#christopher bang

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.

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.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦

You had always known Chan was different. Not just because he was a wolf hybrid: gray ears that twitched at every sound, a fluffy tail that betrayed his moods and those striking golden eyes that seemed to see straight through you, but because he was Chan. The leader type in everyday life, the one who stayed up late producing music in his room, who made sure the fridge was stocked with your favorite snacks and who somehow made the apartment feel like home instead of just a shared living space.

For the past six months, the two of you had been roommates in this cozy two-bedroom place on the edge of the city. What started as a practical arrangement had slowly deepened into something warmer. Late-night talks on the couch, movie marathons where his head would eventually end up in your lap and quiet moments where his hand would brush yours a little too long. There was tension, sure, but neither of you had crossed that line. He was respectful, almost painfully so. A gentleman with sharp canines and a growl that made your stomach flip whenever it slipped out.

But something had shifted in the last week.

First, Chan came home later than usual from the studio, his usual bright smile replaced by a tense line of his mouth. He barely said hello before disappearing into his room. The next morning, you found him in the kitchen at dawn, staring into the fridge like it held the answers to the universe. His ears were flat against his head and when you greeted him cheerfully, he’d flinched, muttering something about needing to train before bolting.

By day four, the avoidance was obvious. He’d leave notes instead of talking "Gone for a run, don’t wait up" and the apartment smelled… different. His natural scent, that comforting mix of warm cedarwood, fresh rain, and something uniquely him, had grown heavier. Muskier. It lingered in the hallways like invisible smoke, making your head feel fuzzy and your skin too warm whenever you passed his door.

You tried not to overthink it. Hybrids had their cycles, you knew that much. But Chan had always been open with you about that stuff before. He’d disappear for a day or two during his regular ruts, holing up with suppressants and protein shakes, then emerge sheepish and extra cuddly to make up for the distance. This time felt different. More intense. He wasn’t even texting back properly.

Tonight, you couldn’t take it anymore.

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioner. You’d made dinner: his favorite, spicy chicken stir-fry with extra vegetables, but the plate sat untouched on the counter. After an hour of waiting, you wiped your hands on a dish towel and headed down the hallway toward the spare room you’d converted into a home gym. The door was slightly ajar, golden light spilling out along with the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing and the clank of metal.

You pushed the door open quietly.

Chan was there, back to you, shirtless and glistening with sweat under the overhead lights. His broad shoulders flexed as he curled a heavy dumbbell, biceps bulging, veins standing out along his forearms. The gray wolf ears atop his messy hair were pinned back tightly. His tail, thick and silver-tipped, lashed sharply from side to side with each rep, betraying his agitation. Black workout shorts clung low on his hips, damp with perspiration, outlining the powerful lines of his thighs and… something else.

You swallowed hard. He looked feral. Beautifully, dangerously so.

The air in the room was thick with his scent. It hit you like a wave: deep, earthy musk mixed with pure, raw arousal. Your knees felt a little weak. You’d read about hybrid ruts before, but experiencing it this close was something else entirely. The scent wrapped around you, sinking into your lungs, making heat bloom low in your belly.

"Chan?" you called softly.

He froze mid-rep. The dumbbell dropped to the mat with a heavy thud. Slowly, he turned.

Golden eyes met yours, pupils blown so wide only a thin ring of amber remained. His chest heaved, breaths coming in short, ragged pants. A low growl rumbled in his throat before he could stop it. Sweat trailed down the defined ridges of his abs, disappearing into the waistband of his shorts where an obvious, thick bulge strained against the fabric.

"You shouldn’t be here right now" he rasped. His voice was deeper than usual, rough like gravel. His ears flicked back further, but his body leaned toward you instinctively, nose twitching as he inhaled your scent. "Fuck… you smell too good."

You took a cautious step inside anyway, heart hammering. "You’ve been avoiding me all week. I was worried. I made dinner, but-"

"I know." He ran a hand through his damp hair, claws catching slightly. "I’ve been trying to handle it. Suppressants aren’t cutting it this time. It’s… stronger." His tail curled tightly around his own leg as if trying to restrain himself. "You need to go. Please."

But you didn’t move. The way he looked at you, like he was starving and you were the only thing that could satisfy him, sent a thrill through your body. You’d imagined this moment in quiet, guilty fantasies before. Chan losing control. Those strong hands on you. His teeth at your throat.

"How long has it been?" you asked, voice quieter.

"Three days." He laughed bitterly, the sound edged with pain. "I thought I could push through. Studio work, extra workouts, cold showers… nothing’s working. Every time I catch even a hint of your scent from the hallway, I-" He cut himself off with a sharp inhale, eyes fluttering shut. When they opened again, the hunger was even more pronounced. "I’m losing it, baby. You have no idea what I want to do to you right now."

The pet name slipped out so naturally it made your breath catch.

You stepped closer, close enough to see the way his nostrils flared and his claws flexed at his sides. The gym mirror behind him reflected the scene: you in your simple tank top and shorts, looking small next to his powerful, half-feral frame.

"Then tell me" you whispered. "Or… show me."

Chan’s control visibly frayed. He took one predatory step forward, then another. His hand reached out, hovering near your arm like he was afraid to touch you. "You don’t understand. In rut… I’m not gentle. I knot. I get stuck inside you for a long time. I’ll want to breed you over and over until this fire in me dies down. I could hurt you."

"I trust you" you said simply. Your hand rose to cup his jaw, thumb brushing over the soft fur of his cheek. He leaned into it with a broken sound, eyes half-lidded.

"You shouldn’t." But even as he said it, his tail uncurled from his leg and brushed tentatively against your calf. The touch was electric.

You could feel the heat radiating off his body. His cock twitched visibly in his shorts, a small wet spot forming where the tip leaked. The scent of him was overwhelming now: pure alpha need, desperate and masculine. It made your own arousal spike, thighs pressing together instinctively.

Chan’s ears perked slightly at the shift in your scent. "You’re… wet." It wasn’t a question. His voice dropped to a near-purr. "For me?"

You nodded, cheeks burning.

He groaned, forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath was hot against your lips. "I’ve wanted you for so long. Even outside of rut. But this… this makes it impossible to hold back. If we start, I won’t be able to stop until my knot deflates. It could take hours. Days, maybe, if the rut’s bad."

"I’m not asking you to stop" you murmured, sliding your hands up his bare chest. His skin was fever-hot, heart thundering under your palm. "I want to help you, Chan. Let me take care of you like you always take care of me."

For a moment, he just breathed you in, trembling with the effort of restraint. Then, with a low, needy whine that sent shivers down your spine, he captured your mouth in a kiss.

It wasn’t soft. It was hungry, teeth nipping at your bottom lip, tongue sweeping in to taste you. His strong arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel every inch of his hardness pressing into your stomach as he ground against you slowly, instinctively.

"Mine" he growled against your lips between kisses. "Been mine for months. Just didn’t want to scare you."

You melted into him, fingers threading through his hair and stroking the base of his sensitive ears. He shuddered hard at the touch, hips jerking forward.

The kiss deepened, turning messier. Chan walked you backward until your back hit the cool mirror. One of his thighs pressed between your legs, giving you something to grind against as his hands roamed: squeezing your hips, sliding under your tank top to feel bare skin.

"Fuck, you’re so soft" he muttered, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth down your neck. His teeth grazed your pulse point, not biting but threatening to. "Smell so fucking good. Gonna make you smell like me."

Your head fell back against the mirror with a soft moan. This was really happening. The tension that had built for months was finally snapping, fueled by his rut and your own suppressed desire.

Chan pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glowing with lust and something deeper. His ears were forward now, fully focused on you. Sweat still clung to his skin, chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Last chance, baby" he panted. "Tell me to stop and I’ll lock myself in my room with the strongest suppressants I have. But if you stay… I’m going to ruin you for anyone else."

You reached down boldly, palming the massive bulge in his shorts. He hissed, hips bucking into your touch.

"I’m staying" you whispered. "Let me help you, Chan."

A feral grin spread across his face, canines flashing. He scooped you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you toward the thick workout mats in the center of the room.

"Then let’s start" he growled, voice full of dark promise. "Because once I get my knot in you, we’re not leaving this room for a long time."

Chan didn’t waste another second.

He lowered you onto the thick gym mats with surprising care, but the moment your back touched the floor his mouth was on yours again: hot, demanding and utterly consuming. His tongue tangled with yours as a deep growl vibrated through his chest and into your body. Large hands roamed everywhere, shoving your tank top up and off in one rough motion. The bra followed, tossed somewhere behind him.

"Beautiful" he rasped, golden eyes devouring the sight of your bare breasts. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while his clawed fingers teased the other. Your back arched with a moan, fingers digging into his silver ears. The sensitive appendages flicked and trembled under your touch, making him groan around your flesh.

"Chan...please…"

He switched to the other breast, sharp teeth grazing just enough to sting deliciously. His tail lashed wildly behind him, brushing against your legs. The heavy musk of his rut filled the entire room now, thick enough to taste. You were soaked, aching and he could smell it.

Lower. His kisses trailed down your stomach, claws hooking into your shorts and panties, ripping them down your legs in one swift tug. He buried his face between your thighs without hesitation, inhaling deeply.

"Fuck, your scent…" He licked a stripe up your slit, tongue rough and eager. "So wet for me already. Gonna eat this pretty pussy until you’re screaming."

You cried out as he dove in, devouring you like a man starved. His tongue flicked over your clit with precise, relentless strokes before pushing inside you, fucking you with it. Two thick fingers joined soon after, curling against that spot that made your vision white out. His free hand pinned your hips down when you tried to writhe too much, growls vibrating against your core.

The first orgasm hit you fast and hard. You clenched around his fingers, thighs shaking around his head as you moaned his name. Chan didn’t stop, lapping up every drop until you were twitching and oversensitive.

"First one of many" he promised, crawling back up your body. His shorts were gone now, kicked off somewhere. His cock sprang free: thick, veined and longer than you’d expected, the base already starting to swell with his knot. The head was flushed dark and leaking steadily. "Need to be inside you. Now."

You reached down, wrapping your hand around him. He was scorching hot, pulsing in your grip. Chan’s hips jerked, a broken whine escaping him.

"Careful, baby. I’m so close already."

"Then fuck me" you whispered, guiding him to your entrance.

He pushed in slowly at first, savoring every inch. The stretch was intense, burning pleasure as your walls fluttered around his girth. Halfway in, he cursed, forehead pressed to yours, ears flat.

"So tight… taking me so well."

Then the last of his restraint vanished. Chan slammed the rest of the way in, bottoming out with a growl. You gasped at the fullness, nails raking down his back. He gave you barely a moment to adjust before pulling back and thrusting hard.

The pace was brutal. Each snap of his hips drove him deep, the wet sounds of your bodies echoing in the gym. His balls slapped against you, tail wrapping around your thigh to spread you wider. He fucked you like he was claiming you: deep, possessive strokes that hit every sensitive spot inside.

"Mine" he snarled against your neck, teeth scraping the skin. "Gonna fill you up. Breed this sweet cunt until it takes."

You moaned louder at his words, clenching around him. The knot at the base of his cock was swelling more with every thrust, catching at your entrance on the way out.

Chan flipped you suddenly, putting you on all fours. He mounted you from behind, one hand gripping your hip while the other braced beside your head. The new angle let him go even deeper. His chest pressed to your back, sharp teeth finally sinking into the junction of your neck and shoulder, not enough to break skin fully, but enough to mark you as his.

You came again with a scream, walls pulsing around his cock. Chan groaned, hips stuttering as he chased his own release. The knot swelled fully, locking him inside you as hot, thick ropes of cum flooded your insides. He kept grinding, pushing it deeper, hips jerking with every spurt.

"Take it… all of it" he panted, voice wrecked. "Good girl. Such a good mate for me."

The knot kept you tied together. Every tiny shift sent sparks of pleasure through you both. Chan licked at the bite mark soothingly, arms wrapped around you as you both caught your breath on the mats.

But the rut wasn’t done.

After twenty minutes, the knot deflated enough for him to pull out. Cum dripped down your thighs. Chan watched with dark satisfaction, then flipped you onto your back again.

"More" he growled. "Need you again."

He took you face-to-face this time, slower but no less intense. Your legs wrapped around his waist as he rocked into you, knot swelling once more. You lost count of how many times he made you cum: on his cock, on his tongue, with his fingers while he recovered between rounds.

At one point he carried you to the weight bench, bending you over it and taking you from behind again. The mirror across the room gave you a perfect view: Chan’s powerful body moving behind you, muscles flexing, ears twitching with pleasure, tail curled possessively around your waist. His golden eyes stayed locked on yours in the reflection.

"Look at us" he murmured, voice husky. "Look how perfectly you take my knot."

You did. The sight pushed you over the edge again.

Hours blurred. The gym filled with the scent of sex and sweat and him. Chan’s rut drove him relentlessly: three more full knots, each one leaving you fuller and messier. He whispered praises between growls: how perfect you were, how he’d wanted this for so long, how he was going to take care of you after.

Eventually, the frantic edge softened. The last knot locked you together on the mats once more. Chan collapsed carefully over you, careful not to crush you with his weight. His ears drooped with exhaustion, but his arms held you close, tail draped over your leg.

"You okay?" he whispered, nuzzling into your marked neck. His voice was hoarse from all the growling and moaning. "Did I hurt you?"

You shook your head, smiling tiredly as you stroked his ears. "I’m perfect. Sore… but perfect. And exhausted. Felt amazing."

He let out a relieved sigh, pressing soft kisses to your skin. The feral glow in his eyes had dimmed, replaced by that familiar warmth you loved. "Thank you. For helping me. For trusting me. I… I love you. Have for a while."

Your heart swelled. "I love you too, Chan."

The knot kept you connected a little longer. He used the time to scent you thoroughly, rubbing his cheek against yours, running his hands over every inch of skin he could reach. When it finally went down, he scooped you up gently and carried you to the bathroom attached to the gym.

He ran a warm bath, lowering you both into it. Chan washed you with careful hands, massaging your aching muscles and pressing kisses to every mark he’d left. You returned the favor, washing his chest and scratching gently behind his ears until he purred.

Later, wrapped in soft towels and one of his oversized shirts, he carried you to his bedroom. The sheets smelled strongly of him. He tucked you against his chest, arms and tail cocooning you securely.

"The rut might come back in waves" he admitted quietly, voice already sleepy. "But it’s a lot better now. Because of you."

You snuggled closer, tracing patterns on his skin. "Then we’ll handle the next waves together too."

Chan’s purr deepened, content and satisfied. His golden eyes slipped shut, ears relaxing fully for the first time in days.

As sleep pulled you both under, you felt the steady beat of his heart against your cheek and the warm brush of his tail. The apartment felt complete, like the two of you had finally crossed the line you’d been dancing around for months.

You grunted in response, collapsing into one of the barstools like you’d been dramatically wronged by the concept of morning itself.

Chan chuckled, already reaching for a mug. “Coffee?”

“You’re my favorite person in the world,” you mumbled, cheek squished against the counter.

“I know,” he said with a grin, setting the coffee down in front of you with that same quiet care he always gave you. “Drink up. You’ve got a shoot today, yeah?”

“Mmm.” You barely nodded. “No energy.”

“You say that every morning. And then you post ten stories looking like a literal angel.”

“Because I am an angel. Just a tired one.”

He shook his head fondly, walking around the counter and tugging lightly at the hood you had up. “You could’ve worn your own clothes to bed, you know.”

“But yours smell better.”

That earned you a half-smirk and a soft pat on the head. “Fair.”

It had been four years since you moved in. What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement; a few weeks to get your life together after cutting ties with your parents, turned into an unshakable routine. A shared home. A rhythm. Chan never pushed, never questioned your decision to stay, not even after he offered to set you up in your own place. A luxury penthouse. Any neighborhood, any view. All you had to do was ask.

But why would you leave? You had everything here. Your safe place. Your comfort. Your best friend who treated you like you hung the moon.

Chan made sure you never lifted a finger unless you wanted to. New car? Done. Spa weekend? Booked. Your favorite snacks flown in from another country? He’d find a way. And when the world got too loud, too cruel, too exhausting—he was there, holding space for you, letting you just be.

You never had to earn his affection. It was freely given, infinite and warm. And never once did you see the sharp edges of his temper directed your way. He could be terrifying when provoked; intense, commanding, even explosive in his rare moments of fury, but with you, it was different. Always gentle. Always soft.

“You want me to drive you today?” he asked casually, taking a sip of his shake.

You blinked at him over your coffee mug. “Don’t you have meetings?”

“Pushed ‘em.”

“You didn’t have to—”

He raised an eyebrow.

You shut up.

Because of course he did. That was just Chan. No matter how much you insisted he didn’t need to baby you, he always would. And deep down, you didn’t really want him to stop.

“Thanks,” you said quietly.

He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Anytime baby girl.”

<><><>

The next morning, you danced around the kitchen like you always did on pure instinct, pulling open drawers, prepping ingredients, making enough breakfast for two without even asking. Chan tried to stop you every time. He could afford a chef. He had one on call. But you never listened. This was your thing.

“You know I can make my own eggs,” he said from behind you.

“No, you can’t,” you replied easily, tossing a glance over your shoulder. “You burn eggs. It’s a weird talent.”

“That happened once.”

“Mmhmm.”

He didn’t argue after that, just leaned against the counter and watched you move. You weren’t dressed yet, still in that hoodie he liked seeing on you more than he’d admit, hair messy, face bare. Comfortable. Real. This was what his mornings had become: you humming under your breath, feeding him like it was your mission in life, and making the house feel like a home instead of a museum of expensive things.

Chan didn’t need much. He didn’t ask for much. But you noticed everything. The way his shoulders tightened after late-night calls with his team. How his jaw clenched when he was overwhelmed. How even on his best days, he carried this quiet heaviness like something he couldn’t shake.

So you filled in the spaces.

You did his laundry, folding each item with absurd care. You stocked his favorite snacks, kept his vitamins in a tiny container by the sink, laid out his hoodies when you knew he’d had a long day and just wanted something soft. You never said you were doing it for him, but he wasn’t stupid. He saw it. Felt it. And maybe that was why he never asked you to leave.

Because you were his peace.

You set a plate down in front of him with a satisfied little sigh, then went back for your own. “Eat, you’ve got stuff to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted you with his fork.

He had just taken his first bite when your phone lit up on the counter beside him. His eyes flicked toward it casually, and something about the name flashing across the screen made his brow twitch.

He didn’t say anything, but you noticed. Of course you did.

You reached for the phone and stared at the name.

Eli.

You hadn’t spoken to him in over a year. Not since you blocked his number and told him to stay the hell out of your life.

Your stomach turned.

You didn’t answer. Just locked the screen and tossed the phone aside like it didn’t matter.

Chan watched you closely, chewing slower. “You good?”

“Yeah.” You gave him a quick smile. “Just a ghost.”

His jaw tensed.

He didn’t push you. Not yet. But you could feel the shift in the air—like something had cracked just slightly. Like the bubble you and Chan had built so carefully around yourselves had caught a whisper of the outside world trying to crawl back in.

You didn’t mean to flinch when Chan spoke.

“You gonna block him again?”

It wasn’t the question itself—it was the way his voice sounded when he asked it. Flat. Too calm. Like the kind of calm that only came before a storm.

You kept your back to him, rinsing the last plate and placing it carefully in the drying rack. “Yeah. I mean, I already had him blocked. He must’ve used a new number.”

Silence.

Then, “Persistent.”

You dried your hands slowly, pretending the slight tremble wasn’t real. “He’s not important.”

“He used to be.”

That one hit harder than you expected. You turned to face him, brows pulling together slightly. “You mad at me?”

His expression didn’t shift much, but his jaw moved—tight, clenched.

“No,” he said almost instantly, voice lower. “Never at you.”

But there was something in his eyes.

You didn’t see it often, well atleast not directed at you. Not ever, actually. You’d seen Chan angry before. In business meetings, in defense of someone he loved, once even on the phone with a producer who had crossed the line. But never like this. Not standing in front of you. Not burning behind his stare like that.

You didn’t know what to do with it.

So you just nodded, like that made it all okay, and turned back to finish wiping the counter. Your hands moved on autopilot, scrubbing the same spot twice.

And then, quieter—deadly quiet—you heard him speak again behind you.

“Don’t answer him again.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Of course you wouldn’t. Of course.

But Chan wasn’t done.

“Ever,” he said, voice dropping further. “Or I swear to God—”

He cut himself off.

You looked at him then, really looked. His fingers were white-knuckled around the counter’s edge. His breathing had slowed into something controlled. Too controlled.

And even then, even now, your first instinct wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion.

It was to calm him down.

Without a word, you stepped closer and reached for him. Your arms circled his waist like it was nothing—like you hadn’t just seen a glimpse of something primal behind his usually warm eyes. You laid your cheek against his chest, right over his heartbeat.

“I won’t,” you whispered. “I promise.”

He didn’t move at first. Didn’t even breathe.

Then you felt it—his shoulders sinking, that tension leaking out like someone had pulled the plug. His arms came around you, pulling you in, hands splaying wide across your back like he was scared you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

“I just—” His voice cracked slightly. “I can’t stand the thought of him near you again. Not after everything.”

“I know.” You pressed your lips to his chest, right where his heart thudded. “He won’t get near me. Not while I have you.”

That was the truth. You didn’t even think about it anymore—how natural it felt to belong here, in his arms, in his home. How much of your life revolved around this man, this space, this rhythm. You didn’t care about penthouses or privacy. You didn’t need freedom when you had this.

Because Chan was your home. And more than that—you were his.

“Don’t forget your water bottle,” you called out, tossing it across the living room.

Chan caught it one-handed like the athlete he always pretended he wasn’t, but the smug grin that followed gave him away. “You just wanna keep me hydrated so I live long enough to keep spoiling you.”

You gave him a look. “Duh.”

He laughed, slinging the strap of his gym bag over one shoulder. He’d been dragging his feet all morning—pretending he was gonna leave, then circling back to ask dumb things like “Do we have any more peanut butter?” or “Should I shave today or keep the scruff?”

Now he was hovering by the front door, sneakers half on, clearly stalling again.

“You gonna go, or do I have to call the trainer myself and tell him you’re scared of cardio?”

“Rude,” he muttered, but he didn’t move. Just eyed you for a moment.

You were back in the kitchen, wiping the counter down for the second time that morning. Another instinct. Another way to make sure his space felt good, clean, safe. You didn’t think about it—you just did it. You always had.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked suddenly.

You looked up. He wasn’t asking like earlier. This time, his voice was softer. Less fury, more concern.

You rolled your eyes with a little smile. “Chan. I blocked him. It’s done.”

He nodded. “Still wanna know how he got a new number. Motherfucker’s like a roach.”

You laughed. “Maybe he’s a fan of yours and saw your name in my contacts. Thought you’d forgotten about him.”

Chan’s expression darkened just slightly.

“I didn’t forget. Told him what I’d do if he reached out again.” He didn’t say it like a threat. It was a statement. Calm. Dead serious.

You blinked. “Wait—you talked to him?”

Chan shrugged, casual as hell. “Last time he called you. I answered instead.”

Your eyes widened. “When was this?!”

“Few years ago,” he said, grabbing his keys off the hook. “Told him to disappear. Guess he forgot.”

You stood there, towel in hand, heart thumping for no good reason. Not scared. Not upset. Just… a little stunned.

“Chan.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t tell me.”

“You were already going through enough.” He looked at you like it was the easiest decision in the world. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”

You tossed the towel at him. “You terrifying, overgrown guard dog.”

He dodged it and smirked. “Someone’s gotta scare the vermin away.”

You walked over and poked him in the chest. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“So lucky,” he drawled, catching your finger and tugging you just slightly closer.

There it was again—that quiet intensity. Not romantic. Not lustful. Just… full. You filled his world, and he didn’t know how to hide it anymore.

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick and easy like always. “Go train, old man.”

Chan huffed a laugh and finally turned to leave, but before he stepped out, he paused and said over his shoulder:

“If he texts again, you tell me. No matter what.”

“I will,” you promised.

Because you knew he meant it. And maybe that was why the idea of Eli crawling back didn’t scare you anymore.

Not when you had Chan.

<><><>

That evening started like any other movie night. You padded into the private cinema room wearing one of Chan’s oversized hoodies—soft, warm, and swallowed in the scent of him—because you always did. His cologne clung to the cotton, familiar and comforting, and it made you feel closer to him. Closer than you probably should have.

He was already sunk deep into one of the reclining chairs, phone in hand, a bowl of snacks resting lazily on his lap. He looked up and smiled when you walked in, like nothing made him happier than just seeing you. Like you were all he needed to end the day right.

You curled up beside him without a word, folding into the crook of his side like you belonged there. His arm lifted automatically, welcoming you into his warmth. It wasn’t weird. This was just what you two did.

But it felt different tonight.

You weren’t sure if it was the way his hand dropped to your bare thigh beneath the blanket, fingers drawing mindless shapes against your skin—or the way your own hand somehow found his chest, fingers brushing softly, tracing the shape of his collarbone like you had every right.

You didn’t mean to kiss him.

Not on the mouth, of course. That’d be crazy.

But you’d always been touchy with him, hadn’t you? Just little things. Kisses to his shoulder when he carried you to bed, to his jaw when he bought you something ridiculously expensive just because he felt like it. So why should tonight be different?

Your lips pressed gently to the curve of his bicep, then again, just higher. He tensed slightly beneath you, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t stop you.

Instead, his fingers slipped up under the hem of the hoodie, splaying across the small of your back—warm, possessive.

You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten until you were practically on his lap. The movie blurred in the background, completely irrelevant.

You pressed another kiss to his shoulder. Then another, slow and deliberate. He turned his head toward you, breathing heavier now, eyes hooded.

“Baby,” he said softly.

You froze. “What?”

His hand tangled in your hair, gently tugging you back just enough to look in your eyes. His thumb brushed your cheek like he couldn’t help himself.

“You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your heart skipped. But you smiled, trying to play it off. “I was just thanking you. You’re comfy.”

“I’m serious.” His gaze dropped to your lips. “You keep doing stuff like this and one day, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”

That hit you like a match to gasoline. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how heavy the air had become between you.

But still… you didn’t pull away.

And he didn’t let you go.

<><><>

You were already in a good mood when he came home, but the shopping bags in his hand? That turned it into ecstasy.

“Wait—are those from Dior?” you gasped, nearly tripping over yourself as he placed them casually on the marble kitchen island like he’d just come back from buying groceries.

Chan didn’t even look fazed. “Got bored waiting for a meeting to end, so I stopped by the boutique. Thought you’d like some of this.”

“Some?” you echoed, your voice high-pitched as you tore into the first bag, a squeal leaving your lips when you found a silky black slip dress folded like a secret inside tissue paper. “Channie, are you kidding?”

“Do I ever kid?” he smirked, walking past you, casually undoing his watch and setting it beside the sink. “Try it on. The others too.”

There were others.

Gucci. Prada. Cartier.

And you? You were living. Floating. Glowing. Letting him spoil you was second nature by now, but nights like this reminded you—he didn’t just give you luxury. He wrapped you in it.

“You’re such a menace,” you muttered, eyes sparkling as you slipped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re gonna ruin me for everyone else.”

He glanced down at you with that lazy smile, the kind that curled slow and deep. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

You wore the Dior slip dress that same night to the rooftop party Chan reluctantly agreed to attend with you. It fit like it had been painted on, soft and glossy, barely brushing your mid-thigh, your legs on full display in the matching Louboutin's he also got you.

“Baby,” he said when you walked out of your room, one brow raised, voice a little tight. “You’re not serious.”

You twirled for him with a smirk. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

He stared. Stared like he was trying to burn it into memory. “Do not disappear from my sight tonight.”

<><><>

You were tipsy. Not sloppy—just glowy, warm in the chest, your limbs loose and fluid with every bass-thumping beat. The rooftop was packed, the skyline glittering behind you like a movie set, and your dress—courtesy of Chan’s impromptu Dior shopping spree—sparkled just as hard.

He’d barely looked at you when he handed it over earlier that night, like it wasn’t several thousand dollars of backless silk. “Wear it if you want,” he’d said casually, as if it were groceries.

You’d worn it.

Now you were dancing. And not just dancing—moving like you had something to prove. Letting your hips roll too slow. Letting a stranger rest his hands too low. Your smile too wide. Your laugh too sweet.

You felt Chan’s eyes on you before you even turned.

He was stalking through the crowd like something out of a damn K-drama, black button-down unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up, eyes locked on you. You barely had a second to giggle before his hand was wrapping tight around your wrist.

“Outside. Now.”

You squeaked. “Channie, I’m just—”

“I said now.”

Oh. He was pissed.

You let him pull you off the floor, across the rooftop to a shadowed corner near the stairs where the music was distant and no one could hear him grinding his teeth.

“Are you insane?” he snapped, dropping your wrist only to press both hands to his hips like he had to physically restrain himself from pacing. “You don’t let strangers touch you like that. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I looked hot,” you said, crossing your arms—half-defensive, half-drunk. “And it was just a dance.”

He turned to you slowly, brows raised. “Just a dance? Do you see yourself right now?”

You did. You looked like luxury and trouble. And maybe you leaned into that just a little more.

“So what if I had a little fun?” you said sweetly, stepping into his space. “You dragged me out just to scold me like some angry boyfriend?”

“I’m not your boyfriend,” he ground out, jaw ticking.

“No. But you act like it.”

That shut him up.

He stared at you, unreadable. Furious, maybe. Or barely hanging on.

So naturally, you kept going.

You twirled around, your dress fluttering around your thighs, swaying again just a little too close, dragging your hands slowly up his chest—pure mischief. “You shouldn’t buy me pretty things if you don’t want people to stare, Channie.”

His hand caught your wrist again—tighter this time.

“You’re really pushing it tonight.”

“I know.” You smiled up at him. “You’ll still let me go home with you though, right?”

His nostrils flared. “You live with me.”

“Exactly.” You beamed. “Now can we go back to the party? Or are you gonna keep playing possessive best friend in the dark?”

You barely had time to blink before he spun you, gently but firmly pinning you to the railing behind you, just inches from his chest. He leaned in close, voice low and dangerous in your ear.

“You don’t want to see what real possessive looks like, baby.”

Your stomach dropped—heat rushing everywhere.

But he stepped back a second later like nothing happened, casually running a hand through his hair.

“Go ahead,” he said, shrugging like his entire body hadn’t just radiated barely-contained rage. “Go dance. But if another guy touches you—don’t expect me to be this nice.”

And then he walked off, leaving you pressed to the railing with your heart pounding, legs weak, and absolutely no idea what game you were playing anymore.

You caught up to him at the bar again—he’d tried to disappear into the crowd, tried to drown his irritation in another glass of whiskey, but you were too far gone and way too stubborn to let him off the hook that easy.

“Chan,” you whined, grabbing his arm and tugging like a bratty little siren, “you ruined my dance.”

“I saved your ass,” he muttered, not even looking at you.

“You owe me.”

He glanced over finally, eyes sharp but dark under the club lights. “Don’t push it.”

You smiled sweetly. Fake as hell. “Just one dance.”

“No.”

You dragged him anyway.

He let you.

Let you guide him right into the dim VIP corner—where the bass was deeper, the lights darker, and the crowd less concerned with what anyone else was doing.

The second the music shifted—low and filthy—you turned, pressed your back to his chest, and rolled your hips into him like you’d done it a thousand times.

Chan froze.

Dead silent.

You were smiling to yourself, just drunk enough to be shameless, just bratty enough to know you were pushing every single one of his buttons.

You grabbed his hands and placed them on your waist, forcing him to hold you as your ass moved in slow, hypnotic circles, rubbing right against him in time with the beat.

“Don’t you dare let go,” you teased over your shoulder.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.

You dipped lower, grinding harder, and heard the way his breath hitched behind you.

He wasn’t dancing. Not really.

He was just… enduring.

And you were loving every second of it.

Your fingers slid up his forearm, dragging along the veins you knew always popped when he was tense. You leaned back into him, head brushing his shoulder as your hips kept moving, smooth and slow and deliberate.

“Thought you didn’t want weirdos touching me, Channie,” you said, faux-innocent, breathless from the rhythm. “So dance with me.”

“You call this dancing?” he growled into your ear.

You arched your back, hands in your hair now, dress hiking up just enough to flash more thigh than he’d probably ever seen on you.

“Mmm, yeah,” you moaned softly, throwing it back again—slow, deep, filthy.

He cursed under his breath.

His fingers flexed around your waist, digging in just a little tighter. You were dizzy with music, heat, and alcohol—but fully aware of the way he was breathing now. Shaky. Unsteady.

You had him.

He wasn’t just watching you anymore—he was feeling you.

Everything about the moment was screaming wrong—you were best friends, and this wasn’t how best friends danced—but still, he didn’t stop you.

Didn’t step away.

Didn’t tell you to quit.

He just held on tighter… and let you work.

When the bass dropped again. Darker now. Slower and even dirtier. You didn’t hesitate.

One arm reached back, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck while your other hand guided his—down your stomach, over your hips, until both his palms were molded around you like you were made for him.

You leaned back into him, ass pressing right up where he’d been trying not to feel you—where the thin fabric of your dress was the only thing separating you from him—and you moved.

Dragged. Rolled. Grinded.

Like you didn’t care how many red lines you were crossing.

“Y/N—” he warned, voice raw, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “Behave.”

You didn’t.

You let his hands roam further, teasing his fingers up toward your waist—up your ribs—then dragging one dangerously close to the underside of your breast.

He flinched like you’d shocked him, like your skin was on fire.

And maybe it was.

You turned your head, brushing your lips across his jaw, not quite kissing, just lingering.

“You’re not stopping me,” you whispered.

He growled.

Actually growled.

His grip on your waist tightened, fingers sinking into your sides like he was trying to anchor himself to reality—like your body grinding against him, soft and sinful, wasn’t about to unravel every last thread of his control.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” he grit out.

“So stop me,” you whispered, shifting your hips again—slow and deliberate—dragging yourself up his thigh like a stripclub fantasy gone rogue.

One of your hands slid down to his again, guiding it back to your waist, but lower this time—so low his fingers brushed the curve of your ass and you swore you felt his whole body tense behind you.

You smirked.

Chan didn’t find it funny. He was seething.

His jaw clenched so hard you could feel it brush against your temple, and his voice when it came was low, strained, and barely human:

“Y/N, if you don’t stop…”

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because he didn’t know what would happen if you didn’t. And neither did you.

You just kept moving.

The second your ass arched back again—grinding slow, sultry, shameless—Chan’s grip locked on your waist like a vice.

“Enough.”

You didn’t get the chance to blink before he spun you around, one hand wrapping around your wrist, the other coming to the small of your back, steering you through the crowd like he didn’t give a damn who saw.

You giggled.

He didn’t.

Not even close.

“Chan, where’re we goin’?” you asked, voice slurring just enough to make it sound like a song.

He didn’t answer. Not really.

“Home.”

One word. Clipped and dangerous. And fuck, he was walking like a man on the edge—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, muscles rippling with every step while you were practically tripping over your heels trying to keep up, your drunk giggles only making him grip you tighter.

Like your laughter was gasoline on a flame.

“You’re mad,” you teased, leaning your weight into him like deadweight.

“I’m furious.”

That made you giggle harder.

He didn’t stop until he’d yanked the passenger side door open and dropped you in the seat like you weighed nothing. Slammed the door. Rounded the car with the same heat in his steps. He slid into the driver’s side, slammed that door, and his knuckles went white around the steering wheel.

You turned to him with a cheeky smile, tugging on his sleeve.

“You’re not really mad.”

He didn’t even look at you.

“Put your seatbelt on.”

“Why? You afraid I’ll fall into your lap again?”

He finally looked at you—and that look?

Could’ve melted diamonds.

“You think this is funny?”

The laugh you gave him was light, teasing. “A little.”

Chan shifted, arm coming up to rest behind your seat, so he was fully turned toward you. His voice dropped—low, firm, the kind of tone he only used when you were being a real pain in the ass.

“You don’t get it, do you? You almost made me cross a line in there.”

You blinked, still a little tipsy, still smiling. “What line?”

His eyes burned into yours.

“The one where I stop being your best friend and start being the guy who ruins you.”

That wiped the smile right off your lips.

You sat back in the seat, heart kicking, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment settle over your skin like static.

Chan turned away, facing forward again.

“You’re gonna sleep it off. We’ll talk tomorrow. And you’re gonna listen, for once. Because you don’t get to keep pushing me like this and acting like it’s cute.”

Silence.

“Maybe I spoilt you too much,” he muttered, shifting into gear. “Cos clearly, you don’t like to fuckin’ listen.”

And just like that, he drove off—leaving the music, the crowd, and the heat of temptation burning behind you.

<><><>

Your head was pounding.

Throbbing, actually.

Like someone had taken a bass speaker and shoved it directly into your brain. You groaned as you rolled onto your back, blinking up at the ceiling in confusion.

…This wasn’t your bed.

Wait. Yes, it was.

But why were you in his shirt? And why did you have glitter on your thighs?

Oh no.

You sat up slowly, spotting the water and ibuprofen on your nightstand—placed there no doubt by one incredibly annoyed but still annoyingly sweet man. The man whose footsteps you now heard approaching from the hallway.

You flinched at the sound. He was stomping.

“Someone’s heavy-footed this morning,” you muttered.

Chan stepped into the doorway with a blank stare and a mug in his hand. The look on his face? That one he reserved for when you did something so wildly irritating he couldn’t even find the words yet.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

You offered him a sheepish smile. “…Did I do something?”

He just stared.

“Chan?”

He placed the mug on your nightstand with a bit too much force.

“You don’t remember?”

You blinked up at him with your most innocent expression. “I mean… I remember the party? The rooftop? I think I danced a little?”

“A little,” he repeated, deadpan. “You grinded on me. In the corner. Like it was a fucking stripclub. Like we weren’t best friends. Like I wasn’t five seconds from hauling you over my shoulder and taking you home.”

Your cheeks flushed hot. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

You cleared your throat, unable to stop the sheepish grin creeping in. “Did I look good though?”

Chan’s face did something strange. Like he short-circuited. “Are you—? What?”

“I mean,” you teased, poking at him now because why not, “was I sexy? Did I make your heart race? Or was it just embarrassing and sad?”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Just answer the question.”

Chan ran a hand over his face like he was praying for patience. “That’s not the point.”

“But did you like it?”

Silence. His stare burned holes into you.

You leaned back against the headboard with a slow smirk, hugging your knees to your chest. “You’re mad and flustered. That’s a good sign.”

Chan tilted his head, voice low.

“Do you really wanna know how it felt?”

You nodded way too fast. “I do.”

He leaned down, eyes locked on yours, one hand braced beside your head on the headboard.

“It felt like temptation.”

Your breath caught.

He didn’t blink. “It felt like you knew exactly what you were doing, and you wanted to see just how far you could push me. And it felt like if I hadn’t dragged you out of there, I’d be doing things to you we couldn’t take back.”

You stared up at him, mouth parting in surprise.

Then you whispered, “…Shit.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Shit.”

You blinked once. Twice.

“…Still kinda flattered though.”

Chan groaned and pulled away, heading for the door again.

“You’re not allowed to drink for at least a month. Minimum.”

“Chan, don’t be like that—”

“A month.” he repeated, disappearing down the hall.

You flopped back into your pillows, heart still racing. A grin slowly crept over your lips.

Damn. Maybe you did get carried away.

<><><>

You were in the zone. Like, completely tuned out, bopping your head to the music in your ears as you folded Chan’s fresh laundry on his bed. Your hips swayed with every beat; every little spin you gave the shirt in your hands before laying it down neatly beside the others.

Your little frilly shorts fluttered with every movement, riding higher each time you reached or twisted or bent. But you didn’t notice. You were too busy humming along to your playlist and tossing socks into a neat pile.

The door had been left cracked open.

And Chan had come home earlier than you realized.

He paused when he saw you from the hallway—his girl, his best friend, in his bedroom, dressed in that matching little cotton set that barely counted as clothing. The fabric on your shorts stretched and hugged the soft curve of your ass as you bent over to tuck the edges of his sheets into place, clearly trying to finish making the bed for him.

His lips parted slightly. A breath caught in his throat.

He was supposed to head to his studio.

But then you wiggled your hips to the beat—innocent, playful—and Chan’s thoughts scattered like smoke.

Something possessed him.

Next thing you knew, you felt a presence behind you.

A firm, warm grip closed around your ass, fingers spreading possessively over the curve.

You jumped, yanking a single AirPod out with a startled gasp, only to spin around and find Chan.

Standing behind you. Wide-eyed. Frozen.

“Oh—fuck,” he blurted, jerking his hand back like it burned him. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t even think—”

You blinked up at him, heart thudding. But honestly? Not because you were mad.

Your lips curved, and you shrugged softly. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind.”

Chan’s whole brain short-circuited.

You didn’t… mind?

You weren’t mad?

That was all it took. His hand—that same hand—dropped right back down to where it had just been, like it had a mind of its own. It found your ass again, slow and deliberate this time, fingers pressing in like he needed to confirm how soft it felt.

You didn’t move. You just looked up at him, blinking innocently.

“Just finishing up,” you said, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Like his hand wasn’t full of your ass.

Chan stared at you like he’d never seen you before. His throat worked around a swallow.

Then—fuck it—he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you in a hug. Except… his hands didn’t settle at your waist like they always did.

No. One hand stayed exactly where it had been—on your jiggly ass—while the other pressed into the small of your back, pulling you close.

“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he muttered into your hair.

You tilted your head. “What’d I do?”

“You exist in those shorts,” he gritted out. “That’s what you did.”

You smiled against his chest, your cheek warming against the familiar scent of his cologne.

“Guess I should wear them more often then.”

Chan exhaled shakily. You could feel the way his fingers twitched against your ass.

Yeah… this tension? This was no longer accidental.

“I mean…” you hummed into his chest, arms looping lazily around his torso, “you did kinda sneak up on me. Could’ve warned me first.”

“You were too cute to interrupt,” he mumbled. His voice was gravel-soft, barely there. “You were doin’ that little dance again.”

You pulled back just enough to raise your brows. “You were watching me?”

He looked guilty. Just for a second. Then shrugged, mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide if he should play it cool or apologize.

“You were in my room, playing house in my shorts, dancing to music like nobody was watching. What was I supposed to do?”

Your smirk deepened. “Not grab my ass?”

“I panicked.”

You burst into a soft laugh, resting your head back against his chest again. The moment felt too warm, too familiar, too… dangerously close to something else.

“I didn’t know you liked them this much,” you teased, wiggling your hips just a little. Just enough to make his hands twitch.

Chan exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” he muttered, one hand dragging lightly up your spine.

You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes wide, soft with curiosity. “Good?”

“Respectful,” he clarified. “You’re my best friend.”

You blinked. “And best friends don’t touch ass?”

“They shouldn’t,” he bit out, and that was the first real crack in his voice. “But you’ve been pushing it lately, baby. You’ve been testing me.”

Your chest fluttered at the way he said baby. So casually, like it slipped out before he could stop it.

“Have I?”

Chan’s hand slid lower. Not enough to be scandalous, just enough to let you feel that he wasn’t kidding anymore. His palm was warm and heavy, anchoring you to him like he was suddenly realizing he didn’t want to let go.

“You’re not as innocent as you act,” he muttered.

You gave him your best doe-eyed look. “I never said I was.”

That was when he lost it a little.

One of his hands slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and he leaned in like he was thinking about kissing you—but didn’t. His lips barely ghosted yours.

Not a kiss. Not quite.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he whispered. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”

You did. You absolutely did. But you didn’t say a word.

You just smiled.

“Laundry’s done,” you whispered, pulling back with one last squeeze around his waist. “You’re welcome.”

And then you walked out of his room like you didn’t just flip his entire world upside down in cotton shorts and a matching button-up.

<><><>

That night, you were wide awake.

The house was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant rustle of trees outside, and your pulse drumming hard against the pillow.

It’d been hours since you left Chan’s room. Hours since you’d walked out of there trying to act like your skin wasn’t still tingling where his hands had been. Like your heart hadn’t stuttered when his lips brushed yours without ever truly kissing you.

You should’ve let it go.

But the problem was, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Your fingers hovered over your phone. Then… tapped.

You: You up?

The read receipt appeared too fast.

Chan: Always. What’s wrong?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.Then:

You: Nothing. Just thinking about earlier.

Chan: Which part?

You smiled. Bit your bottom lip. That was bait, and he knew it.

You fed him a little more.

You: You touching me like that in your room.

Another instant reply.

Chan: I shouldn’t have. I got carried away.

You: I didn’t mind.

A pause. Longer this time. You imagined him lying in bed with that furrow between his brows, one hand behind his head, trying to figure out if you were just being bratty again—or if you meant it.

Chan: I could tell.

You laughed quietly to yourself, propping your phone against your knee, thumbs ready to wreck your whole friendship.

You: You’re really gonna act like you didn’t like it?

Chan: Is that what you want me to say? That I liked having my hand on my best friend’s ass?

You: I mean… you did keep it there for a long time.

Chan: You looked really good like that.

You sat up a little straighter, nerves flickering through your chest like sparks.

You: Like how?

Chan: Bent over my bed in those shorts. You know what you were doing.

You: I was folding your laundry.

Chan: While dancing. In those tiny ass shorts.

You: You liked that?

The dots blinked.

Stopped.

Started again.

Chan: Too much.

You took a shaky breath.

This felt reckless. You were under the same roof. Just down the hall. Separated by a hallway and years of pretending your friendship was innocent.

Your fingers moved again.

You: If I came to your room right now…

No reply.

Not yet. You could almost hear his breathing. Almost feel how still he was on the other side of the house.

Then finally:

Chan: Don’t. If you come in here like that, I won’t let you leave untouched.

You stared at the message. Bit your lip and tucked yourself a little deeper into your sheets, thighs brushing, breath catching.

Your fingers trembled when you typed again.

You: Untouched where?

You saw the typing bubble appear immediately.

Chan: Everywhere.

You: Be specific.

Chan: You want me to tell you how I’d touch you, best friend?

That sent a chill up your spine. Something about the way he called you that. Not sweet. Not teasing. Dangerous.

You: Yeah. I do.

Chan: I’d start with those legs you’re always stretching across my lap. I’d make you open them wider for me.

You: Keep going.

Chan: I’d touch you over those tiny little shorts you love wearing around me like you don’t know they drive me fucking crazy.

Your mouth went dry. Your hand slipped beneath the covers, not to touch—just to feel. To let your own heat rise in the quiet dark.

You: I knew they drove you crazy.

Chan: Of course you did. You’re a brat. You do it on purpose.

You: You like when I act like a brat.

Chan: I like shutting you up when you get too mouthy.

Your stomach flipped. God, this felt wrong. You were just supposed to be folding laundry and going to bed like normal.

Instead—

You: If I was in your bed right now, what would you do to me?

Another pause.

You waited. You could feel the shift. Could practically hear the internal war going on behind his silence. How much he was willing to say. How far he was willing to go.

Then:

Chan: I’d drag you under me. Pin your wrists. Tell you to stop squirming but know damn well you wouldn’t. I’d make you beg me to touch you properly.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Face flushed. Legs pressed tight under the blanket.

You weren’t sure who you were anymore. You weren’t just his best friend. Not right now. You were something else entirely.

You: Would you let me touch you too?

Chan: Not unless you asked real nice.

You: Please, Channie.

That one made him pause. You could feel it. Like the air had been sucked from the room.

Then:

Chan: You’re really playing with fire tonight, baby.

You: You’re the one who said you wanted to touch me.

Chan: And now I wanna do a lot more than that.

You: Yeah? Like what?

Chan: Like make you mine.

Your breath hitched. You blinked at that message for a long, long time. Because it didn’t feel like flirtation anymore. It didn’t feel like a joke.

You: But I’m already yours… aren’t I?

This time, there was no pause.

Chan: Fuck yes, you are.

Your heart was thudding. Your body humming. But your fingers moved with more confidence now. There was something intoxicating about knowing exactly how to push him.

Something dangerous.

You: I remembered the party.

The typing bubble popped up immediately.

Chan: What about it?

You: How you grabbed me like you wanted to throw me over your shoulder.

Chan: You were asking for it.

You: And then you let me grind on you like that? In public?

Chan: Correction. You made me stand there and take it.

You: Mm. I remember how hard you got through those dress pants.

You bit your lip. Your thighs squeezed again.

Then added: You were so thick and heavy against me, Channie. I still feel it.

A full minute passed. He didn’t respond. You almost thought you’d pushed him too far.

Then—

Chan: Keep talking like that and I’ll be in your room in under sixty seconds.

Your breath caught. You smiled to yourself, devilish.

You weren’t done yet.

You: You didn’t even stop me when I dragged your hands over my body. You wanted to feel me, didn’t you? Even when you told me to behave, you kept touching.

Chan: God, you’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the nearest couch right there.

Your mouth dropped open slightly. But you were thriving in this game now. Riding that high. And you hadn’t even touched yourself yet—just lying there soaked and giggly like you’d been corrupted through a screen.

You: You could’ve. I wouldn’t have stopped you.

Chan: Say that again.

You hesitated. Then: I wanted you to touch me at the party. I wanted you to pull me into that corner and make a mess out of me. Is that so bad?

Chan: Baby, if you knew what you were saying right now…

You: I do.

Chan: And I want you to say what you wanted. Out loud. To me.

Your fingers stalled. You swallowed.

Then typed: I wanted to feel your hard dick against me again. I wanted you to grip my hips and hold me still and tell me I was yours. I wanted your voice in my ear, telling me not to run.

Chan didn’t respond for two whole minutes.

You were about to text again when—

Chan: I’m coming up. Don’t move.

Your heart leapt into your throat. You barely had time to throw your phone down before you heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs.

Then—your bedroom door creaked open.

And there he was.

Hoodie sleeves shoved up, jaw tight, chest rising like he’d sprinted the last few steps. His eyes landed on you—bare-legged under your little blanket, looking like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.

But oh, this wasn’t about cookies.

He shut the door with his foot. Click.

“You’re seriously playing with fire, you know that?”

You blinked up at him, lips parted. “What, just texting my best friend?”

Chan’s laugh was dry—no humor. Only disbelief.

Then his hands were on his hips, like he needed to physically restrain himself from pouncing. His eyes travelled down your body, slow and possessive, before he stepped closer to the bed.

“You said some wild shit just now, baby.”

“I meant every word.”

He tilted his head, smirking. But his voice dropped a little darker. “You wanted to feel me? Hm?”

You nodded, biting your bottom lip.

“Say it again,” he said, close enough now to tug the blanket down from your waist.

“I wanted to feel you,” you whispered.

He leaned in. “Where, sweetheart?”

Your breath hitched. “Against me.”

“Where else?”

You swallowed. “Inside me.”

That was it. That was fucking it.

In a blink, he was crawling over the bed, pinning you back with one hand on your waist and the other sliding under your thigh to pull you open for him.

“Guess what, baby?” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw as you shivered beneath him.

“You’re about to.”

Your breath caught in your throat as Chan’s weight settled over you, his body a solid, grounding force that made the room feel smaller, hotter, like the air itself was pressing against your skin. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough to feel the heat of his breath but not quite touching. It was torture. It was deliberate.

“Chan,” you whispered, voice trembling with something you couldn’t name. Anticipation. Need. Fear of what this moment meant for the two of you.

His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, but there was a storm behind them. You could see it—the way his restraint was fraying, the way his fingers tightened just slightly on your thigh, like he was fighting himself as much as he was holding onto you.

“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, like he was giving you one last chance to back out. One last chance to keep things the way they’d always been.

But you didn’t want that. Not anymore. Not after the texts, the dancing, the way his hands felt like they belonged on your body.

You nodded, slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his. “I’m sure.”

That was all he needed.

His lips crashed into yours, and it was like the world tilted. It wasn’t soft or tentative—not like the almost-kiss in his room earlier. This was hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for you and only just realized it. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, your body arching into his like it had a mind of its own.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands finding his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his hair. You tugged lightly, and he groaned into your mouth—a sound that sent heat pooling low in your stomach. His tongue brushed against yours, and you felt it everywhere, like a current running through your veins.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled, breathless, and tugged him closer. “Good.”

He growled low in his throat, and then his hands were everywhere—sliding under your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your stomach, your ribs, stopping just short of where you wanted him most. He was teasing you, and you hated it as much as you loved it.

“Chan,” you whined, squirming beneath him, trying to guide his hand higher.

He smirked knowingly. “What, baby? Use your words.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Touch me.”

“Where?” His voice was a low rumble, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hipbone, maddeningly close but not quite enough.

“Everywhere,” you breathed, echoing his text from earlier.

That did it.

His hand slid up, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a way that made you gasp. His other hand yanked your thigh higher, hooking it over his hip as he pressed himself closer, letting you feel every inch of him—hard, heavy, and so real it made your head spin.

“You wanted this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your ear. “You wanted me to lose it, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” you gasped, arching into his touch as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and possessive against your bare skin.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression a mix of awe and something darker—something that made your heart race even faster. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”

Your breath hitched. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because you’re you,” he interrupted, voice rough. “You’re my best friend. My safe place. I didn’t want to fuck this up.”

You reached up, cupping his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “You’re not fucking anything up, Channie.”

His eyes softened, but only for a moment. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into it. His hands roamed—over your sides, your thighs, tugging your shorts down just enough to feel the bare skin of your hips.

You tugged at his shirt, impatient, and he chuckled against your lips before pulling back to yank it over his head. The sight of him—bare-chested, muscles flexing, eyes dark with want—made your mouth go dry. You’d seen him shirtless a thousand times, but this was different. This was yours.

“Like what you see?” he teased, catching the way you were staring.

You didn’t even bother hiding it. “Always have.”

He froze for a second, like your words hit him harder than he expected. Then he was on you again, kissing you like he was trying to make up for lost time, his hands slipping under your shirt to tug it off completely. The cool air hit your skin, but his touch was fire, burning away any chill.

His lips trailed down your neck, over your collarbone, pausing to murmur, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” before continuing lower, kissing the curve of your chest.

You gasped when his mouth found your skin, warm and deliberate, his hands holding you in place as he took his time exploring you. Every touch, every kiss, felt like a confession—like he was saying all the things he’d held back for years.

“Chan,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed lower, his breath hot against your stomach.

He looked up at you, eyes dark but soft. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

“Don’t you dare,” you said, voice shaking but certain.

He grinned—slow, wicked—and then his hands were on your shorts, tugging them down along with your underwear in one smooth motion. You were bare beneath him now, vulnerable in a way you’d never been before, but there was no fear. Only trust. Only him.

His hands slid up your thighs, parting them gently, and he leaned down to kiss you again, softer this time, like he was savoring it. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your lips.

“Then die happy,” you shot back, and he laughed—a real, warm laugh that made your heart ache.

But then his touch turned serious again, his fingers brushing against you in a way that made your breath catch, your body arching toward him instinctively. He watched you, eyes locked on yours, gauging every reaction, every little sound you made.

“Channie,” you gasped, when his fingers pressed just right, slow and deliberate, like he was learning you.

“Shh,” he murmured, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

And he did. He always had.

His touch was patient, reverent, but there was an edge to it—like he was holding himself back, trying not to lose control completely. You could feel it in the way his fingers trembled slightly, the way his breath hitched when you moaned softly under him.

“More,” you whispered, tugging him closer, needing him closer.

He didn’t need to be told twice.

His fingers worked you with a rhythm that made your head spin, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything to ground yourself. But it was too much and not enough all at once, and you could feel the heat building, coiling tight in your core.

“Channie, please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

“You,” you managed, voice breaking. “I want you.”

That was all it took.

He pulled back just enough to kick off his sweatpants, and then he was back, settling between your thighs, his body warm and solid against yours. He kissed you again, deep and slow, and you felt him—hard, heavy, pressing against you in a way that made your entire body hum with anticipation.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, one last time, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.

You nodded, pulling him closer, your lips brushing his. “I’ve always been sure.”

He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for years, and then he was there—sliding into you, slow and careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But there was none. Only heat, only fullness, only him.

You gasped softly, your hands finding his back, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. He moved slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, but it wasn’t long before you were urging him faster, harder, your hips meeting his with every thrust.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “You feel so good.”

“So do you,” you whispered, and you meant it—every word, every touch, every moment.

The world outside didn’t exist anymore. It was just you and him, the heat of his skin, the way his hands gripped your hips, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer. You were his, and he was yours, and for the first time, that truth didn’t scare you.

It felt right.

The tension built, higher and higher, until you were trembling beneath him, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. He could feel it too—you could tell by the way his movements grew less controlled, more desperate, his lips finding yours again as he pushed you both closer to the edge.

“Chan,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the wave crashed over you, your body shuddering beneath him.

He groaned, low and deep, following you over the edge moments later, his body tensing, his arms tightening around you like he never wanted to let go.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just held each other, the world quiet except for the sound of your racing hearts.

Then he kissed your forehead, soft and lingering, and rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft now, almost shy.

You nodded, your cheek pressed against his skin. “More than okay.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Good. Because I’m not sure I can go back to pretending after that.”

You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Then don’t.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you again—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I won’t.”

<><><>

The next morning was different.

Not awkward or weird. Just… new.

You woke up tangled in his sheets, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. For a moment, you just lay there, letting the reality of it sink in. You weren’t just best friends anymore. You were something more, something unspoken but undeniable.

He stirred behind you, his lips brushing your shoulder. “Morning, baby girl.”

You smiled, rolling over to face him. His hair was a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.

“Morning Channie,” you whispered back, reaching up to trace his jaw.

He caught your hand, kissing your palm. “You’re not gonna start teasing me already, are you?”

You grinned. “Maybe.”

He groaned, pulling you closer, his lips finding yours in a lazy, sleepy kiss that made your toes curl. “You’re trouble.”

“You love it,” you shot back, snuggling into his chest.

He didn’t argue. Just held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.

You didn’t talk about what this meant—not yet. There’d be time for that later. Time to figure out how to navigate this new thing between you, how to balance being best friends with being… more.

But for now, you were content to just be. To lie there in his arms, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.

Because you were completely his. And that was enough.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Authors note: Hiiiiiii! How’s it going guys? I have been soooo busy lately like i need my life backkkkk 😩😩😩 i’m so sorry that i have bot responded to my dms, but its all for a good cause. So tell me how did you like this fic? Its a little on the long side with an almost 10k wordcount but i was hoping that could make up for lost time… this one has been sitting in my drafts for months so i released it because i know i owe yall some content. Sooooo enjoy this while i get the next entry for NAUGHTY DORM CHRONICLES READYYYY ❤️🤭🤩