Ty

oblivion

In which . . . chris is completely oblivious his goatee is turning you on.

word count- 1318.

warnings- f!receiving. slight humiliation kink.

requested by this anon

Chris was leaned against the kitchen counter, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug, the other scrolling through his phone. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower, and his goatee was freshly lined up—sharp, precise, the mustache perfectly trimmed. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a magazine, completely oblivious to the fact that you'd been staring at him for the past three minutes without saying a word.

He finally looked up, catching your gaze, and a slow smirk tugged at his lips. "What? Do I got something on my face?"

You shook your head, biting your bottom lip. "No. It's just...that."

He raised an eyebrow, confused, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "Did I miss a spot?"

"No, Chris." You stepped closer, your voice dropping. "The whole thing. Your goatee. Your mustache. All of it."

He blinked, genuinely puzzled. "My...facial hair?"

Instead of answering, you reached up and cupped his jaw, pulling him down into a kiss. But this wasn't your usual kiss. This was slow, deliberate, almost reverent. You dragged your lips across his mustache, felt the slight scratch of his goatee against your chin, and a tiny, desperate whimper escaped your throat before you could stop it.

He pulled back, eyes searching yours. "Wait—hold on." A slow grin spread across his face. "That turns you on? My goatee?"

Your cheeks flushed pink. You nodded, unable to meet his eyes.

Chris let out a low chuckle, setting his coffee mug aside. "Baby," he murmured, stepping into your space, his voice dropping an octave. "Why didn't you ever tell me?"

Before you could answer, his hand was tilting your chin up, and he kissed you again—but this time, he knew exactly what he was doing. He rubbed his mustache deliberately against your upper lip, dragged his goatee across your jaw, down the column of your throat. Every scratch sent a shiver straight through you, and you gasped against his mouth.

"God," he hummed against your neck, his lips brushing your pulse point. "You're so sensitive. All this time I've been walking around with this thing, and you were just suffering in silence?"

You nodded frantically, your fingers curling into his shirt. "Chris—"

"Suffering in silence," he repeated, nipping at your collarbone, the rough hair scraping your skin in the most intoxicating way. "That's real cute."

He dropped to his knees right there in the kitchen, looking up at you with dark, hungry eyes. His hands found the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down your legs along with your underwear. The cool air hit your slick heat, and you felt embarrassingly exposed, but the heat in his gaze burned hotter than any shame.

"Fuck, baby," he breathed, his eyes fixed on you. "You're already so wet for me."

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, his mustache brushing against the sensitive skin there, and your knees nearly buckled. He grinned against your flesh. "Oh, I felt that."

His hands gripped your hips, steadying you as he leaned in. The first touch of his tongue was broad and flat, licking a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit. You tasted sweet on his tongue—honeyed and warm—and he groaned low in his throat like he'd just tasted something sinful.

"God, you taste incredible," he murmured, his breath hot against your soaked folds.

He dove back in, this time parting your folds with his thumbs, spreading you open for him. His tongue circled your entrance, teasing, dipping in just barely before dragging back up to your clit. He lapped at you in long, slow strokes, savoring every drop, and his goatee scraped against your inner thighs with every movement—rough, scratchy, delicious.

You gasped, your hand flying to his hair, gripping the damp strands. "Chris—"

He hummed against you, the vibration rippling through your sensitive flesh, and your hips bucked involuntarily. He took it as encouragement, flattening his tongue against your clit and applying firm, steady pressure. He circled the swollen bud in slow, torturous figure-eights, alternating between broad strokes and pointed flicks of his tongue tip directly over the center.

"You like that?" he asked, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening, his goatee wet and messy, his eyes locked on yours. His thumb replaced his tongue, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he caught his breath. "You like when I do that?"

"Yes—" The word came out broken, desperate. "Don't stop—please—"

He smirked, then lowered his mouth again, but this time he was more deliberate. He wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked gently, his tongue flicking rapidly against the sensitive peak. His goatee—rough, scratchy, wet with your arousal—pressed firmly against your folds, the friction of the coarse hair against your oversensitive skin sending jolts of pleasure straight through you.

He moved his head in slow, rolling circles, using his entire face against you. His mustache brushed against your clit with every pass, his goatee scraped against your inner lips, and his tongue was relentless—dipping into your entrance, then dragging back up to lap at your clit, over and over.

"Fuck, Chris—right there—" you choked out, your thighs trembling around his head.

He groaned against you, the sound muffled but the vibration unmistakable, and he doubled down. He speared his tongue inside you, curling it, fucking you with it while his nose and mustache ground against your clit. Then he pulled back and dragged his tongue flat over your entire slit, gathering every bit of your wetness before focusing back on your clit with sharp, rapid flicks.

Your breathing was ragged, your hips grinding against his face, chasing the friction. He let you use him, his hands gripping your ass to pull you closer, his mouth working you relentlessly. His goatee was soaked now, the coarse hairs scraping against your folds with every movement, the contrast between the rough scratch and the softness of his tongue driving you absolutely insane.

"I can feel you getting close," he murmured against you, his breath ghosting over your clit. "You're so fucking sensitive, baby."

He wrapped his lips around your clit again and sucked hard, his tongue flicking in rapid, desperate strokes, his goatee grinding against your entrance with every motion. The combination of suction, friction, and the constant scratch of his facial hair against your most sensitive spots was too much.

"Chris, I'm gonna—I'm gonna—"

"That's it, baby," he urged, his voice low and rough, his mouth never stopping. "Come for me. Let me taste it. Come all over my face."

And you did—practically sobbing his name as the orgasm crashed through you, your hips grinding against his face as he worked you through it. He didn't stop, didn't let up, his tongue lapping at your clit through every wave of pleasure, his goatee scratching and his mustache brushing and his mouth drinking every bit of you until you were trembling, oversensitive, completely wrecked.

He pulled back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his grin smug and satisfied. His goatee was a mess—glistening, wet, absolutely filthy, with your arousal shining on the coarse hairs—and the sight of it sent another weak pulse through your spent body.

"Look at that," he murmured, rubbing his thumb over his own chin, collecting some of your slick and bringing it to his lips. He sucked it clean with an exaggerated moan. "Taste even better the second time around."

He stood up, crowding you against the counter, and kissed you again. You could taste yourself on his lips, feel the scratch of his wet beard against your chin, and you knew—you knew—he was never going to let you forget this.

"Should've told me sooner," he whispered against your mouth, his voice rough and low. He dragged his goatee across your cheek, leaving a damp, sticky trail. "Now I'm never shaving this thing off."