. You looked away, clearing your throat, pulling your knees back toward your chest. "Thank you for coming. I... I just need some sleep, I think."

Chris’s hand lingered in the air for a fraction of a second before he let it drop. A flicker of understanding—and perhaps a faint hint of disappointment—passed over his face, but he didn't push. He respected the boundary you had clumsily thrown up.

"Okay," he said softly, standing up and offering you a hand. "I’ll stay on the couch tonight. Just to make sure. No arguments."

You didn't argue. You couldn't.

A month had passed. The locks were changed, the autumn had turned into the bitter bite of early winter, and the silence in your apartment was no longer heavy--it was peaceful. You and Chris had drifted back into a comfortable, albeit slightly guarded, rhythm. You watched movies, you ordered takeout, you talked about everything and nothing.

Until the night of the sleepover.

It had become a tradition of sorts over the years, a casual arrangement where he would stay over on a Friday night after a long week of work, the two of you staying up until three in the morning arguing about music or films. But tonight felt different from the moment he walked in.

Usually, the first thing you did was raid his duffel bag for one of his oversized gray hoodies or a pair of his softest flannel pants. It was a habit born of comfort, a platonic shorthand. But tonight, as you stood by the closet, your fingers hovered over the drawer of your own clothes.

No, you thought. It’s too complicated now. If I wear his clothes, it means something else. It feels like taking something I haven't even earned.

You opted instead for a pair of your own black silk shorts and a matching camisole--simple, neat, entirely yours.

When you walked into the living room where Chris was setting up the laptop on the coffee table, he paused. His eyes moved down your form, noting the absence of his own cotton fabric, the way the thin straps of the camisole exposed the line of your collarbones and the pale skin of your shoulders. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, but he turned back to the screen without a word.

The movie played, but neither of you were watching it. The space between you on the couch felt charged, a live wire hummed beneath the cushions. By the time the credits rolled, the room was dark save for the blue glare of the monitor.

"You didn't take my hoodie tonight," chris said. The statement was quiet, cutting through the hum of the refrigerator. He was looking at his hands, his thumbs tracing the silver rings on his fingers.

"Oh," you said, your voice small. "Yeah. I just... I figured I should wear my own stuff. Didn't want to make things weird."

"Why would it be weird?" He turned his head, his dark eyes catching the dim light. There was a seriousness in his expression now that hadn't been there all evening. The easygoing friend had vanished...

"Because things are different, Chris," you said, turning slightly to face him, pulling one leg up under you. "Ever since... that night. I know what you said. And I know how you look at me."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"It’s a complicated thing," you whispered, looking down at your lap. "You... you deserve someone who doesn't have the baggage I have, chris. you’re good. ou’re whole. I spent the last year letting someone treat me like nothing, and I believed him. If I... if we do this, if I let myself want you, it feels like I’m offering you a broken toy."

chris didn't hesitate. He shifted closer, his large frame instantly warming the space beside you. He reached out, his hand wrapping around your jaw, his thumb resting just beneath your ear, tilting your head up so you had no choice but to look into his eyes. They were fierce, intense, and incredibly soft all at once.

"Don't do that," he said, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that made your chest tighten. "Don't you dare talk about yourself like you’re damaged goods. You aren't a broken toy. You’re the only person I’ve looked at for four years. You think I care about him? You think what he did changes who you are to me?"

"Chris..."

"No, listen to me," he insisted, his grip firm but incredibly gentle, his palm warm against your skin. "I don't want 'better.' I want you. I want the girl who laughs at bad horror movies, the girl who fights for her friends, the girl who is sitting right here in front of me. Every single part of you. The parts he didn't know how to value, those are the parts I want to spend the rest of my life taking care of."

A tear slipped from your eye, hot and fast, and Chris caught it with the pad of his thumb.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your lips, his thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. "It drives me crazy how little you see it. Let me show you. Please."

The vulnerability in his voice was your undoing. The walls you had spent a month building out of fear and insecurity didn't crumble; they dissolved under the heat of his gaze. You didn't answer with words. You leaned forward, closing the final inch between you, and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss began with a tentative, reverent softness, a quiet exploration that felt like a question asked in the dark. But the moment your lips parted against his, a low growl rumbled deep in Chris’s chest. The restraint he had practiced for months snapped like a dry twig. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair, anchoring you to him as his mouth grew hungrier, deeper, consuming you with a fierce, possessive heat.

You gasped into his mouth, the sudden intensity of it sending a shiver straight down your spine. His other hand found your waist, his broad palm burning through the thin silk of your camisole as he pulled you effortlessly onto his lap. You straddled his thighs, your knees digging into the cushions on either side of his hips, your hands finding the thick muscles of his shoulders, clinging to him as if the world were tilting beneath you.

"Chris," you breathed against his lips, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"I’ve got you," he panted, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, chaotic second. His eyes were dark, dilated, full of a raw, primitive desire that was entirely focused on you. "You’re right here. I am all yours and you’re all mine tonight."

He didn't rush. For all the heat in his movements, there was an underlying deliberation, a desire to worship rather than consume. His hands moved down to the hem of your camisole, his fingers skimming the bare skin of your stomach, causing your muscles to twitch and tighten under his touch. he gathered the fabric up, his eyes never leaving yours as he lifted it over your head and tossed it into the darkness of the room.

The cool air hit your skin, but before you could feel self-conscious, Chris’s hands were back, cupping your ribcage, his thumbs tracing the line beneath your breasts with a reverence that made you ache.

"look at you," he whispered, his voice thick with awe. "God, you’re perfect. Every single inch of you."

He leaned down, his lips pressed to the hollow beneath your throat, his tongue flicking out to taste the sensitive skin there. You arched into his touch, your fingers gripping his hair as he began a slow, deliberate descent down your body. His hands slid down to your silk shorts, tugging them over your hips with a smooth, practiced movement until you were completely bare before him in the dim blue light.

Chris moved you gently, laying you back against the cushions of the couch, his large body hovering over yours like a shield. He looked down at you, his chest heaving, his gaze running over your form with a heat that felt physical.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, his hand sliding down between your thighs, his fingers gently parting you. "So soft for me. Let me see how much you want this."

You let out a broken whimper as his middle finger slipped inside you, wet and warm, finding the core of your heat instantly. He groaned at the sensation, his thumb finding the sensitive clitoris, pressing down with a rhythmic, torturous pressure that had your hips lifting off the couch automatically.

"That’s it," Chris whispered, his voice a dark, velvety caress against your ear. "Move for me, baby. You’re so tight. So perfect."

He added a second finger, stretching you slowly, his movements deliberate and deep. You hid your face in the crook of his neck, your teeth biting into the fabric of his shirt to keep from crying out as the pleasure began to coil tight and heavy in your lower stomach.

"Chris, please," you begged, your voice strained, your fingers digging into the leather of the couch behind him. "I want you. Now. Please."

He pulled his fingers out with a soft, wet sound that made your cheeks flush. He stood up just long enough to rid himself of his clothes, his broad shoulders and muscular chest cast in sharp relief against the shadows of the room. When he returned to you, the sheer presence of him was overwhelming. He settled between your thighs, his knees forcing yours wider, his large hands reaching up to pin your wrists gently beside your head.

"Look at me," he commanded softly.

You opened your eyes, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

"This is us," Chris said, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that made you feel completely exposed, yet entirely safe. "Just you and me. No one else."

He lowered his hips, the blunt head of his length pressing against your entrance. He paused, waiting, his eyes searching yours for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, he pushed forward, a slow, relentless intrusion that filled you so completely you felt a sob catch in your throat. He was larger than you remembered, firmer, filling every empty space within you until there was no room left for anything but the reality of him.

"Oh god, Chris," you cried out, your head tossing back against the cushion as he buried himself to the hilt.

He let out a long, ragged exhale, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second as he absorbed the tight, searing heat of you. When he opened them, they were burning. He began to move, a slow, deep friction that was less about speed and more about depth, each stroke deliberate, each slide out and back in a testament to his possession.

"You feel so good," he groaned, his voice rough, entirely stripped of its usual polish. He released your wrists, his hands sliding down to cup your thighs, lifting them higher onto his shoulders to deepen the angle. "So wet, so warm. You were made for me, do you hear me? Only me."

The dirty talk was a sharp contrast to the tenderness of his touch, a delicious contradiction that sent your senses into overdrive. You reached up, your nails scratching against the taut skin of his back, leaving faint, red tracks across his shoulder blades as the pace began to quicken.

"Am I better?" Chris whispered suddenly, his movements stalling for a fraction of a second as he drove deep into you, holding himself there, his chest pressed hard against yours. His breath was hot against your cheek, his voice a mix of vulnerability and dark, possessive pride. "Tell me, baby. Am I better than him?"

The question wasn't born of malice; it was the final, desperate exorcism of the ghost that had haunted the room for months.

"Yes," you sobbed, your hands wrapping around his neck, pulling him down until your lips were brushing his. "Yes, Chris. Always. You’re everything. Please, don't stop."

A dark, satisfied smile touched his lips before he buried his face in the crook of your neck. He began to move with a fierce, unchecked rhythm, his strokes fast and heavy, driving you higher and higher toward the edge. His teeth nipped at the sensitive skin of your shoulder, his lips leaving a trail of dark, bruising marks along your collarbone--claims, physical markers of the boundary he was drawing between your past and your present.

The pleasure broke over you like a wave, sudden and violent. You convulsed around him, your walls clamping down on his length in tight, electric spasms. Chris let out a loud, undone groan at the sensation, his body stiffening as he drove deep one last time, his own release hitting him with a force that shook his entire frame. He poured himself into you, his muscles trembling under your fingertips as the tension finally drained from the room, leaving only the sound of two people breathing in the dark.

The aftermath was quiet, a gentle landing after a long fall.

Chris didn't pull away immediately. He stayed buried inside you for several long minutes, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his breath slowing down against your skin. When he finally shifted, he did so carefully, as if you were made of glass, rolling onto his side and taking you with him.

He pulled the discarded blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over both of your naked bodies, shielding you from the cool air of the room. He tucked you against his chest, his large arm wrapping around your waist, pulling your back flush against his stomach.

The silence now was entirely different. It was soft, domestic, filled with the comfortable weight of a shifting reality.

Chris leaned forward, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the bare skin of your back shoulder, right over the spot where his teeth had left a faint mark only minutes before. his hand moved down to your thigh, his fingers gently tracing the skin, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your hip.

"I’ve got you," he whispered into the dark, his voice rough and sleepy, but entirely certain. "You’re safe now. We’re good."

You closed your eyes, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, filling the old, hollow spaces with something solid, something permanent.

for the first time in a very long time, the loop was broken. And as you fell asleep to the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against your back, you finally believed him.

୨୧ taglist: permanent: @dknbvdb @prettypeachprincesz @geni-627 @s1lverroses @nightmarenyxx @thequeenofdramaqueens @anyans-world

You had been scrolling through your phone when the mv dropped, and the second chris appeared on screen in that skin tight sheer bodysuit, your stomach flipped. The way the fabric hugged every line of his chest, the way it stretched over his torso and left almost nothing to the imagination - it was deliberate, and he hadn't said a word about it beforehand. By the time the video ended, your decision was already made.

You texted him right away.

"Bring the bodysuit home tonight. I want to see it on you in person."

His reply came back quick, a single question mark followed by a nervous emoji.

You didn't elaborate. You just waited.

When the front door finally opened hours later, chris stepped inside looking equal parts excited and nervous, the garment bag slung over one shoulder. He locked the door behind him, set the bag down, and glanced at you where you were already stretched out on the couch in nothing but one of his oversized shirts.

"Hey, baby," he said, voice low. "You... really want me to put it on?"

you nodded once, slow. "Strip first. then put it on for me."

He swallowed hard but obeyed, peeling off his hoodie and sweats until he stood there in well... nothing, just naked. his dick was already half-hard from the anticipation alone, you watched him step into the bodysuit, the black fabric sliding up his legs, over his hips, stretching tight across his back and the growing bulge between his thighs. He put it on completely, the material clinging to every muscle, outlining his nipples, hugging his waist. When he finally looked at you again, his cheeks were flushed.

"come here," you told him.

chris walked over slowly, stopping right in front of you. you stayed seated, legs spread just enough for him to see you weren't wearing anything under the shirt.

Your fingers trailed down your own stomach, slipping between your thighs. You started touching yourself right there, slow circles over your clit while he watched, dick visibly twitching inside the tight bodysuit.

"Don't touch yourself," you said. "And don't touch me either. just stand there and watch."

a soft, desperate sound left his throat. "fuck... you're really doing this?"

"Mhm." You pushed two fingers inside yourself, letting him hear the wet sound. "You looked so fucking good in that video. thought you could hide it from me? Now you're gonna stand here and suffer for it."

chros shifted on his feet, the bodysuit doing nothing to hide how hard he was getting. The fabric strained over his dick, the outline growing thicker by the second. His hands clenched at his sides like he was fighting every instinct to reach down.

"please," he whispered. "can I at least—"

"No." you sped up your fingers, moaning softly on purpose. "You just get to watch. And maybe if you're good, I'll let you feel something later."

He whined, hips twitching forward involuntarily. The bodysuit looked obscene now, stretched so tight around his erection that you could see the head pressing against the shher material completely, precum leaking. you kept touching yourself, letting your shirt ride up so he had a full view of your pussy, wet and glistening under your fingers.

"Look at you," you murmured. "Already leaking and I haven't even touched you. pathetic, baby."

chris's breathing was getting ragged. "I can't... it's too tight. Feels like it's squeezing me."

"Good." You pulled your fingers out, brought them to your mouth, and licked them clean while he watched. then you stood up, stepping close enough that he could feel the heat of your body but not close enough to touch. Your hand pressed flat against his chest, feeling how fast his heart was racing through the bodysuit.

"Take it off," you ordered. "Slowly."

His hands shook as he reached for the zipper. He dragged it down inch by inch, revealing smooth skin and the hard lines of his abs. when the fabric parted enough, you helped him, peeling it off his shoulders, down his arms. The suit caught on his hips, and you made him turn around so you could watch him push it down over his ass. His dick sprang free the second the material cleared his hips, flushed dark and already dripping at the tip.

You didn't let him step out of it completely. Instead you pushed him back onto the couch, the bodysuit still tangled around his thighs like restraints. He looked up at you with wide, desperate eyes, chest heaving.

"please, baby" he begged again. "Touch me. anything. I'm so fucking hard it hurts."

You climbed onto his lap but stayed just above him, your pussy hovering over his cock without touching. "Not yet. I want to see how long you can last like this."

Chris's hips bucked up on instinct, trying to chase any kind of friction. You pressed a hand to his stomach, holding him down. "Stay still or I stop completely my love."

he froze, whimpering. You reached between your bodies and wrapped your fingers around the base of his dick, giving one slow stroke before letting go. His whole body jerked.

"Fuck- please-"

"Shh." You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. "You're gonna be good for me, chris. you're gonna let me edge you until you're crying. And then maybe I'll let you have more."

You started again, this time with just the very tip of your finger tracing around the head of his dick, spreading the precum around. Every time his breathing picked up or his hips twitched, you pulled away. He was already close--you could tell by the way his thighs trembled and the broken sounds leaving his mouth.

"no, no, please don't stop," he gasped. "I'm sorry, I'll be good, just--"

You pulled your hand away completely, watching his dick twitch in the air, denied. A tear slipped down his cheek and he didn't even try to hide it.

"look at you," you said softly. "Already crying and I haven't even let you inside me yet."

chan's voice cracked. "I need you so bad bab-y, please- I'll do anything."

You smiled, wicked. "anything my love? Then keep your hands behind your back and don't move."

he obeyed instantly, lacing his fingers together behind him. You lowered yourself just enough to let the head of his cock brush against your entrance, not pushing in, just letting him feel how wet you were. His entire body went rigid.

"oh god—"

"Just the tip baby," you whispered. "that's all you get right now."

You sank down slowly, taking only the head inside you, clenching around it. chan made a sound like he was dying, head falling back against the couch, tears gathering in his eyes again. You stayed there, not moving, just holding him inside that tiny bit while you reached down and rubbed your clit again.

"Please," he sobbed. "m-more. I need more. You're so tight, fuck--"

"No." You lifted off completely, leaving him empty and throbbing. "Not until I say so."

You repeated the process three more times--taking just the tip, letting him feel your heat, then pulling away before he could get any real friction. each time he got closer, his begging got more desperate, his voice breaking on every word. by the fourth time, tears were streaming down his face and he was shaking so hard the couch creaked.

"I can't take it," he cried. "please let me cum. please. I'll be so good. I'll do whatever you want. Just please--"

You finally sank all the way down in one smooth motion, taking him to the hilt. chris screamed, body arching up into you, but you immediately lifted off again before he could thrust.

"not yet," you said. "One more time."

He was openly sobbing now, dick red and angry-looking, twitching with every heartbeat.

You gave him a moment to breathe, then took just the tip again, rolling your hips in tiny circles that drove him insane but gave him nothing substantial.

"I'm gonna cum," he warned, voice wrecked. "I can't stop it—"

You pulled off instantly. "No you don't."

chris broke. He was crying hard now, shoulders shaking, cock pulsing in the air with nothing to catch it. You watched him struggle through the ruined orgasm, cum dribbling out in weak spurts without any real pleasure. Only when he was completely spent and trembling did you finally sink down on him fully again, riding him slow and deep while he whimpered through the overstimulation.

"Good boy," you murmured, finally letting him have what he needed. "You did so well for me." you said kissing his nose wiping the tears away, then kissing his head.

chris could only nod weakly, still crying softly as you rode him, his body completely at your mercy, it wasnt a common occurance that chan was at yout mercy and now that he is..you dont plan on ending it all so soon.

You soon came around him with a soft moan, clenching tight, and he gave one last broken sound before going limp beneath you.

You stayed there for a long moment, stroking his hair while he caught his breath. Eventually he looked up at you with red-rimmed eyes, voice hoarse.

"...Can we do that again sometime-?" he whispered, well turns out it wasnt just you who enjoyed it but also your lovely boyfriend

you smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Oh, baby. We're just getting started for tonight."

to which chan just hugged your waist "hm", he hummed not opposing the idea either.

Who knew edging him and seeing the whiny side of him would do something as much as loving it. It would be a lie to say that he didnt look pretty begging and crying, ugh.

--