#christopher bang

The gravel crunched under the tires as the rental SUV finally rolled to a stop in front of the cottage. Chan killed the engine and for a long moment neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t empty, it was full: of pine sap, distant woodpeckers, the faint metallic tick of the cooling motor and the sudden, almost embarrassing awareness that this was real. You were here. Married. Alone. For ten whole days.

Chan turned to you first. His left hand still rested on the wheel; the new platinum band on his fourth finger caught a stray shaft of late-afternoon sun and threw a tiny prism across the dashboard. He noticed you looking at it the same second you did.

"Still feels weird" he murmured, flexing his fingers once like he was testing whether the ring would stay put.

You reached over and covered his hand with yours. Your own ring, thinner, more delicate, but matching, clicked softly against his.

"Good weird?" you asked.

He exhaled through his nose, the sound half-laugh, half-sigh. "The best kind."

Then he was out of the car before you could answer, rounding the hood with that quick, purposeful stride he always used when he was trying not to look nervous. He opened your door like it was ceremony. Offered his hand. You took it and let him help you down even though the drop was barely 10 cm.

The air smelled sharply of resin and damp earth. Somewhere a stream flows. The cottage sat maybe twenty meters ahead, dark cedar siding, wide windows framed in forest green, a generous wraparound porch already dusted with fallen needles. Smoke was supposed to curl from the stone chimney later; right now the sky was still too bright for that kind of coziness.

Chan didn’t let go of your hand. Instead he tugged you gently toward the front door, then stopped short on the bottom porch step. You felt the shift in him before he even spoke, the way his shoulders squared, the sudden sheepish tilt of his head.

"What?" you asked, already smiling.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. Ears going faintly pink. "I, uh… I know no one’s watching. But I still want to do it right."

You blinked. "Do what right?"

He didn’t answer with words. In one smooth motion he bent, hooked an arm under your knees and the other behind your back and lifted. You yelped, more surprise than anything, then dissolved into helpless laughter as he carried you up the three steps. Your arms automatically wound around his neck; his hoodie smelled like the airport, your perfume, and him.

"Chan-"

"Tradition" he said solemnly, though the corners of his mouth were fighting a grin. "Can’t skip tradition on day eleven."

"Day eleven of forever" you corrected and felt the way his chest stuttered under your palms at the reminder.

He paused at the threshold long enough to nudge the door open with his foot. The hinges gave a soft, almost polite creak. Then he stepped inside, careful not to knock your head against the frame, and only set you down once he was fully over the line.

The moment your feet touched the wide-plank floorboards he kissed you. Not the quick, giddy ones from the past few days. This was slower. Deeper. His hands framed your face like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go. When he finally pulled back his forehead rested against yours.

"Hi, wife" he whispered.

Your heart did something ridiculous: tripped, then soared.

"Hi, husband."

He smiled against your mouth, small and private, then kissed you again. Shorter this time. A punctuation mark rather than a paragraph.

Only then did he step back and actually look around. The cottage was exactly as the photos had promised, only better in person. Open-plan living area with a vaulted ceiling crossed by exposed beams. A stone fireplace that took up most of one wall. A kitchen island made from a single thick slab of walnut, still showing faint saw marks. Windows everywhere, floor-to-ceiling on the back wall looking straight into dense evergreens. The light inside was green-gold, filtered through needles.

Chan let out a low whistle. "This is… wow."

You wandered toward the windows while he went back outside to grab the suitcases. By the time he returned, two trips, stubbornly refusing your help, you had already kicked off your sneakers and were padding barefoot across the cool floorboards.

He dropped the bags near the couch, then came up behind you. Arms sliding around your waist. Chin hooking over your shoulder.

"Smell that?" he murmured.

You inhaled. Cedar. Woodsmoke from the last guests. Something faintly sweet, maybe wax polish. Underneath it all, him. Warm skin, faint traces of cologne that had survived twelve hours of travel.

"Yeah" you said softly.

He pressed his lips to the side of your neck. Just once. Lingering. "We’re really here."

You turned in his arms, hands sliding up to rest against his chest. His heart was beating a little fast. "We are."

For a few minutes you just stood like that, swaying slightly, not quite dancing, just breathing each other in. Eventually hunger won out. You hadn’t eaten since the airport breakfast sandwiches.

Chan insisted on making dinner. You perched on one of the bar stools at the island and watched him move around the tiny kitchen like he’d lived there for years. He’d packed half the suitcase with groceries from a market stop an hour back: fresh vegetables, thick slices of hanwoo beef, garlic, gochujang, sesame oil, a bottle of soju wrapped in a towel so it wouldn’t clink.

He hummed under his breath while he worked. Some melody you didn’t recognize, probably something he was still tinkering with in his head. Every so often he’d glance over at you and smile. Small. Secret. Like he couldn’t quite believe you were sitting there in his hoodie (the black one with the frayed drawstrings you’d stolen three years ago) watching your brand-new husband cook.

When the beef hit the hot pan the kitchen filled with sharp, caramelizing sizzle. You inhaled so deeply your eyes watered a little.

He laughed. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

He plated everything family-style: thin slices of perfectly seared meat, blistered shishito peppers, quick-pickled radish, steamed rice still sticking slightly to the sides of the pot. You ate at the little dining table near the windows as the sun dropped behind the ridge and turned the forest into velvet black.

After dinner you didn’t bother clearing the table right away. Instead Chan pulled you onto his lap on the wide leather couch. The fire he’d started earlier was crackling now, throwing shifting shadows across the walls. You tucked your face into the crook of his neck and felt him exhale, long and slow, like he was finally letting the last of the city tension bleed out of him.

"Tell me something" he said quietly.

"Hm?"

"Anything. Just… talk to me."

So you did. You told him about the way your mom had sobbed when she saw you in the wedding dress for the first time. How your little cousin had tried to sneak an entire tray of macarons under the table. How you’d caught Chan’s youngest sister filming you both during the first dance and making kissy faces behind the camera.

He laughed, soft, rumbling, every time you got to a funny part. His fingers kept tracing absent circles on your lower back.

Eventually you ran out of stories and just listened to his heartbeat instead. After a while he spoke again, voice so low you felt it more than heard it.

"I keep thinking about the vows."

You lifted your head. "Yeah?"

He nodded. Eyes on the fire. "When I said ‘in all the chaos and all the quiet’… I didn’t know what the quiet would actually feel like. Not really. Not until right now."

You cupped his cheek. Thumb brushing the faint freckle under his eye.

"It’s nice, isn’t it?"

"More than nice."

He turned his head to kiss your palm. "I could get used to this."

You smiled. "We’ve got nine more days to practice."

His grin turned a little wicked. "Nine days" he echoed. "And nights."

You laughed and swatted his chest. He caught your wrist and kissed the inside of it, then tugged you closer until you were straddling him properly. The hoodie rode up your thighs; his hands found skin immediately: warm, possessive, but still careful.

"Not tonight" you murmured against his mouth. "Tonight I just want… this."

He searched your face for a second, then nodded. "Okay."

So you stayed like that, kissing slow and lazy, hands wandering without urgency, the fire popping every so often like it was keeping time. Eventually you migrated to the bedroom upstairs. It had a king bed made up with cream linens, a thick wool throw at the foot, and another wall of windows that looked out over nothing but treetops.

You changed into sleep clothes while Chan brushed his teeth. When he came back he was shirtless, sweatpants slung low. The new tattoo on his ribs: the tiny crescent moon you’d drawn on a napkin three years ago and begged him to keep forever, was stark against his skin in the low lamplight.

He caught you staring. "Like what you see, Mrs. Bahng?"

The name hit like a soft punch every time.

You crossed the room and slid your arms around his waist. "Very much, Mr. Bahng."

He kissed the top of your head, then your forehead, then your mouth, gentle, lingering. When you finally crawled under the covers he followed, pulling you back against his chest the way he always did. One arm under your pillow. The other wrapped around your middle. His breath warm against your nape.

"Love you" he whispered into your hair.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it. Not even close. But tonight it felt different. Permanent. Etched.

You turned your head just enough to find his lips in the dark. "Love you too."

Sleep came slow and sweet, wrapped in laundry scented sheets and the steady rhythm of his breathing.

The next morning you woke to birds and the smell of coffee.

Chan was already up, barefoot, hair a disaster, wearing the soft gray hoodie you’d abandoned last night. He’d opened every window on the ground floor; cool morning air moved through the house like a sigh.

He handed you a mug without a word. Black. Two sugars. Exactly how you liked it.

You sat together on the porch steps while the mist still clung to the pines. Neither of you spoke for almost twenty minutes. Just sipped. Watched. Breathed.

Eventually he bumped your shoulder with his. "Walk?"

You nodded. So you walked. Hand in hand down the narrow dirt path that curved behind the cottage and disappeared into the trees. The forest smelled like wet bark and green life. Ferns brushed your calves. Chan didn’t talk much. Just pointed out little things: a woodpecker flashing red against a trunk, mushrooms the color of apricots growing in a fallen log, the way sunlight shattered through the canopy and landed in bright coins on the path.

At one point he stopped, crouched, and picked up a perfect pinecone. Turned it over in his fingers like it was treasure.

"Souvenir?" you teased.

He looked up at you, eyes soft. "For the studio. Put it on the desk. Every time I look at it I’ll remember this."

Your throat tightened. He stood, slipped the pinecone into his hoodie pocket, then pulled you close and kissed you right there in the middle of the path. Slow. Thorough. Like he had all the time in the world. Because for once, he did.

The rest of the day passed in that same gentle rhythm. Coffee. Breakfast (pancakes he insisted on flipping dramatically, nearly catching the ceiling fan). A long nap on the couch with your head in his lap while he scrolled through photos from the wedding on his phone, showing you his favorites and pretending he wasn’t tearing up at the candid of you laughing during your vows.

Late lunch turned into early dinner because neither of you wanted to stop touching long enough to cook properly. You ended up eating cheese and crackers and fruit on the rug in front of the fire, feeding each other bites and laughing when strawberry juice dripped on his chin.

Night fell soft and cool. You took a bath together in the deep clawfoot tub, bubbles up to your chin, his long legs folded awkwardly around yours, both of you giggling like teenagers when water sloshed over the side.

Afterward he wrapped you in the biggest towel like you were something precious, carried you to bed, and spent twenty minutes just kissing every inch of skin he could reach. Not trying to start anything. Just… worshipping.

When he finally settled behind you again, spooning close, his voice was rough with sleep and something deeper.

"Best decision I ever made" he mumbled into your shoulder.

You laced your fingers with his. Felt the rings click together. "Second best" you whispered back. "First was letting me steal your hoodie three years ago."

He huffed a laugh against your neck. "Fair."

And then you both drifted off to the sound of wind moving through the pines and the soft crackle of embers dying in the hearth downstairs.

The golden hour had stretched longer than usual that afternoon, painting the entire cottage in honey and amber through the tall windows. You’d spent most of the day barefoot, wearing nothing but Chan’s oversized black hoodie, the one with the faded logo across the chest and sleeves so long they swallowed your hands. It hit you mid-thigh when you stood still, shorter when you reached or bent. You hadn’t bothered with anything underneath. Not today.

Chan had noticed. He’d noticed the first time you stretched up to grab a mug from the high shelf and the hem rode up just enough to show the soft curve where thigh met hip. He’d noticed again when you leaned across the kitchen island to steal a slice of apple from the cutting board he was using, the fabric shifting, exposing skin that made his knife pause mid-chop. He’d noticed every single time you walked past him, slow, deliberate, pretending you didn’t feel the weight of his gaze dragging down your legs like a physical touch.

By four, the air inside felt thicker than the pine-scented breeze drifting through the open windows. The fire he’d built earlier had died down to glowing coals; neither of you had bothered to add more wood. You were both too distracted.

You were rinsing a glass at the sink when you felt him move behind you. Not sudden. Not rushed. Just… inevitable. His chest pressed lightly to your back first. Then his hands, those beautiful, veined, calloused hands, slid over your hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin just under the hoodie’s hem. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there, breathing you in, letting you feel how hard he already was through the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

You tilted your head back against his shoulder. "You’ve been staring all day."

His laugh was low. Rough. "Can you blame me?"

One hand slid up, slow and deliberate, until his palm flattened against your stomach under the hoodie. The other stayed low, fingers splaying across the top of your thigh, not quite touching where you wanted him most. Teasing.

"You look…" He swallowed. Voice dropped even lower. "…like mine."

The words landed heavy in your belly. You turned in his arms. The glass clinked forgotten against the sink edge.

Chan’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, that familiar flush creeping up his neck and into his ears. He looked wrecked already and he hadn’t even kissed you yet.

You reached up, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape, tugging just enough to make him exhale sharply through his nose. "Then take what’s yours, husband."

The word snapped something in him. He kissed you like he was starving, open-mouthed, hungry, tongue sliding against yours with none of the careful sweetness from the night before. His hands shoved under the hoodie immediately, rough palms skating up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. You arched into him; he groaned into your mouth at the feel of bare skin, no bra, no barriers.

"Fuck" he breathed against your lips. "No underwear?"

"Thought you might like the surprise."

He made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl. Then he was lifting you, effortless, like you weighed nothing, until your thighs wrapped around his waist. The hoodie rucked up completely now, bunched around your ribs. Cool air hit overheated skin; you shivered.

Chan carried you the few steps to the sturdy oak kitchen table. He didn’t bother clearing the cutting board or the half-chopped vegetables. Just shoved them aside with one forearm, carrots rolling, knife clattering and set you down on the edge.

He stepped between your legs, hands immediately pushing the hoodie higher until it bunched under your arms, exposing you completely to him. His gaze raked down your body like he was trying to memorize every inch all over again.

"God…" His voice cracked. "Look at you."

You leaned back on your palms, thighs parting wider in invitation. "Like what you see?"

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he dropped to his knees, right there on the worn rug in front of the table and hooked your legs over his shoulders in one smooth motion. You gasped when his mouth found the inside of your thigh, teeth grazing just enough to sting. He worked his way up slowly, deliberately, kissing and licking and sucking marks into skin that would bloom purple by morning.

When he finally reached where you were already slick and aching, he paused, just long enough to meet your eyes.

"Been thinking about this since the second we walked through the door yesterday" he murmured, breath hot against you. "About spreading you out. Tasting my wife on my tongue. Making you come so hard you forget your own name."

Then he licked a slow, broad stripe up your center. Your head fell back on a broken moan.

Chan didn’t tease after that. He devoured. Tongue flat and firm, then pointed and quick, circling your clit with devastating precision. Two fingers slid inside you without warning, thick, curled just right and you clenched around them immediately. He groaned at the feel of it, the sound vibrating through you.

"Fuck, you’re so wet" he rasped between licks. "So fucking perfect."

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. He only doubled down, sucking your clit into his mouth, fingers pumping steadily, thumb brushing the sensitive spot just above where his tongue worked.

The table creaked under your shifting weight. Your heels dug into his back. Heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly until it snapped, sudden, blinding. You came with a cry that echoed off the high ceiling, thighs trembling around his head, fingers yanking at his hair so hard it had to hurt.

He didn’t stop. Kept licking you through it, slower now, gentler, until the aftershocks faded and you were whimpering from overstimulation. Only then did he pull back.

His lips were swollen, chin glistening. Eyes wild. He rose slowly, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave prints. When he kissed you again you tasted yourself on his tongue, salty, intimate. You moaned into his mouth.

"Need you" you whispered against his lips. "Now."

Chan didn’t make you ask twice. He shoved his sweatpants down just enough, cock springing free, thick and flushed dark at the tip, already leaking. He fisted himself once, twice, eyes locked on yours. "Condom?" he asked, voice gravel.

You shook your head. "I’m still on the pill. And we’re married now." You smiled, small and wicked. "I want to feel you. All of you."

Something feral flickered across his face. He lined himself up, notched the head against your entrance and pushed in, slow at first, letting you feel every inch, every ridge, until he was buried to the hilt. Both of you froze.

He dropped his forehead to yours. Breathing ragged. "Fuck…" The word was punched out of him. "You feel, shit, baby, you feel like heaven."

You clenched around him on purpose. He jerked. Swore under his breath in Korean, low, filthy things you only half-understood but felt everywhere. Then he started moving. Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first. Letting you adjust. Letting you feel him stretch you, fill you, claim you in a way that felt brand new even after years together. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh above your hip bones.

"Look at me" he breathed.

You did. His eyes were liquid dark, pupils swallowing the brown. Sweat already beading at his temples. That stupidly beautiful face flushed and focused entirely on you.

"Mrs. Bahng" he whispered, testing the words again like they were still new magic. "My wife."

He thrust harder on the next stroke. Deeper. You gasped. He smiled, slow, dangerous.

"That’s it. Let me hear you."

The pace built steadily. The table rocked beneath you now, wood groaning in protest. Your nails dug into his shoulders, leaving red crescents across ink and skin. He fucked you like he was trying to imprint himself inside you: long, punishing strokes that hit exactly where you needed, grinding his pelvis against your clit on every deep thrust.

"God, you’re so tight" he groaned. "So fucking wet for me. Always so ready."

You wrapped your legs higher around his waist, changing the angle. He swore again, loud this time, head dropping to your shoulder as he drove in harder.

"Chan-"

"Say it again" he demanded against your neck. Teeth grazing your pulse. "Say my name."

"Chan" you gasped. "Husband, fuck, please-"

He lifted his head. Kissed you messy and desperate. One hand slid between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles that matched the rhythm of his hips.

"Come for me again" he growled against your mouth. "Wanna feel you come all over my cock. Wanna feel my wife fall apart."

The words, combined with the relentless pressure, the stretch, the way he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the universe, sent you over the edge for the second time.

You shattered. Loud. Unrestrained. Back arching off the table, thighs shaking, walls pulsing around him so hard he nearly lost rhythm.

"Fuck, yes...fuck..." His voice broke. "That’s it, baby, milk me, fuck..."

He fucked you through it, harder, faster, chasing his own release now. His thrusts turned erratic, hips snapping, breath coming in sharp pants against your throat.

"Where?" he managed, voice wrecked. "Tell me where-"

"Inside" you breathed without hesitation. "Want it inside. Want all of you."

That did it. He slammed in one last time, deep, grinding and came with a guttural moan that vibrated through both of you. You felt him pulse, felt the hot rush of him filling you, felt the way his whole body shuddered as he emptied inside.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed buried deep, arms wrapping around you, pulling you up until you were sitting pressed chest-to-chest. His forehead rested against yours again. Both of you breathing hard, skin slick with sweat.

For long minutes there was only the sound of your breathing, the faint crackle of dying coals in the fireplace, and the occasional drip of water from the sink you’d never turned off.

Chan kissed your temple. Soft. Reverent.

"Mrs. Bahng" he whispered again, like he couldn’t stop tasting it.

You smiled against his cheek. "Mr. Bahng."

He huffed a laugh, still breathless, then kissed you properly. Slow. Lazy. Full of all the things neither of you needed to say out loud anymore.

Eventually he softened enough to slip out. You both winced at the loss. He glanced down between you, watched the slow trickle of his come leak out and made a low, appreciative sound in his throat.

"Fuck. That’s hot."

You laughed, swatting his chest weakly. "Perv."

"Your perv." He grinned. Kissed the tip of your nose. "Forever."

He helped you down from the table, legs shaky, thighs sticky then scooped you up bridal-style like he had on the threshold yesterday. You looped your arms around his neck.

"Bed?" you asked.

"Shower first" he decided. "Then bed. Then maybe round two."

You raised an eyebrow. "Already?"

He carried you toward the stairs anyway. "I’ve got eight more days to make sure you can still feel me when we get home" he murmured against your ear. "Gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to be mine."

You shivered. Pressed closer.

"Good" you whispered back. "Because I don’t ever want to forget."

He kissed you again, right there on the stairs, slow and deep and full of promise.

Then he carried you the rest of the way upstairs, into the bathroom, under the warm spray of the shower where he washed you carefully, reverently, like you were something sacred.

And when you finally collapsed into the big bed afterward, clean, boneless, tangled together under the thick quilts, he pulled you close, lips brushing your shoulder.

"Love you" he murmured into your skin.

You turned just enough to find his mouth in the dark. "Love you too."

The forest outside was quiet except for the wind in the pines.

Inside, it was only the sound of two hearts beating in time. And the soft click of wedding rings brushing together under the covers.

it was just another friday night, the kind where you were waiting for chan to come over so you could put on a movie like you always did.

you were sprawled across your bed, facing the headboard, chin resting in your hands as you nervously bit your lower lip.

7:49 glowed in the corner of your computer screen. 

chan was late. like always.

maybe now would be a good time.

he wouldn’t be here for at least another thirty minutes, so you had time, right?

a pornhub tab sat open among your other Google tabs.

what's the point behind all of this? you might be wondering. well, let me answer you real quick. turns out, this handsome, muscled college guy has invited you on a date. problem is, you have never been on a date. you haven't even hold hands with a guy romantically before, much less kissed or fucked one. you simply refuse to come off as a prude, which honestly you are, but that dream of a man doesn't need to know that.

so, somehow, you had convinced yourself that watching porn for the first time was a good idea.

now that you thought about it, it sounded much better in your head. anyways....

somehow, you feel like you are doing something wrong, and you can't seem to shake the guilt away. still, you didn’t back out. you hit enter, and within seconds, countless search results appeared. not knowing where to start, you clicked the first link, which led you to a site called pornhub.

the homepage was flooded with videos, each with a bold, eye-catching thumbnail. your cheeks burned as you skimmed through the titles, noticing the same words popping up again and again, making you wonder if that was all the site had to offer.

you scrolled through different categories, feeling overwhelmed.

how were you even supposed to choose?

so focused on your “research,” headphones on and volume up, you failed to hear the front door open. you didn’t notice chan walking up the stairs, and you definitely didn’t realize he was standing right behind you until he spoke.

and by then, it was too late.

“the fuck are you doing, sweetheart?” he blurted out, staring at the screen in pure shock at the sight of his supposedly innocent best friend scrolling through pornhub.

well shit, maybe you aren't as innocent as he thought you were.

you jolt instantly, jumping out of your seat on your bed as you feel all the colour draining from your cheeks. no way chan just caught you in the act. this can't be real. despite how bad you want to run away, you are left with no other choice but to turn around and face him, wishing the earth would swallow you up.

"i– this is not what it looks like, i swear i can explain," you stutter nervously, taking of the airpods with trembling hands. from here on, the anxious rambling begins, "i wasn't doing anything... this guy– well, i... i uhm– i got a date, 'kay? with this guy from class and– listen, i know this is silly, but..."

"jesus christ, baby, slow down, okay?" he stops you, his heart nearly melting from how cute you look, so shy and flustered. he almost feels bad for interrupting whatever the hell you were doing here.

the colour has returned to your cheeks, and you are all flushed now, from head to toe. your face feels like it's on fire- you have never been this embarrassed before.

"could you please start over?" he asks, hoping to hear a coherent explanation to why on earth would you spend your time waiting for him to watching porn on his laptop.

you take a deep breath, fidgeting with the hem of your top. you are so deeply ashamed that you somehow even forgot that he was coming over, you don't seem to remember that you are wearing nothing but a flimsy white singlet and a tiny pair of matching panties. chan’s very aware of that fact, though, hungry eyes trailing all over your beautiful body.

"i've got a date with a guy from class," you start explaining, white teeth nibling occasionally on your plump bottom lip, "but i've never dated anyone, ya' know? i've no experience, and i don't want him to think i'm pathetic if we..."

"fuck?" he finishes your sentence, a roguish grin spreading across his handsome face.

if possible, your blush deepens even more at the vulgarity while you mutter a quiet 'yeah' in response.

honestly, he is a bit jealous of that guy. not only you are willing to let him fuck you, but you are also trying to learn how to do it properly so he has a good time doing it. 

god, what a shame for him he is going to kill him as soon as he finds out who he is- there's no chance chan’s letting you near any other man but him.

"i thought, uhm, maybe watching that would help..." you add coyly, his silence making you more nervous.

it is cute how you try to avoid saying words like 'fuck' or 'porn', like it is a crime to pronounce them or something.

"you know what? let's watch it together," he proposes. 

there's a mischievous glint in his eyes that doesn't go unnoticed. you swear your cheeks might just explode at any second, and you can't help the pathetic stutter that comes out when you talk. "uhm, i don't think that'd be appropriate," you refuse, shaking your head. 

"why not? you want help, and i can help you here, sweetheart," he answers, his voice surprisingly soft and gentle —unlike chan, "that's what best friends are for, aren't they?" 

he takes a few steps in his direction until he is standing right beside you. 

then, he grabs the laptop in his large hands as he flashes you a wicked smirk, his curtain bangs falling messily on his forehead. you gulp, having him so close makes you feel a certain way- you cannot deny that. 

"you, uhm, being my bestfriend is exactly why not," you stammer as you tilt your head back to look at him, his height towering over you. 

"bullshit," he retorts, huffing. "you trust me?" 

your first mistake is, probably, trusting bang chan. "yeah, i do, but..." 

"that's why im perfect for the job, baby," he interrupts you. his words are clearly intended to manipulate you, but you are way too innocent to notice it, "i'm probably the guy you feel most comfortable with, aren't i? i can give you all the advice you need." 

to be fair, he isn't wrong about that. and you are honestly too embarrassed to ask your girlfriends for help on this department, not wanting them to think less of you. plus, chan is a guy- he knows better what guys like, right?

"wouldn't it be kinda... weird ?" you ask, clearly hesistant. 

"weird?" he repeats. "no, 'course not." 

only a few more sweet, reassuring words is all it takes for him to gently coax you into watching his favourite pornos with him. his cock starts to harden in his pants just at the thought of having you like that. when you finally accept, he swears he's on cloud nine.

god, he's been wanting you for months now- he can't believe this is happening.

"c'mere, baby," he eagerly instructs you, getting on your bed.

he sits with his back resting on the headboard and pats the spot between his legs to invite you to sit there. he places the laptop next to him, the pornhub website still open on it. you move slowly towards him, cheeks slightly flushed from the embarrassment as you settle on the mattress in between his parted thighs, your back pressed to his hard chest.

he wraps one strong arm securely around your waist, his hand coming to rest gently on your tummy. with his other hand, he reaches for the laptop sitting beside him, carefully bringing it closer so the two of you can see the screen properly.

your heart is beating so fast in your chest that he can probably hear it, too. the way he is touching you is not making it easier for you to stay calm, either, his fingers tenderly tracing patterns on your belly over the thin fabric of your shirt while he scrolls through the page.

he seems to sense your discomfort and chuckles low in his throat, his warm breath tickling your ear. "relax, baby”, he whispers teasingly, his voice laced with amusement. "i'm not gonna make you watch anything that'll traumatize you."

"it's just– this is a bad idea," you babble, fidgeting nervously when he finally clicks on a video and a pretty young woman appears on screen.

the actress is beautiful- she has a gorgeous body and face. her lips are full and pink, and she has these big, expressive eyes that appear to gleam. and you don't realize it, but she looks exactly like you.

the scene starts playing; in it, the girl is watching some movie with a guy that, apparently, is her roommate —at least that's what the title says.

"shhh..." he hushes you softly, his voice barely audible over the sounds emanating from his laptop's speakers. "just watch. don't overthink it."

"okay," you answer between gritted teeth.

your pretty eyes are fixed on the laptop while you try not to cringe at how bad the script and acting are, which is nearly impossible, to be honest. despite that, you keep watching in silence as the video plays, growing more flustered as the clock ticks.

you didn't know mouths could be used for that... interesting.

as opposed to you, chan’s pretty chill behind you, like he's unbothered by this whole situation —he's actually hard as fuck inside his pants, the thing is you haven't noticed. you wonder how he can act so unfazed, since you keep pushing your thighs together to try and soothe the throbbing sensation building in between them while you take in the lewd actions occurring on screen.

you weren't expecting your body to have this reaction, and now you don't know what to do to make it stop.

chan soon becomes aware of the way you keep letting out soft sighs and squirming in his arms, plush ass rubbing against his cock every time you do it. it's a miracle he is still holding back, though he doesn't know how much time he will be able to.

he's not even paying attention to the video anymore, his entire focus put on you. he finally ventures to lean in, his hot breath grazing the shell of your ear as he whispers, "you know, i could do that to you..." his hand slowly slides to your plush thigh and he gives it a gentle squeeze.

his movements are measured and controlled not to scare you, but your breath hitches in your chest at his actions either way, body tensing up in his grasp. your brain is telling you to push him away, but the insistent throb in your sex doesn't like that idea, not one bit.

"you– you could?" you utter quietly, not taking your eyes away from the laptop.

chan notices the uncertainty in your voice, but the way you haven't pushed him away yet emboldens him to continue, his large hand gradually sliding north.

"yeah, baby," he murmurs huskily against your ear, fingertips brushing along your inner thigh. "i could put my fingers inside you, just like he's doing to her..."

his words make you blush heavily as a little gasp is released from your pouty lips. "would it feel good?" you ask naively.

your eyes are transfixed in the sight of the guy on the screen pushing his fingers inside the girl's pussy. god, she seems like she's enjoying it so much... and you desperately want to feel like that too. you can't even bring yourself to care that it's your bestfriend offering to show you.

chan’s fingers creep higher and higher until they're barely brushing against your cotton panties. "yeah," he growls huskily against your ear, "it'd feel real good, sweetheart. i promise..."

you shudder, a sweet little mewl escaping your throat involuntarily. you can't help but blush at your own reaction, slightly embarrassed by it. you tear your eyes away from the screen, head falling back against his chest as you look up at him.

"it's throbbing, chan…” you whine, self-control slipping from your hands. "can you make it better?"

chan’s fingers finally make contact with your wet underwear, pressing against your clit through the fabric. he rubs gentle circles around your sensitive nub, his other hand curling around your supple thigh to spread your legs wider.

"oh, baby, you're soaked through your panties..." he pants out.

your body literally melts into his touch like butter, perfectly shaped brows knitting together in a frown of pleasure. the girl in the video moans, and you do too, both sounds echoing in the silence of his room.

taking your moan as an invitation, chan carefully hooks his fingers in the gusset of your panties to push them aside, exposing your sopping cunt to the cool air of his bedroom. then, he traces your wet slit slowly, leisurely, as if savoring the velvety feel of your skin.

"such a pretty little pussy..." he praises, eyes hungrily taking in the pink expanse of flesh.

you squirm and let out a soft whimper, biting your lip right after to avoid keep making noises; the last thing you want is to wake up your neighbours. chan notices your struggle and swiftly reaches up to cover your mouth with his free hand, muffling your sweet moans.

he gathers some of the wetness dripping out of your cunt before trailing his fingers all the way up to your clit, rubbing it gently. your eyes roll back, hips bucking up against his hand instinctively. the way your swollen bud throbs beneath his fingertips is going to make you mad. he begins to touch your clit in fast, tight circles, his other hand still holding your mouth shut to keep you quiet.

he leans in to whisper against your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine, "if you make a sound, i'll stop, got it?"

“can’t let everyone know that you’re a slut, hm?” you nod obediently in response, making your best effort to comply- you don't want him to stop doing this, never. as a reward, chan slides a thick finger down your slit and presses it against your clenched entry, steadily applying pressure until your tight muscles finally give in and allow his digit ingress.

"so fucking tight," he groans under his breath at the feeling of your narrow pussy engulfing his finger.

withdrawing his finger almost all the way out, he teases your entrance with the tip, making you tremble with anticipation before pushing it back in to the knuckle, his palm cupping your mound as he starts to thrust in a smooth, lazy rhythm. you swallow a whiny cry while your eyelids flutter shut, pretty face scrunched in a blissful expression. 

chan works his finger in and out of your slick pussy slowly, marveling at how your velvety walls flutter around the digit. he curls it inward, searching for that special spot that's guaranteed to drive you wild.

after a few experimental pokes, chan’s fingertip finally brushes over your g-spot, eliciting a muffled moan from under his palm. he smiles wickedly against your skin, and you shudder in his grasp, pleasure waves running through your body.

"that's it, sweetheart... feel good?" he croons softly, fingering you nice and deep.

you can't bring yourself to reply, the sensation of his large digit fucking your pussy, added to the constant rubbing of his palm against your puffy clit has your mind feeling all fuzzy. your body language is the only answer he needs, though.

chan leans in to tenderly nip at your neck, his hot mouth latching onto your slender throat as he keeps pumping his finger steadily in and out of your dripping cunt. he knows you're close when he feels your inner muscles starting to clench erratically around his digit.

“chan,” you moan onto his palm as you feel this new, strange sensation building in your tummy, pussy tingling so nicely.

heaven help him. hearing you, his bestfriend, moan his name like that makes chan’s hard dick throb almost painfully against his zipper.

and then it happens. the coil in your belly suddenly snaps and you have to bite onto your lip harshly to keep yourself from screaming as you cum for the very first time, on your bestfriend's hand. chan continues to pump his finger in and out of your spasming cunt as you ride out your climax, wanting to prolong your pleasure.

when you finally come down from your high, you're all shaky and flustered in his arms, panting heavily to try and catch your breath. he has a satisfied smirk on his lips while he slowly withdraws his slick digit from your quivering hole to bring it up to his mouth and lick it clean, savoring your taste.

"did so well for me, baby," he coos as he uncovers your mouth, gently turning your head to the side to press a kiss to your swollen, red lips.

you return it sloppily, eyes fluttering shut in the process, and you sigh contently against his mouth. he can't help but rock his hips against your ass, rubbing his hard on against you.

"did i make you feel good?" he asks between little kisses, his breathing growing uneven. you nod in response. "yeah? then it's just fair you make me feel good too, sweetheart... wanna do that f'me?"

"yes," you whisper against his lips without even thinking, feeling him smirk into the kiss.

"such a good girl," he praises.

at some point, the porn video playing on his laptop ended, so he simply closes it up and tosses it away, the device landing somewhere on his king size bed. then, he turns you both around, until you are laying on the mattress and he is on top of you.

he is quick to undo his pants and yank them down, just enough to free his raging hard on, which bounces against his abs. let me tell you this, he's big, the tip pink and fat, already leaking precum. 

suddenly, realization hits you. this is your childhood bestfriend for god's sake, are you really gonna let him fuck you?

is it really worth it to ruin a friendship like this?

he notices how your body tenses up, one hand reaching to stroke your plush thigh reassuringly while the other wraps around his shaft, giving it a slow pump.

"hey, baby, relax..." he whispers gently, "i'll put just the tip in, yeah? there's nothing wrong with that."

you hesitate. his strong arms slide beneath your legs to tug you closer. then his cock brushes your pussy and you whimper. how are you supposed to say 'no' ?

it's just the tip.

"mhmm, 'kay" you end up agreeing with a little nod.

chan flashes you a lopsided smirk, his hand gripping his cock again while the free one yanks your panties aside once more. keeping eye contact, he slowly glides the fat head of his dick up and down your drenched slit, coating it thoroughly in your arousal. you shudder as his tip eventually meets your puffy clit, the gentle rubbing sending shivers down your spine.

“chan,” you whimper.

chan’s eyelids droop, a low hum of pleasure escaping his throat as he continues to slowly drag the reddened head up and down your chubby pussy lips with squelching sounds. his breathing grows heavier the longer he teasingly rolls it against your slick folds, reveling in your breathy whimpers. he feels like he's about to burst already, pre-cum steadily leaking from the tip and onto your flesh.

he can't fucking take this anymore.

with a slow, gentle thrust, he sinks his cock into your warm, slippery pussy, just the head breaching your entrance before he pauses, savoring the initial penetration. his eyes lock onto yours, his pupils blown wide with lust.

"jesus, fuck." he grunts.

your cunt starts fluttering around him. he has barely slid the first two inches in, as he promised, but he's so thick that even that feels like a tight fit. you let out a moan, which mingles with a strained groan from chan as your velvety walls clench tightly around his swollen cockhead.

"gonna– might just nut already, shit" chan mutters through gritted teeth, fighting the urge to just drive forward and hilt himself deep. "so goddamn tight."

your hips buck unconsciously against his, making him slip in just a tad further —which nearly makes him lose all his self-control. somehow, he manages to keep his shit together, hips rocking slowly to thrust in and out of you while his veiny hand strokes the rest of his shaft. 

you're totally enthralled by the sight, liquid heat pooling in your belly while you watch him use your body for his pleasure. he looks so good, you can't believe he's real. your chest fills with pride at the knowledge that you're making this greek god feel good.

this is the fastest chan has ever cum, the movement of his hips becoming jerky and sloppy after a few minutes as he spills his sperm inside you. he's panting heavily, sweat beading on his brow while his fist squeezes the base of his cock tightly.

you're left wanting more when he slowly pulls out, pussy stretched out and leaking white spurts of cum. he gazes down at you with a smirk, lightly tapping the head of his dick against your swollen clit, which has you writhing beneath him.

"so fucking gorgeous stuffed full of my cum," he whispers, his cock smearing the sticky substance all over your slit. you mewl in response. 

"hmm, 'm sorry for making such a mess on your pretty pussy, sweetheart, lemme clean it up, yeah?"

you blush in response when he leans forward, throwing your creamy thighs over his broad shoulders, to put his mouth onto your sex. you almost cry at the heavenly feeling, his playful tongue delving between your folds to lap up his own release. he cleans you up thoroughly, only to mess you up again right after, his spit soaking your cunt as he makes you cum again.

after tonight, you are cancelling that date, that's for sure.

but today was different. 

instead of feeling his hands touch you, you felt the touch of something.

your eyes fluttered open, your body immediately shivering as you felt something sticky drip on your exposed chest. chan was hovering over you, his smile ever so innocent, “good morning, princess.” 

“channie,” you breathe, already feeling your senses being flooded by him. you were facing up, with your faces inches apart, and his naked muscles flexed as he gave the bottle in his hand a rough jerk, making a moan escape you as the cold syrup fell on your now-hardened nipple. “what are you doing, love?” 

he only smiled, keeping the bottle aside as he lowered his face to your chest, making your core ache every time his breath teased your coated tits.

“i was planning to bring you breakfast in bed because of how good you were last night,” his tongue only slightly tapped your nipple, but the sensation made your back arc, begging for more. “and i just came here for a treat, but you look so peaceful sleeping,” he suddenly sat up straight, his absence making your head spin. “so i guess i’ll let you get back to it.” 

“baby,” you whimpered, barely awake but so needy, clutching on to his arm as he stood up, your thighs instinctively clenching together. 

chan smirked, very aware of the effect he had on you. “hmn? what is it, princess?”

you huffed, annoyed at him for playing so coy. your hand went up to your breasts, fingers making a mess of the sticky syrup. “help me clean up?”

“use your magic words, baby,” but he was already on the bed, his arms caging you.

“its not fair when you were the one who made the mess in the first place,” you pouted, casually licking your fingers. 

“oh yeah?” he held your wrist in his hand, pinning them above you. “i’m so sorry, darling. let me make it up to you.” 

in a flash, his mouth was on you, taking your sensitive nipple in his mouth as if he were a starved man. your free hand wove into his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp in a way that sent shivers racing down his spine.

he sucked and licked impatiently, your back arching whenever his teeth grazed your tender peak. he detached himself for a moment, only for him to push his tongue out, lapping up the remnants of the syrup from your chest. you moaned in pleasure, your mind going blank with just his hot tongue on your body. 

“look at you, baby,” he whispered, his tongue licking your jaw, “so needy, and i haven’t even used my hands yet.”

“pl-please, chan,” your body stilled as his fingers traveled to your exposed cunt as he peppered kisses along your jaw. 

“my girl is so dirty,” his fingers glistened, and he pinched and rubbed your tits with them, coating you with your own wetness. “gotta make sure she’s spotless.”

you were sure you wouldn't last a second longer if he continued licking your already hardened nipples, and a wave of pleasure washed over you as you felt him sink his teeth in. your body shuddered, and it continued doing so as chan’s fingers found their way to your cunt, helping you ride your high. 

“did you just?” chan chuckled as you collapsed limply on the bed, utterly spent, and he felt extremely cocky. “i didn’t know i was that good, baby,”

“oh, shut up,” you covered your face with your hands, your face burning. “i’m still sore from last night okay? or more like, two hours ago,” 

“my girl is so damn hot,” he rushed to pull his sweats down, his hard cock already glistening with his precum. “i need to finish inside you, baby,”

“nuh-uh,” you tried to get up to push him away, but you felt too exhausted. sensing your fatigue, he gently caressed your hair, muttering soft praises. “you finished the whole box yesterday, remember?”

“oh come on,” he groaned, still fisting his erection. he knew how exhausted you were and wasn’t about to ask you to give him head, but he also didn’t want to finish alone in the shower. “i promise i’ll pull out?”

“i think i have a better idea,” you watched his features darken as your pushed your tender breasts together, eyes inviting him to fuck you. 

he moved over in an instant, positioning himself over you as you lay flat, careful not to crush you under his weight. your body trembled as his calloused hands took your breasts in his, your nipples still tender from his licks and bites. 

“you sure you want this?” he whispered, and the tiniest nod from your gave him the permission to ram his cock through your soft tits, his huge dick hitting your chin in the first few thrusts. 

this was his first time fucking your tits, and bang chan felt like he was in heaven. the way his dick slipped between your voluptuous breasts made him go harder with each thrust, and when you repositioned your mouth so that with every thrust his tip just edge your mouth made him see stars. 

“that’s it, princess,” he grunted, watching your face contort in pleasure whenever he squeezed your tits too hard, pushed his cock too further up in your mouth. “you’re doing so well for me. does it feel good to have your tits fucked? hm?” 

“mhm,” you whimpered, feeling another orgasm building up as your hands played with your clit, your movements becoming increasingly more erratic with each rough thrust from chan. 

it was all too much for you to bear; your cunt clenched around thin air, trying to feel as good as your other senses were feeling with each rough squeeze from chan’s hands. your tits were red now, and you were sure chan’s grip would leave marks, but you were too much in pleasure to care about any of that, the overstimulation making the pain turn into pleasure. 

your fingers curled inside your cunt as your felt chan buckle his hips, his thrusts becoming slower but harder. “i”m gonna come baby, you want me to come on your face? yeah? or you wanna drink it up like a whore?” 

as you felt him near his release, you lifted your head, taking his cock inside your mouth. his hips gave a sudden, forceful jerk as he came, releasing his hot cum inside you. tears prickled your eyes as you took his load in, swallowing as much as you can.

you gagged as his cum dribbled out from the side of your lips, and knowing you were at your limit, chan pulled out of your mouth, spilling the rest of his cum all over your face. you came for the second time, your body quivering in pleasure. 

“oh baby, look at you,” he huffed, out of breath. he put two fingers in your mouth, smiling as he saw you swallow his load. “you did so well, princess, i’m so proud of you.” 

you smiled, feeling content, your tongue sticking out of your mouth to lick his release from your face. “thank you for the breakfast in bed, channie.”

peach notes: first one, kinda nervous. lmk if this was any good or if i should bury myself in a hole and die.

Chris had never been particularly fond of his curly hair, often opting to straighten it since it was easier to manage and deal with. The constant heat styling and bleaching had become routine; a small price to pay for the convenience of low-maintenance mornings and predictable styling. That changed, however, when he met you.

You took genuine pride in your curls and your hair care routine, no matter how long or expensive it was. He’d watch in fascination as you worked through each step with the precision of a scientist and the care of an artist—leave-in conditioner(not always), curl creams and moisturizers,defining brushes, defining gels, diffusing, oils amongst other things he definitely forgot. You spoke about porosity and protein moisture balance like they were actually important and somehow, you made him believe they were.

He remembers the first time he’d let you wash and style his hair. He’d been at your place, running your fingers through it absently while you watched a movie together, when you’d suddenly sat up and declared that his hair felt “absolutely fried” from all the bleaching and straightening. Before he could protest, you’d already pulled him into the bathroom, armed with an arsenal of products and unwavering determination.

That first experience had been revelatory. The way your fingers had massaged his scalp, the careful attention you’d paid to every strand, the genuine excitement in your eyes when his natural curl pattern started to emerge—it had been intoxicating. Needless to say, Chris had become thoroughly spoiled after that.

Now, whenever his hair needed a breather or some pampering, you’d become his personal hairdresser. He’d show up at your door with that boyish smile and puppy-dog eyes, asking if you had time for a “quick wash,” though you both knew there was nothing quick about your process.

Not that you were complaining. You hadn’t paid for your own hair care products in the longest time and that was entirely because Chris insisted on covering the costs. “If I’m benefiting from them too, I should pay,” he’d argued, waving away your protests as he added yet another expensive curl cream to the online cart. The arrangement had quickly evolved into him replacing your products before you even ran out, his bathroom slowly accumulating its own collection that mirrored yours.

It’s what has you in your current situation; standing in his bathroom with his head leaned back over the sink as you work shampoo through his dark curls. Water runs through your fingers as you massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles, working the product into a luxurious lather. His hair is longer now than when you first met, the curls springy and healthy after months of proper care.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you chide, catching his gaze fixed upward. “I told you to close your eyes because you always get soap in them.”

“I’m looking at your tiddies if I’m being honest.” The corner of his mouth quirks up in an unapologetic smirk, his eyes still very much open and not at all focused on anything resembling your face. “You don’t really expect me to keep my eyes closed for long when they’re all up in my face, do you?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks as you realize the somewhat compromising position; you leaned over him, the neckline of your shirt offering a view you hadn’t considered when you’d started this whole operation. You flick water at his face in retaliation.

“Christopher!” you gasp, trying to sound scandalized despite the laugh threatening to escape. “You’re impossible. Close your eyes or I’m going to get soap in them on purpose.”

“Worth it,” he declares shamelessly, though he does finally let his eyes flutter closed, that self-satisfied grin still playing on his lips. “But for the record, this is my favorite part of wash day.”

“Getting your hair washed?”

“Having you take care of me,” he corrects, his voice softer now, more sincere. “Though the view doesn’t hurt.”

You roll your eyes even though he can’t see it but you can’t quite suppress your smile as you continue working the shampoo through his curls, your touch perhaps a bit more tender than before. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“And that I pay for your products,” he adds helpfully.

“That too,” you agree and his quiet laughter vibrates through your fingertips where they rest against his scalp, warm and familiar and entirely too comfortable with making your heart skip beats.

“You’re still staring, Christopher.”

The use of his full name makes his grin widen rather than diminish. He doesn’t even pretend to look apologetic.

“You’re pretty.”

The simple statement, delivered with such casual sincerity, makes your breath catch for just a moment. You try to recover quickly, focusing intently on working the shampoo through a particularly stubborn section of curls near his temple.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you manage, though your voice comes out softer than you intended, betraying the effect his words have on you.

“Are your lips as soft as they look?”

Your fingers pause in his hair as you look down at him, soap suds forgotten. His eyes are already on you; not wandering anymore but fixed with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken. There’s something different in his gaze now, something that transforms the playful banter into something heavier, more charged. The bathroom suddenly feels smaller, warmer, the sound of running water fading into background noise.

“You’re teasing me,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers slowly start back massaging but it’s almost automatic now, your mind entirely focused on the way he’s looking at you.

But he’s still staring; not at your chest anymore but at your lips with an attention that feels almost tangible. His tongue darts out to wet his own lips unconsciously, and you track the movement despite yourself.

“I’m really not,” Chris replies, his voice lower now, rougher. There’s no trace of his earlier playfulness. “I’ve been wanting to know for a while now, actually.”

The confession hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication. Water drips from his hair, running down the side of his face but neither of you move to wipe it away. Your hands are still buried in his curls, his head still tilted back over the sink but the position that seemed so innocent moments ago now feels intimate in an entirely different way.

“Chris…” you start, though you’re not sure what you’re planning to say—a warning, an encouragement, something to break the tension or maybe give in to it.

“Can I?” he asks and there’s a vulnerability in the question that makes your heart stutter. “Kiss you, I mean. I’ve been thinking about it every time you do this. Every time you touch my hair, every time you get close, every time you smile at me when my curls turn out good.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “Actually, I think about it pretty much all the time.”

Your breath hitches. The bathroom feels impossibly warm now, steam from the running water curling around you both, or maybe that’s just the heat of the moment. His eyes search yours, patient despite the wanting written clearly across his features.

“You still have shampoo in your hair,” you point out weakly, even as your hands slide down from his curls to cup his face, your thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.

His smile is soft, hopeful. “I don’t care.”

“It’s going to get everywhere…”

“I really don’t care,” he repeats and there’s such certainty in his voice that you can’t help but believe him.

You lean down slowly, giving him every opportunity to change his mind, to laugh it off as a joke. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts his head slightly from the sink, meeting you halfway with an eagerness that makes you smile against his lips just before they touch.

The kiss is soft, tentative—a question and an answer all at once. His lips are warm and gentle against yours, moving with a carefulness that makes your chest ache. One of his hands comes up to cup the back of your neck and you can’t even bring yourself to care about the mess.

When you pull back, it’s only barely, your forehead resting against his as you both breathe unevenly. His eyes flutter open, dark and warm and full of something that looks a lot like wonder.

“Softer,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking along your jaw. “Definitely softer than they look.”

You laugh, the sound breathy and a little unsteady. “You’re going to get soap in your eyes after all.”

“Worth it,”

Somehow you’ve moved—or been moved—from standing over the sink to straddling him on the computer chair he’d dragged in from his bedroom earlier, claiming he wanted to be comfortable during the “long process.” Your fingers are still buried in his shampoo-lathered hair, working through the curls more on instinct than conscious thought now, while his hands have found their home on the curve of your ass, holding you firmly against him.

The kiss starts slow, almost sweet—a gentle exploration of lips and breath but it doesn’t stay that way. Chris’ fingers flex against you, pulling you closer and you respond by pressing down into his lap, feeling the growing evidence of his interest beneath you. The small noise he makes against your mouth sends heat pooling low in your belly.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, requesting entry and you grant it without hesitation. The kiss deepens, turns hungry. Your fingers tighten in his hair and he groans; whether from the scalp massage or the kiss or the way you’re grinding down against him now, you’re not sure. Probably all three.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth when you pull back for air, his pupils blown wide, lips already kiss-swollen and wet. His hands slide up your sides, under your shirt, palms hot against your skin. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

“Show me,” you challenge and his eyes darken further.

He kisses you again, harder this time, all teeth and tongue and desperation. One hand tangles in your hair while the other grips your hip, guiding you to rock against him in a rhythm that has you both panting. You can feel him hard and thick beneath you, the friction even through layers of clothing making your head spin.

Your hands slide from his hair down his neck, his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex as he holds you. Soap suds transfer onto his shirt, onto your arms, neither of you caring about the mess. His mouth leaves yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw, down your neck, finding that sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp and arch into him.

“Chris,” you whimper and the sound of his name seems to undo something in him.

He sucks a mark into your neck, his teeth grazing the skin before his tongue soothes the sting. Your hips roll against him with more urgency now, chasing friction and his grip tightens almost to the point of pain—grounding and possessive and perfect.

“You feel so good,” he groans against your throat, his breath hot and ragged. “So fucking good and we’re not even—” He cuts himself off with another kiss, this one filthy and demanding, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes you clench around nothing.

Your fingers find the hem of his shirt and slip beneath it, nails dragging up his abs, feeling them contract under your touch. He hisses against your mouth, his hips bucking up involuntarily and the pressure against your core makes you moan.

“Want you,” he pants, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Been wanting you so fucking bad.”

You grind down harder, deliberate and his control visibly frays. His hands slide to your thighs, gripping hard enough to leave marks, encouraging the movement. The chair creaks beneath you with the motion and some distant part of your brain registers that you’re making a complete mess; soap dripping from his hair onto both of you, water spots on your shirt, the whole situation absolutely ridiculous.

But then Chris’ mouth finds yours again, his tongue sliding deep and you forget to care about anything else. One of his hands moves between your bodies, palming himself through his sweats before his fingers find the button of your jeans—

“Wait,” you gasp, pulling back with what feels like superhuman effort. You’re both breathing hard, lips swollen, pupils dilated. His hand freezes where it is. “Your hair.”

He blinks at you, looking dazed and thoroughly debauched. “What?”

“The shampoo,” you manage, your voice wrecked. “I need to rinse it out before it dries. And we haven’t even done conditioner yet.”

For a moment, he just stares at you like you’ve spoken another language. Then he laughs, the sound breathless and slightly hysterical. “You’re thinking about my hair care routine right now?”

“I’m always thinking about hair care,” you counter, though you make no move to get off his lap just yet. “And you dragged me in here to wash your hair, so we’re finishing what we started.”

His hands slide up your back, still under your shirt, his touch possessive even as his expression turns playful again. “We can finish other things after?” He nips at your neck, teeth grazing skin that’s already sensitized from his earlier attention.

The promise in his voice makes heat flare through you again. “After,” you agree, finally climbing off his lap on unsteady legs. “Now lean back over the sink before I have to clarify your hair all over again.”

He groans but complies, adjusting himself obviously in his sweats before leaning back over the sink. The outline of him is impossible to miss and you watch his hand linger there for just a moment, applying pressure before he forces himself to grip the arm of the chair instead. “You’re cruel,” he informs you, tilting his head back under the running water.

“And you’re about to have the best conditioned curls of your life,” you reply, trying to ignore how your hands shake slightly as you begin rinsing the shampoo away, white suds swirling down the drain. Your fingers work through his hair methodically, making sure to get every trace of product out. “So stop complaining and maybe I’ll show you what else my mouth can do.”

The words hang in the steamy air between you and you feel rather than see the way his entire body goes taut. His hands grip the armrest of the chair so hard his knuckles go white and when he speaks, his voice is strained.

“You can’t just say shit like that and expect me to stay still.”

“I expect you to stay still because you want your hair to look good,” you counter, your fingers working through his curls with practiced efficiency, even as your heart races. “And because you know good things come to those who wait.”

“I’ve been waiting,” he grumbles, but there’s heat in his voice rather than real complaint. “Feels like I’ve been waiting forever.”

The water runs clear, all traces of shampoo finally gone but you keep rinsing, taking your time, making him wait just a little bit longer. Your fingers massage his scalp in slow, deliberate circles and you’re rewarded with a low groan that he doesn’t quite manage to suppress.

“That’s not fair,” he mutters, his eyes still closed, though whether it’s to keep water out or because he’s trying to maintain his composure, you’re not sure.

“What’s not fair?”

“You know what you’re doing to me.” His voice is rough, edged with frustration and want. “You’re dragging this out on purpose.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you reply innocently, even as your fingers trail down to the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly. “I’m just being thorough.”

His hips shift against the chair and you know he’s seeking friction, trying to relieve some of the pressure. The knowledge that you’re affecting him this much sends a thrill through you.

When you finally—finally—reach for the conditioner, your movements are deliberately slow. You pump the product into your palm, the soft scent of shea butter and coconut filling the bathroom and take your time warming it between your hands.

“Are you serious right now?” His eyes open, fixing on you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. “You’re really going to make me sit through the entire routine?”

“You asked me to wash your hair,” you remind him, beginning to work the conditioner through his curls, starting at the ends like you always do. “And I’m going to do it properly.”

“I’m starting to regret that decision,” he says, but his eyes flutter closed again when your fingers reach his scalp, working the product in with the same methodical care you always use.

“Liar,” you murmur, leaning closer. Your breath ghosts across his ear and you feel him shiver. “You love this.”

“I love you touching me,” he corrects, his voice dropping lower. “I love your hands in my hair. I love the way you’re looking at me right now, like you want to devour me but you’re making yourself wait.”

Your hands pause for just a moment before continuing their work. “And what if I do want to devour you?”

His eyes snap open, dark and heated. “Then stop torturing me with hair care and do it already.”

“Patience,” you chide, though your own voice has gone breathy. You work the conditioner through another section of curls, your movements perhaps a bit less steady than before. “Good curls require time and attention.”

“So do I,” he counters and there’s a hint of a whine in his voice that makes you smile despite the heat pooling in your belly.

You let the conditioner sit, your fingers playing idly with his curls, no longer pretending there’s a technical reason for the touch. His eyes track your every movement, watching the way your hands move through his hair, the way your teeth catch your lower lip in concentration.

“You’re killing me,” he says quietly and this time there’s no humor in it, just raw honesty. “Standing there looking like that, touching me like this, saying things that make me want to throw you over my shoulder and—”

“And what?” you prompt, your fingers stilling in his hair.

He holds your gaze, something challenging flickering in his expression. “And make good on every promise in that pretty mouth of yours.”

Heat floods through you at his words, at the way he’s looking at you like he’s two seconds away from doing exactly that. The air between you feels charged, electric, heavy with anticipation.

“Let me rinse this out,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. “And then we’ll see about those promises.”

“How long does it need to sit?” he asks, and there’s definitely a whine in his voice now.

You glance at the bottle, then back at him with a smile that you know is pure wickedness. “Five to seven minutes.”

The groan he lets out is so pained, so genuinely frustrated, that you almost take pity on him. Almost.

Instead, you lean down, bringing your face close to his, your lips barely an inch from his own. “Tick tock, Christopher,” you whisper, and then you pull back, leaving him staring after you with an expression caught somewhere between agony and anticipation.

You make a show of washing your hands, of checking your phone for the time, of doing absolutely anything except acknowledging the way his eyes bore into you. Every second stretches out, thick and heavy with tension, and you can practically feel the restraint it’s taking for him to stay still.

“Time’s up,” you finally announce and the speed with which he tilts his head back over the sink is almost comical.

Your fingers return to his hair, working out the conditioner with the same care and attention you’ve shown throughout the entire process. But this time, there’s an urgency underlying your movements, a barely contained anticipation that matches the tension radiating from him.

The conditioner rinses away, leaving his curls soft and perfectly defined beneath your fingertips. You run your hands through one more time, making absolutely sure there’s no product left, before reaching for a towel.

“Done?” he asks and his voice is so hopeful, so desperate, that you can’t help but laugh.

“Almost.” You wrap the towel around his hair, gently squeezing out excess water. “Just need to—”

But before you can finish the sentence, he’s standing, turning, backing you against the bathroom counter. His hair is still wrapped in the towel, water droplets running down his neck and he’s never looked more beautiful than he does right now; thoroughly disheveled and looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.

“Hair’s done,” he says, his voice rough. “Now, about those promises…”

“Chris, I still need to add products and dry—”

“Turn around.”

His voice has dropped to something darker, more commanding and it sends a shiver down your spine despite the warmth of the bathroom. You hesitate, your hand still holding the towel wrapped around his head.

“Chris—”

“What’d I just say, nena?”

The endearment rolls off his tongue with an edge that makes your knees weak. His hands find your hips, firm and insistent, and suddenly you’re being guided to turn, to face the mirror above the sink. Your breath catches as you meet his eyes in the reflection—dark, heated, filled with intent.

“Your hair—” you try again but your protest sounds weak even to your own ears.

“Will still be there in ten minutes,” he finishes for you, stepping closer until his chest is pressed against your back, until you can feel every line of him against you. His hands slide from your hips to splay across your stomach, holding you in place. “Right now, I need you to stop talking about my hair and start making good on what you promised me.”

His lips find the side of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat and your head tilts back automatically, giving him better access. In the mirror, you watch his hands move up your body, watch the way your own breath quickens, the way your pupils dilate.

“I didn’t promise anything,” you manage, though your voice comes out breathy and unconvincing.

“No?” His teeth graze your earlobe, and one hand slides higher, fingers ghosting just beneath the swell of your breast. “So you weren’t suggesting that your mouth could do other things? Because I’ve been thinking about that—about you on your knees for me—for a while now.”

Heat floods through you, pooling low and insistent. Your hands grip the edge of the counter, knuckles going white.

“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs against your ear, his eyes meeting yours in the mirror. Despite the command in his voice, despite the way his hands are mapping your body like he’s memorizing it, there’s a question there. Consent wrapped in dominance. “Tell me you want me as much as I want you.”

You hold his gaze in the reflection, see the want and the restraint warring in his expression. The towel is still wrapped around his hair, slightly askew now and there’s something absurdly endearing about it; this moment of raw desire interrupted by hair care, now resuming with even more intensity.

“I want you,” you breathe and watch the way his eyes darken further, the way his grip on you tightens. “I want this.”

“Good,” he says, his voice rough with satisfaction. His hand slides up to cup your jaw, turning your face toward him so he can capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and promise. “Because I’m done waiting.”

When he pulls back, you’re both breathing hard. His thumb traces your lower lip, his eyes following the movement with rapt attention.

“Now,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, “get on your knees for me, nena. Show me what that pretty mouth can do.”

The command sends liquid heat straight through you. Your legs feel unsteady as you turn to face him fully, his hand falling away from your jaw but his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something intoxicating about the way he’s looking at you; like he’s been starving and you’re the first meal he’s seen in days.

Slowly, deliberately, you sink down to your knees on the bathroom mat. The tile is cool through the fabric but you barely notice, too focused on the way his breath stutters, the way his hand reaches out to brace against the counter like he needs the support.

From this angle, he’s overwhelming. You’re eye-level with the very obvious bulge straining against his grey sweats, the fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide how affected he is. Your mouth waters at the sight and when you look up at him through your lashes, you find him staring down at you with an expression that’s pure hunger.

“Fuck,” he breathes and the rawness in his voice makes you clench. His free hand comes up to pull the towel from his hair, tossing it carelessly aside. Damp curls fall around his face, messy and perfect and he’s never looked better. “You look so good like this. Been dreaming about this.”

“Yeah?” You lean forward, pressing your palms against his thighs, feeling the muscles tense beneath your touch. “Tell me what you’ve been dreaming about.”

His hand moves to your hair, fingers threading through it, not pushing but holding a promise of control. “You really want to know?”

“Every detail,” you say, your hands sliding higher, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats.

He groans, hips shifting forward involuntarily. “I think about this every time you touch my hair. Every time you lean over me, every time your fingers massage my scalp…I imagine them somewhere else. I imagine your mouth on me, those pretty lips wrapped around my cock while I watch in the mirror.”

Your breath catches at his words, at the explicit honesty of them. You look up at him, finding his eyes blazing, his jaw tight with restraint.

“I think about how good you’d look with tears in your eyes because I’m too deep but you take it anyway because you want to make me feel good,” he continues, his voice getting rougher with each word. “I think about how sweet you’d sound choking on it, how pretty you’d be when I come down your throat.”

“Chris,” you breathe and you’re not sure if it’s a protest or encouragement or just his name torn from you by the sheer want his words inspire.

“Too much?” he asks and despite the dominance in his voice, there’s genuine concern there too.

You shake your head, your fingers tightening on his waistband. “Not enough. I want it all.”

Something in him breaks at that, what little restraint he’d been clinging to snapping like a thread pulled too tight. His hand tightens in your hair, not painful but firm, guiding.

“Then take them off,” he commands, his voice steady despite the way you can see his chest heaving. “And show me how good you can be for me.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you pull at his sweats, dragging them down his hips along with his boxers. He springs free, thick and hard and already leaking, and the sight of him makes your mouth water. He’s bigger than you expected, flushed and pretty, and you can’t help but lean forward, pressing a kiss to his hip, then lower, teasing.

“Don’t tease,” he warns, his grip in your hair tightening just enough to make your scalp tingle. “You’ve made me wait long enough.”

You look up at him, holding his gaze as you finally—finally—wrap your hand around him. He’s hot and heavy in your palm and the sound he makes when you stroke him once, twice, is absolutely obscene.

“Fuck, yes,” he hisses, his free hand bracing harder against the counter. “Just like that.”

But you want more than that. You want to see him fall apart, want to reduce him to nothing but sensation and need. So you lean forward, maintaining eye contact and drag your tongue along the underside of his length, base to tip, feeling him pulse against your lips.

“Holy shit,” he gasps, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. “Your mouth—”

You cut him off by taking him in, wrapping your lips around the head and sucking gently. The taste of him floods your tongue—salt and skin and pure Chris—and you moan around him, the vibration making him curse again.

“Look at you,” he groans and you realize he’s angled himself so he can see in the mirror; can watch you on your knees for him, can watch the way your lips stretch around him. “So fucking perfect. Taking me so well.”

Encouraged by his words, you take him deeper, relaxing your throat, using every trick you know. Your hand works what you can’t fit and you set a rhythm that has him panting above you, his fingers flexing in your hair.

“That’s it, nena,” he praises, his voice strained. “Just like that. So good for me, so fucking good—”

You hollow your cheeks, sucking harder, and his control visibly wavers. His hips start to move, shallow thrusts that you encourage by relaxing further, letting him take what he needs.

“Can I—” he starts, then groans when you take him particularly deep. “Can I fuck your mouth? Please, I need—”

You pull off just long enough to gasp, “Yes, use me,” before taking him back in and the sound he makes is somewhere between a curse and a prayer.

His grip in your hair becomes purposeful now, holding you steady as he starts to thrust. It’s slow at first, careful but when you look up at him with watering eyes and moan around him, his restraint cracks further.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he pants, moving faster now, deeper. “Feel so good, so perfect, fuck—”

Tears are streaming down your face now, your jaw aching in the best way and you’ve never felt more powerful than you do in this moment; on your knees but completely in control of his pleasure, reducing him to desperate sounds and broken praise.

“Close,” he warns, his movements becoming erratic. “I’m so close, where—”

You double your efforts, sucking harder, taking him deeper, making your intentions clear.

“Fuck, fuck, fuckkk—” His words dissolve into a groan as he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat. You swallow around him, working him through it until he’s shaking, until his hand in your hair goes gentle, almost reverent.

When you finally pull off, his eyes are glazed, his chest heaving and he looks thoroughly wrecked. You sit back on your heels, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand and the way he’s staring at you—like you’ve just given him religion—makes every second worth it.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes finally, reaching down to help you to your feet. Your knees protest the movement but then his mouth is on yours, kissing you deep and dirty, tasting himself on your tongue. “You’re incredible. That was…you’re—”

“Good?” you supply with a smile, your voice rough.

“Transcendent,” he corrects, pulling back to look at you properly. His thumb brushes your cheek, wiping away the tears there with such tenderness it makes your chest ache. “But now we have a problem.”

“What’s that?”

His eyes darken again, heat already building anew despite what just happened. “I need to return the favor. Need to make you feel as good as you just made me feel. And then—” his hand slides down your body, cupping between your legs and even through your jeans the pressure makes you gasp, “I need to fuck you properly. Think you can handle that?”

Your breath catches at the promise in his voice. “What about your hair?”

He laughs, the sound bright and genuine, before kissing you again. “Fuck my hair. It can air dry. Right now, the only thing I care about is getting you out of these clothes and making you scream my name.”

And with the way he’s looking at you, the way his hands are already working at your button, you’re inclined to let him do exactly that.

“Lemme at least put some moisturizer in it.”

“Do it with my head between your legs ‘cause I’m not waiting.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s moving, hands gripping your hips and lifting you onto the bathroom counter in one fluid motion before pulling up his chair and dropping onto it.

“Chris—”

“Reach for your products,” he interrupts, already working at the button of your jeans with practiced efficiency. “You wanted to do your hair routine? Fine but like this.”

Heat floods through you as he yanks your jeans down your legs, taking your underwear with them. The cool air of the bathroom hits your overheated skin, making you shiver but then his hands are on your thighs, spreading them apart, resting them on the armrests of the chair and suddenly you can’t think about anything else.

“Chris, oh my god—” Your hand fumbles behind you for the moisturizer bottle on the counter, nearly knocking it over in your haste.

“That’s it,” he encourages, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses up your inner thigh. “Get what you need but don’t you dare ask me to stop.”

You manage to grab the bottle, your hands shaking as you pump product into your palm but the moment you reach for his hair, the moment your fingers make contact with his damp curls, he leans forward and licks a stripe right through your center and you nearly drop the entire bottle.

“Fuck!” The word tears from you, your free hand immediately flying to grip the edge of the counter for stability.

“Keep going,” he murmurs against you, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. “Work it through my hair like you always do. Nice and slow. Thorough.”

“You can’t—I can’t—” Your protest dissolves into a moan as his tongue finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision.

“You can,” he counters, pulling back just enough to speak before diving back in. “You’re good at multitasking, remember? All those lectures about proper technique?”

Your fingers thread through his curls, trembling as you try to work the product through like you normally would—sectioning, smoothing, scrunching to define—but it’s nearly impossible when his mouth is doing sinful things to you, when his tongue is alternating between broad strokes and focused attention that has your thighs shaking.

“Baby, please—” You’re not sure what you’re begging for anymore. For him to stop so you can concentrate? For him to never stop? Both seem equally urgent.

“Please what, nena?” His words vibrate against you, and the sensation makes you gasp. “You wanted to finish the routine. So finish it.”

There’s a challenge in his voice, even muffled as it is, and something in you rises to meet it. Your hands move with more purpose now, working through another section of his hair, smoothing the product from root to tip, combing the defining brush through then scrunching to encourage his curl pattern; all while he’s eating you out like a man starving.

“That’s my girl,” he praises when you manage to complete a section and the words combined with a particularly wicked flick of his​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ tongue has you crying out. “Doing so good for me. Keep going.”

Your head falls back against the mirror, your free hand fisting in his hair; less for styling purposes now and more to hold on, to ground yourself. He doesn’t seem to mind—if anything it spurs him on—his hands gripping your thighs harder, holding you open for him.

“Almost done,” you gasp out, your movements becoming more erratic as pleasure builds hot and insistent in your core. “Just need to—ay dio, right there—”

He hums in acknowledgment, focusing his attention exactly where you need it and your hands are shaking so badly now you can barely hold the bottle. You manage to pump out more product, manage to work it through the final section of his hair with movements that are more instinct than technique.

“There,” you breathe, dropping the bottle carelessly. “Done, I’m done—”

“Good,” he growls against you and then both his hands are on you, one sliding up to palm your breast while the other joins his mouth, fingers teasing your entrance before sliding inside. “Now you can stop thinking about my hair and focus on this. On me. On how good I’m making you feel.”

And god, he is. His fingers curl inside you, finding that spot that makes you see stars, while his tongue works your clit with relentless precision. The combination is overwhelming, devastating and you can feel yourself hurtling toward the edge embarrassingly fast.

“That’s it,” he encourages, feeling you clench around his fingers. “Let go for me. Wanna feel you come on my tongue, wanna taste you—”

His words, combined with the addition of another finger, the way he sucks your clit into his mouth, send you flying over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your back arching off the mirror, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a curse, a benediction.

He works you through it, gentling his touch as you come down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, anywhere he can reach. When you finally open your eyes, still panting, you find him looking up at you with the most self-satisfied smirk you’ve ever seen.

“How’s my hair look?” he asks and you can’t help but laugh, breathless and slightly hysterical.

“Like you just got fucked,” you manage, taking in his thoroughly mussed curls, some sections clearly more defined than others, the whole thing slightly chaotic. “But honestly? It works for you.”

“Yeah?” He rises from the chair, settling between your legs and you can see he’s already hard again, heavy and flushed against his stomach. “Well, it’s gonna look even worse in a few minutes.”

“Oh?” You reach for him, wrapping your hand around his length—after you wash it—and revel in the way his breath stutters. “And why’s that?”

“Because,” he says, capturing your mouth in a kiss that tastes like you, “I’m about to fuck you right here on this counter and I have a feeling you’re gonna pull it pretty hard.”

The promise in his words sends another wave of heat through you. “Bold of you to assume I’m a hair puller.”

“Nena,” he says, positioning himself at your entrance, the head of his cock teasing through your wetness, making you both gasp, “after what we just did? I know exactly what you are.”

And then he’s pushing inside, slow and steady and so perfectly filling that you do exactly what he predicted; your hands fly to his hair, gripping those carefully moisturized curls, and pull.

The sound he makes is absolutely worth ruining your styling work.

“Fuck,” he groans, his hips stuttering as he sinks deeper. “Do that again.”

You oblige, tugging at his hair as he bottoms out and his forehead drops to yours, his breathing ragged. “You feel so good,” he mutters, pulling back only to thrust in again, harder this time. “So fucking perfect around me.”

Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper, faster. The counter is hard and cold against your ass but you barely notice, too focused on the delicious drag of him inside you, the way he’s hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.

“More,” you gasp, your nails scraping against his scalp and he responds immediately, his pace becoming punishing, desperate. One hand braces against the mirror beside your head, the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise and the slight pain only adds to the pleasure.

“This what you wanted?” he pants against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Wanted me to fuck you like this? Ruin you on this counter?”

“Yes,” you moan, your head falling back against the mirror with a dull thunk. “God, yes, Chris—”

His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your sounds, his tongue sliding against yours in rhythm with his thrusts. It’s messy, desperate, perfect—all teeth and tongue and shared breath.

“Touch yourself,” he commands, pulling back just enough to watch your face. “Want to feel you come around my cock.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit and the added stimulation combined with the angle of his thrusts has you trembling, teetering on the edge already.

“That’s it,” he encourages, his voice strained. “Can feel you getting tighter. Come for me, baby. Lemme feel it.”

A few more circles of your fingers, a few more perfectly angled thrusts and you’re shattering around him, crying out his name as pleasure whites out your vision. Your walls clench around him rhythmically and the sensation pulls him over the edge with you.

“Fuck, fuck—” His hips stutter, burying himself as deep as possible as he comes, spilling hot inside you. His face is buried in your neck and you can feel his lips forming words against your skin; a mixture of your name and curses and praise that makes your chest tight.

You stay like that for a long moment, both of you trying to catch your breath, hearts pounding in sync. Eventually, he lifts his head and the look on his face—sated and soft and a little awed—makes you smile.

“So,” you say, your voice rough and thoroughly used, “how’s the hair?”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours and reaches up to run his fingers through his curls. They spring back, perfectly defined despite—or maybe because of—your rough handling.

“Actually looks pretty good,” he admits, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your palm. “Might need to incorporate this into the routine.”

“What, the sex or the multitasking?”

“Both,” he says with that devastating grin.“Definitely both.”

chan had you laying down, legs pressed down on either side of your head, and a pillow strategically placed under your lower back. whimpers and whines falling from your saliva slicked lips right onto his, sharing the same oxygen as if you both needed it to survive. he is not too far behind you though, letting out soft groans and low moans. you two have been going at it for a good hour, however, that was all his plan and not yours.

your sweet boyfriend had learned that you have never squirted before. your past partners couldn’t get the job done and quite frankly you couldn’t either. you have tried before but grew frustrated at the anticlimactic outcome, quite literally. you had decided that you just were one of the few people who weren’t able to do it. chan on the other hand, knew you could and was determined to get you to that point.

your legs trembled beneath his rough grip, overstimulation making its presence known with every orgasm chan provides you. “c-chan… i can’t- fuck! i can’t t-take anymore” you managed to say. “yes you can, baby. need to get you all nice and overstimulated so you can squirt” chan replies, his voice dripping with desire and excitement as he proceeds to plow into your divine cunt. you’ve been down this road many times before and you already know the outcome, you shake your head at his words, “i c-can’t, chan” you respond in a defeated tone. “yes. you. can.” chan replies rather roughly, changing the angle of thrust slightly and continuing his punishing pace.

a gasp was ripped out from your throat as the mushroom tip of his cock rams your sweet spot repeatedly. your whimpers start to get louder and higher in pitch as you feel another orgasm approaching rapidly. “there it is, baby. that’s the spot i was looking for” he spoke softly, biting your bottom lip gently afterwards. as your orgasm nears, you notice the sudden feeling of needing to pee. panic settles in and you try pushing your boyfriend away from you. “c-chan, please stop. i f-feel like i’m g-gonna pee” your voice laced with embarrassment as you try to get him off of you. chan’s eyes light up at your sudden announcement, “that’s it, baby. that’s the sign you’re almost there. you’re gonna squirt. start pushing, push for me” he encourages while placing his hand on your lower abdomen and starts pushing down slightly. he makes sure to keep the same pace and intensity, not wanting to ruin this amazing experience for you.

after a few more thrust, a gush of liquid came out of you. drenching chan’s abdomen and the sheets below you. you let out a pained moan as you squirted, the sensation being too good for your own sake. “fuck, yeah. just like that, keep it coming. i know you got some more in you. fuck… such a sight to see” chan rambles on as you finish squirting, unable to peel his eyes away fromyour sopping pussy. he then came unexpectedly, too lost on the beautiful view in front of him to notice he was close. he growled as he emptied himself inside your warm cunt, burying his face between your gorgeous tits. “i love you so much, my pretty girl. i knew you could do it” he whispers, panting against your skin. you giggle at his words, panting along with him as well. “i love you too, channie. thank you for proving me wrong” you whisper back. your hands soon find their way to his hair, raking your fingers through his locks, trying your best to help calm him down. his hands find your waist, fingers caressing the soft skin, imitating your actions, trying to call you down as well. “let’s do that again, yeah?” he suggests, still out of breath making you laugh at his eagerness.

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