front doorstep - [c.redfield]
four months had passed. your life had become a blur of repeating days, stuck in one waiting moment by your front door. relief felt as if it would never come. until one day, finally, the handle turned.
ft. chris redfield x f!reader
18+ MDNI. if you do not have your age on your blog you will be blocked, you must be 18+ to interact with and follow this content.
content: established relationship, mild angst, smut, tit play, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, unsafe sex, creampie, f!receiving oral, tiny brief mention of come eating, aftercare, fluff and cuddles, vendetta era chris
word count: 14.1k
ao3 ver. (must be a registered user to view)
A slither of sunlight cast over your closed eyes slowly drags you away from your sleepy stupor and with a heavy head you roll over to dodge its beam. It must've been late afternoon already, the sun had done a half-lap of the house, the birds had finished singing their daily songs and the mail had already been posted through the letterbox many hours ago.
But you had yet to move.
Your entire body feels burdensome, too hefty to shift like something is forcefully pushing you down and making you double over yourself. Aching joints and shaking hands keep you stuck and you have no energy to fight it. Worst of all your head pounds with a rotten headache, the kind that makes it feel as if your eyes are bugging out.
You have no intention to get up. The back of your throat is dry and the tear tracks on your cheeks are sticky but still you know you won't yet move. Your sense of time was shattered from the moment you surrendered to these bed sheets, to the cushion of your mattress, but even that doesn't help to shake the thought. The thought that this is his bed too. But his side is empty, cold and abandoned. It has been for months.
Two, two months was what you had been told, what he had promised. And you took that promise in good faith, trusted his word and waited for his return. But two months turned into three and three into four, an inexorable march of days lost and hopes dashed. You tried to be patient and give him the benefit of the doubt but the four month mark meant breaking point.
In the grand scheme of things four months isn't much, he's certainly been gone for longer than that, but when it's double the time a promise told fear makes a home in the days elapsed.
After all, anything could have happened. Even one day is many hours of possibilities, ones you would never truly understand but knew enough of to dread. Countless times when he does return he's been in a sorry state so far removed from how he was when the front door closed behind him, and every time you've understood the chance that he may never return to you.
He's never said it, never made it known in words because he's never dared to give the thought tangibility that would stick in your mind. But you know it regardless. He tells it all in the way he says goodbye to you.
His hugs are always tighter when there's an escort outside waiting, his hands bunch up your shirt and he breathes you in deeply as if to make sure he doesn't forget how the linger of your perfume feels when drifting past his nose. With your head on his chest you can feel how his heart leaps a nervous thrum and tells you of his fears in a way he's never tried by tongue, and when he draws away from you his hands are always trembling. But it's his kisses that really make your heart ache.
He mumbles a goodbye when both hands cup your cheeks, often feeling tears beneath the calloused pads of his thumbs as he leans in. His kiss is always soft and slow, apologetic in the way he holds you there for as long as he can without crying himself, though only once he has failed and let them flow. That was the most recent time those four months ago.
Usually a beckon from outside is what forces you to part, else he would have you forever, but before he goes his forehead rests against yours and he gazes at your bleary eyes for as long as you will let him before you shy away. All to make sure you are the last thing he sees before the front door closes and you are left to wait for him once again.
But the wait is agonising, and in your impatience frustration has begun to fester.
It wasn't his fault, though it certainly wasn't yours either, and the lack of a party to blame only made you more restive. The progression of such crushing sadness into anger with no place to take purchase was inevitable and you knew it to be, but not even the thought of that was enough to bring comfort or assuage guilt. You just had to keep yourself busy and wait for it to subside, pray that it would.
The bed creaks when you throw your legs over the edge of it, one socked foot and one bare meeting the carpet as you sigh, sweeping a hand under the sheets to find the missing one. As much as you felt you could lie here forever there was one thing that made you get up day after day, no matter how late it was by the time you got downstairs. It was only a small routine but one that helped you pull the other sock on and finally get to your feet, pushing yourself away from the mattress with your hands on its edge for support.
You grab the keyring from your bedside table and curl it into your fist, head pounding so sharply that you don't even hear the jingle it makes thanks to all of the keychains you've been given from places you've never been to. Finland, Africa, Australia, China, the list goes on.
Slow steps take you out through the bedroom door that sat ajar all night, just in case, past the bathroom and down the stairs. Those same footfalls carry you everyday and you have to be surprised that there isn't an imprint of your steps in the carpet yet.
Then routine begins. There's only one letter on the welcome mat today and another crumbled one stuck half way through the letterbox, forcing it to remain open and letting in a beam of sunlight that flickers up the wall. You grumble at the sight.
With a click of your tongue you retrieve both and check the addressee. Two more for him that will go on the pile next to the coffee machine, the pile that has toppled one too many times and strung thin your dwindling patience.
Letting loose your fist you fumble for the right key, mumbling both a curse and a plea under your breath as you unlock the front door like you do everyday, willing yourself to believe that if the way is clear and ready his return would come sooner. Though it has done nothing for you so far.
But you have to keep at it and unlock the front door through which he left, everyday you promise yourself that you will and so far hadn't missed it once. Because somewhere deep down you naively believe that he will somehow know that it's open, that you're waiting. And if he returns to an unlocked door it shows that you have remembered and been ready everyday, that you've been unwavering in your dedication to him and have been longing for his safe return.
It's just a crushing weight on your heart when you have to lock it again in the evening. Another day alone.
Both letters are carelessly added to the pile as you trudge into the kitchen, keeping the blinds down and allowing only the smallest glow of amber that intrudes between them to light your way.
From the outside most would guess that the house had been left empty, that both you and him had gone away for a while to some place nice and private, a couples getaway. But you have never had the chance to go on one of those. Maybe when he gets back. Maybe when he finally retires, if ever.
The rest of the day blurs together as they all do. Water the plants, eat the same meals, wash the same dishes, and crash on the same sofa. At this point you're glad that there's no you-shaped dent in its cushions from the way you lie. Perhaps you're too restive for one to take, too much tossing about.
The drag that's causing your bones to ache barely subsides throughout the day, like it often doesn't, and as afternoon becomes evening the temptation to give in to the pull of your somnolence is stronger than ever. But, oddly, something begs you not to.
The only reason you move from bed to couch is to be by the door so that you don't forget to lock it when the sun goes down. The hours spent here are of no meaning, hell, the hours you spend doing anything are of no meaning anymore. You're glad you barely remember them, so it's always strange when you get a nagging to break away from your routine lazing.
Typically, now has become the time of day that you'd surrender to a movie or perhaps a shitty television show that has the same plot as many others before it. It's just something to pass the time, in honesty. You've ploughed through plenty by now and know the motions quite well, it's easy on the mind with how it numbs you. Though the mood doesn't strike you now.
Shamefully, getting up from the sofa still takes multiple minutes of contemplating but once you're up you're determined not to go down again until bed. Or rather, you tell yourself that you are, when really it would be very easy to lie back down. But then the idea of a shower crosses your mind and you decide upon it before you have time to think of reasons why not.
After all, fresh pyjamas after a long, warming shower sounds like the exact remedy you need in this moment.
The golden glow of the day has receded as evening creeps in, no longer shining through as you pass the entryway to climb the stairs. You don't even notice it. The passing of time has began to feel like something you're excluded from, stuck in that moment by the front door, always waiting, unsure how to step away.
The mattress calls to you as you get a clean pair of pyjamas out, an old genesis shirt that isn't yours and a pair of shorts that hang loosely on the hips. It'll do. Still it takes effort to head for the bathroom instead of turning to the cradle of the sheets, an unmade bed having never looked so inviting, but once the warm water is freely cascading over you it all becomes worth it.
A deep sigh escapes and feels to drag out your bodies tension with the force of it, purged by the comfort that slowly envelopes you. Steam fogs the glass, suds coat your scalp with lithe fingers working away, and the soft pattering of water on tile drowns out the thrum of your own heartbeat. The clutching unease in your chest doesn't quite shift, anchored soundly in place, but for the first time in a while you feel as if you can actually afford to ignore it for a short time.
Droplets ricochet off the lids of lined up product bottles, a phalanx of soap. Your eyes are drawn to his body wash, the cap that's stayed shut for months, and for the first time you're compelled to reach for it. It opens with a snick and a puff of air on which the scent rides wafts towards your face.
The way the fragrance makes your gut sink begs you to feel regret but still you load your pouf with it and cover yourself in the familiar scent. It's sort of spicy-sweet with the warm woody undertones that have always suited him. You've missed it, despite the bottle sitting right here.
When you're done you continue to stand there for longer than you really should, dreading the cold air beyond the shower door. Moments of reprieve are always brief, forever overshadowed by the thought of what task comes next. But then it strikes you.
Daylight has ceased, you've trudged through yet another repeating day, but your key is still in the door. You realise you forgot to lock it before heading up here and it's that thought that makes you brave the world past the shower's glass.
You would leave it open late, just in case he arrives home at an unreasonable hour of night like he has in yesteryears. But normally when he's here with you he has a penchant for making sure it's locked once darkness falls and certainly makes sure that you do the same. So you try to keep in the habit.
The pyjamas are just as inviting as you had hoped they'd be. The waft of the fabric conditioner you use is pleasant in its subtlety but the familiarity of the freshness is the heart warming embrace you've been missing out on. Especially when paired with the linger of his body wash that now follows you.
Steam explores the hallway as you step out and let it loose, towelling down wet hair while heading for the stairs. The first step creaks like always, something that's never been fixed, but you freeze dead on it and drop your towel as your eyes cast down to the bottom of the staircase.
Your keys, left dangling in the front door lock, jingle as the handle above them is turned and the door wedges open.
It's a shoe first, steel toed and spattered with mud. Weight drops against the wood with a resonant thud and pushes it open, allowing the unending shadow from outside to spill in, partially blocked by the broad shoulder that's leaning there.
A shocked breath hitches high in your throat and jams, choking you on it. Your heart leaps into the back of your mouth and seizes your speech, hammering deafeningly in your head, and if it weren't for how you hold the bannister beside you, you may well have lost your balance.
Two full duffel bags thud to the floor by the shoe rack and free up his aching hands, fingers wrapping around the edge of the door as he finally manages to step inside.
Chris looks exhausted.
Your eyes immediately lock and you can see the dark circles that make his typically ruddy face uncharacteristically gaunt. His lip is busted, his stubble has grown into more of a beard in the way he doesn't like but that you've never minded, and it's sticking up at odd angles in a couple of places like he hasn't cared to look after himself in the time elapsed.
But when he sees you the hardened look in his eyes completely vanishes. The tension that makes his shoulders sore suddenly drops and his whole face softens, winded by the breath of relief that punches out of his chest.
You meet in the middle, having each hurled yourselves towards the other in a mad dash that happens too fast to remember. Chris catches you on the bottom step, your arms hastily thrown over his shoulders and locking tight behind his neck while his eagerly scoop you up with one under your thighs and one belted around your waist.
His hands take purchase like they'd never left, grasping desperately with head nestling in the curve of your neck where you pulse beats wildly beneath his hurried kisses, revelling in the feeling of life thrumming through you.
Your head is spinning off its peg, hands fumbling to tug at the clothes on his back and ball them up like he'll vanish, your longing causing creases in the fabric. Both swallowing down air like you haven't had a single breath of it while apart you wait in a long yet comfortable silence, equally dumbfounded.
"Chris?" your voice wobbles, your eyes tear up, and it only makes him squeeze you tighter in his grasp.
"Mhm?"
"What—"
Socks return to carpet and in a split second his hand, warm and encompassing, is cradling your face to coax you into his kiss. You go easily, arms unwinding from behind him to mimic the same gentle hold, your thumbs resting along the line of coarse beard on his jaw.
It works like a balm.
The sweet affection disentangles the burden of consternation that had made a home with you. You feel lighter, finally relaxing the crease between your brows as you revel in the weight of him in your hands. And the faded cologne that winds its way around you works away the last of the uneasy feeling that had sat with you for so long.
It's barely there, a scent buried beneath all the others that hopped on his back throughout the day. It must've rained on his way in, a not quite petrichor dragging down the vibrancy of the fabric softener on his uniform. But a trace of the cologne survives on his neck, the spiciness fighting for its place. It melts you. And for once even the scent of cigarette smoke that follows him smells good.
Chris pushes further and further into the kiss, nose squashed by the side of yours as he litters a series of hurried pecks against your lips. He smiles wider with each one, a hasty sequence of delicate kisses that elicits a sweet and airy laugh from you. He pulls away as it fans over his cupids bow, keeping his forehead flush to yours.
"Hi." he breathes, face rosy and shaky pupils blown.
"Hi? Is that it?" you giggle, hands sliding from from his jaw to the junction of his neck and shoulder. You feel the muscle tense briefly, a twitch of a flinch before his body remembers how to relax with you. He mimics the mirth, crows feet pulling at the corners of his eyes.
"Missed you." Another kiss, firmer but still sweet. You accept it gladly, deviating to follow a line of them over his ruddy checks, just above bristling beard. The heat that radiates off of him seeps its way into you, the feeling of safety, of home.
"Missed you too." It doesn't feel profound enough, like the words aren't strong enough to truly convey how deeply his absence had been felt. So you just keep kissing him, a generous smattering that would've left him sufficiently stained if you had been wearing lipstick.
"Where have you been?" you hesitate to let go of the words like they'll unleash some kind of unforeseen consequence, like it'll offend or maybe even guilt him out of this buzzing excitement. But Chris just pauses, brows raising and lips sighing.
You watch him search for the words, eyes darting this way and that while he racks his fatigued brain, chapped lips falling ajar when he eventually gives up on piecing together a good enough answer.
He can't verbalise an explanation right now, it's as if he doesn't know how to. Whatever had been occupying his mind was whisked away the second he laid eyes on you, completely cast aside and locked away with all of the other scars on his memory that he begs to forget. He can't recall the details of where he's been, he doesn't know much in this moment, only that he missed you. That remains the only thing he's certain of.
Eventually, he musters something up. "That doesn't matter." his reply comes quiet and laconic. "Can I tell you in the morning?"
You nod ardently.
This often happens, Chris holds on to his answers for a few days while adjusting back into what life should look like, not whatever it has looked like for the past four months. It doesn't bother you, tied in your excitement to get back to your rhythm of life together. Finally, that can start now.
"Of course." you say softly, dropping from your tiptoes to give him a proper hug, your head resting on his chest. The way his arms wrap you up feels like the most natural thing in the world, paired with the way he ducks his head to kiss the top of yours and breathe you in.
"You just showered?" he notices, a kiss pressed to the top of your head regardless of wet hair.
"Mhm." you hum and cosy in closer to him.
"Think I'll go in too, then. Didn't use all the hot water, did you?"
"No. Maybe would've but I forgot my keys in the door, so."
"Ah." he mimics your hum, understanding sounding like a low grumble beneath your ear. "You could always join me if you like, wouldn't have to rush this time." his voice lilts with a hint of that playfulness you've so grieved, velvety and impish.
The heat of bashfulness creeps up your neck, fizzes low in your stomach. "Cheek." you laugh, face warming. "Too bad I've already got my pj's on now."
"Could always take them off?" he's quick with it, his suggestion light but sincere.
In turn, your giggles just keep coming. "Nu-uh. I'll clean up the house quick, make sure you don't see my mess."
"House looks clean to me."
"I haven't made the bed once this whole time, other than when I changed the sheets." you flinch as if having made the admittance too easily, bottom lip catching between your teeth when you realise yourself.
"That's okay, honey." he softens. "I'll do it from now on, yeah?"
There's no shame in it, not like the way you'd convinced yourself there should be. You missed him, what more can be said? It had to manifest itself in some way, make itself visible to him by taking up space in your home. He'd do the shame should your places switch. But now that he's here there's no indignity in letting him remedy what's awry.
"Yeah, okay."
"Come on then, I'll let you get the door."
Chris toes his shoes off while you sort the lock, trying the handle to check it and make sure it's secure. It is. You linger there for a second while he gathers his bags, just letting yourself feel the relief as the thought that you no longer need to unlock this door come morning enters your head. It's a good job done, and you know you'll rest easier with the knowledge that he's finally on the right side of it, at home rather than out there.
"You coming, honey?" his voice leaps over your shoulder in order to reach you, stretching from where he stands with one foot on the bottom step and a bag in each hand. The keyrings jingle as you pull the key from the door, quickly turning on your heel to join him.
"Yeah, just wanted to check it." you utter with a shrug. He hums an acknowledgement and lets you pass so he can follow at your heels, noticing your glances back at him as you climb the stairs. You scoop up your towel from the top step when you reach it, realising you'd lost it in the rush.
"Oh yeah, that reminds me," he starts, nodding at the keys grasped in your hand. "There's another one of those in here somewhere, if you have room on the ring."
The duffel bags thud down by the dresser as Chris starts pilfering through the draws, spoilt for choice when it comes to all the lounge clothes he'd so longed for on overworked evenings. You glance at the bags and again at your keys and the ridiculous amount of charms that hang alongside.
"I'll make room. Thank you."
He stops with a raggedy sleep shirt in hand to lean over and kiss you, all gentle and sweet. "Of course, you know I'd never forget. It's a good job I've yet to find a place lacking in souvenir keychains."
You huff a laugh through your nose and turn to your bedside table. "I almost wish that you would." The clatter when you put them down says it all. Chris' head shoots back up and you see a flash of feigned offence cross his features before he shrugs and emerges triumphant with a pair of pj pants.
"Careful what you wish for, sweetheart." But you've no time for your own retort before he's marching for the bathroom, desperate to be rid of the uniform that signifies far too much that he no longer needs to think about, at least not tonight.
You take the chance to straighten up the room while he freshens up. For the first time in a while it's easy to want to make the bed so it's nice and neat for him to get into, topping it off with a gentle linen spray that you hope he'll appreciate. You don't touch his bags, just to be polite, but you put them aside somewhere where he's far less likely to trip over them. And when your laundry is all sorted away you eagerly wait for the sound of the bathroom door.
Luckily, it comes quite quickly.
The sight of him, his stature filling the doorway with strong arms reaching skyward to stretch, makes your pulse flutter as a blooming heat spreads over you like a wash of goosebumps. The sleep shirt he chose is loose in all places, with a hint of chest hair peeking out of the stretched collar and a glimpse of slight paunch from behind the bottom hem before his arms come back down. Your breath hitches.
There's a pause as he comes back in, groaning when his neck cracks as he rolls it, and you feel suddenly cornered by the bone deep longing you've been so steeped in during his absence. It's somehow increased tenfold now that he's within reach.
It looks as if you're scrutinising him as you sit on the end of the bed, elbows on your knees, chin in your hands, with eyes following his every move. He can feel your gaze, it sets a blaze running down the back of his neck that he quite enjoys. But he doesn't look back, grinning as he realises the buzz in the air and the opportunity to tease.
It will be short lived, what with the desire running hot through the both of you, an ache that begs and clambers to spring into action. But that doesn't mean that there can't be any fun before it wins you over.
"'That better?" you break first, noticing the slightest of water cling left behind on the very ends of his washed hair. Chris' face is flushed from the steam of the shower and it leaves him glowy, skin dewy like he's been revitalised into a man far more familiar to you than the state he arrived home in. He shrugs, sauntering to where you sit until he's right before you, toe tips touching toe tips.
"Yeah, much." his voice comes sonorous in its usual way, though deep in his throat as he speaks low and hushed. He leans over you then, large hands either side of your thighs, knees bending as if to bow, and face level with your own. Instinctively, your hands rise to his jaw. His beard is softer like he's conditioned it and his boyish smile only worsens your heartache.
You fight to keep the rapacious fervour pushed aside as he keens to kiss you, slow and soft and sweet. You hold him there for as long as you can keep it down but the press of his lips paired with the waft of his soap and shampoo makes it difficult, wrapping you up in all you'd missed. You have to pull away first, lips ajar and wet with spit, only to be met with something more like a smirk.
A huff of a laugh fans out from Chris' nose before he speaks. "Let's get some rest, yeah? I think we both need it."
Your stomach drops and he can see it on your face, a niggling of disappointment that you do your best to muscle down. But your nod is curt, your breath swallowed in a gulp.
"Yeah, you're probably right." you concede, sounding rather defeated. His brows quirk up the same way the corners of his mouth do, amused and nonplussed.
He can't help the chuckle that punches out of his chest. It's short, rich, something of a scoff but not mocking, rather the snapping of a cord that whips back at him. Yeah, short lived.
"What?" you utter, bemused and almost nervous as you're left scrambling. Chris tucks his chin and turns away as he giggles, chest rumbling until the sound stops.
"Sorry, that wasn't very nice of me." he regathers himself and clears his throat. He finds you with your brows knitted when his gaze returns to you, your eyes searching his face and mouth slightly open like waiting to make a rebuttal.
Your heart is pushed to race that bit faster but searching his every feature garners no clarity, leaving you gawping at him. But there's comfort in the fact that he still has the heart to joke, that he hadn't faced a low so dreadful that mischief would elude him.
His knee comes up onto the bed beside you, his calloused hand to your jaw. The lean in is slow, tantalising, and you have to lie back to accommodate the bulk of him above you. Your hands stretch behind you to prop yourself up, palms to bedsheets with fingers curling into the fabric, and you melt into the tenderness of it all.
A spark ignites in both of you, blood running hot as the exchange quickly gains barrelling momentum. It's a back and forth, he nips your lip first so you open first, an invitation that signals the end of anything chaste. His kiss is ardent and hasty, low groans spilling with every surge forward he makes, a tease of tongue and smear of spit.
Your head is spinning when he pulls back, your breaths quick and shallow, and the sight of his smug smirk does nothing to help clear the haze.
"'Can't believe you're messing with me already." you grumble sheepishly after a moment, lips curling a half hearted scowl. He knows you don't mean it and kisses the sneer right off of your lips.
"Guilty. Though it's sweet that you thought I meant it."
Chris chuckles to himself and advances further above you, coaxing you to lie completely down to the sheets. Your arms come up to hook over his shoulders and he ducks his head to bury beside your neck, the tip of his nose grazing the line of your pulse and following it up to the soft spot under your ear. The gentle pressure makes you shudder and your head turns instinctively to open yourself up to him.
"Oh shush." you giggle. "How was I supposed to know you're not tired?"
He mouths at your skin, humming a deep rumble that echoes through you. "Oh I am." he huffs.
"But—"
"But I need you more than I need the rest."
He plants a tepid kiss where his mouth hovers before drawing back, levelling you with an adoring gaze like molten honey.
With you he can forget the weight that made him so heavy, something that had been painfully inexorable and a constant in the version of life he had to live without you. But here, in your home, in your bedroom, it's gone quiet. It should be nagging at him like always, a fatigue so stubbornly ingrained that it's part of his physicality, but being by your side dulls it down to nothing more than white noise. Like a fly banging on the downstairs window.
Your heart hammers against your ribs as you meet his eyes, feeling as if pinned to the bed by the look he gives. One hand unwinds from behind his neck to cradle his jaw, fingertips pushing beard in off directions, disturbing the way it lays, as your thumb grazes by the corner of his mouth. He turns to kiss the pad of the digit before pushing past your hold and claiming your lips again.
One of Chris' hands snakes behind your head to lift you and drag you deep into his kiss. Your noses knock, finding their places as faces meet, and the bristle of his beard makes you shiver. But the intensity he meets you with makes your pulse skip.
It's hasty in its own way, not careless, just greedy, with a lingering heartache behind it that makes every press, nip, lick, feel precious. His teeth graze the swell of your bottom lip and again your open for him, barely biting down a whine when you feel his tongue. His fingers curl into your hair where he has you held and the smallest of tugs coaxes the sound out of you, a full and unbidden moan.
The sound earns his smile, a flash of a grin pressed against yours before his focus returns to taking you apart. You push back with just as much zeal, a snowballing kiss that has spit smearing from the corners of mouths and down chins.
But there's a fire inside of you that needs stoking. Each ministration makes it sputter but it begs for more with every breath you take. It's already begun to spread a haze over your mind, addling your thoughts in a cloud of sickly lust that grounds roots with thorns that won't let go quite so easily.
Without a conscious thought you find your legs have spread, one hooking over Chris' hip with the heel of your foot pressing into the small of his back, trying, begging to guide him down. He scoffs a laugh, an amused huff of air into your kiss, and complies.
The weight of him leaning into you sends a bolt of electricity up your spine immediately. His hips come down against yours and your legs are made to spread wider to welcome the size of him, knees coming back towards your chest somewhat for ease. But it's the first roll that makes you break away from the heat of the kiss.
His movements are very intentional in the way they are brisk yet teasing, a balance he has perfect much to your chagrin. But even the leisure with which he moves can't dull the sensation that washes over you when he firmly rolls hips hips into yours. The weight of him, hard and heavy behind the thin fabric of the pyjama pants, grinds against the clothed bump of your cunt and sends rogue sparks bouncing over your skin.
Your outcry can't be helped then, breaking away with a crystalline string of spit connecting your mouths. Chris bites back his own groan in order to better hear yours, holding his breath and only letting it loose when you quiet to a mewl.
"There you go." he rasps a low hum from the base of his throat. It comes out in a long breath much like relief and you can feel the weight of his gaze that's fixed dutifully on you. He's so grateful to be home, but you're not one for basking in the moment.
In your impatience your hands make themselves busy at his sides, pushing up and under the fabric of his baggy shirt. Soft fingertips graze over his abs, subtle lines hidden under paunch, featherlight yet desperate in your haste, lost in the abundance of his body hair. You can feel the way it riles him up, the twitch of his fat cock pressed firm against you, yet he gifts no more than a bite of his lip in response.
Chris is staring down at you as if unsure what to do next, or perhaps just drinking in the gorgeous view he'd so missed. He has you right where he needs you, pliant and pinned beneath him, buzzing with the same salacious desire, and yet he's stock-still.
He's spoilt for choice.
"Chris…" comes your whispered plea, his name rolling dulcet off your tongue. His eyes widen as it reaches him and his next breath comes out low and shuddering, again rolling his hips into you without conscious thought. A gasp hitches for each of you, sweltering warmth radiating from desperate bodies.
With another deep groan he leans back down to you, closing the gap and zeroing in on your neck. The tip of his nose drags along the line of your pulse and breathes in your perfume, the shampoo and fabric softener and his body wash. The realisation makes him smile.
His head is crowded with perversions, possibilities that tingle at the tips of his fingers, ideas he could action into life right at this moment if he so wished. But his composure is dashed. Everything about you, the way you squirm underneath him, the little noises you let out into the stuffy air, the way your hands hurry to his skin and scramble to feel all of him, it addles his mind.
So he follows your lead.
He sits back on his knees, regretfully drawing his hips back, so that both of his big hands can come to your hips. He lingers there for a second, taking greedy handfuls and squeezing the soft give of your body, enraptured by the feeling and the way it makes the heat of arousal roar within him.
Then he starts his path upwards. Calloused hands glide up, up under your clothes in search of tepid skin, rising goosebumps in his wake. You find yourself automatically arching into the touch, back lifting from the sheets as he pushes your shirt upwards, lips hovering by your collar. You wonder if he'd feel the pound of your racing heart if he reached for it with the way it's jumping out of your ribs, maybe he'd even see it.
Thumbs graze the underside of your tits and your head lolls to the side, overwhelmed by a shudder and his reactive chuckle that curls against your neck. Your own hands take purchase on his toned forearms, just holding on as he busies himself with groping you, just finding any way to touch him like it'll anchor you. He hums his appreciation.
"So pretty." Chris croons, watching the rapid rise and fall of your chest and the way the intrusion of his touch beneath your clothes makes the fabric bunch up, so nearly giving him the sight he's after. He's gentle at first, trigger-rough fingertips skating around the mounds of your tits, cupping them in large palms, thumbs sweeping over delicate skin. It tantalises you wonderfully, the fire stoked and embers flying.
"More," you utter, your voice becoming pitchy with a wobble of desperation. "Honey, please."
The pads of his thumbs graze pebbled nipples far too softly, a ghost of a touch that makes your heart skip. You can't help but whine.
"Sorry, sweetheart." he hums almost derisively. "'This better?" Between forefinger and thumb he pinches each bud and rolls, sending an electric fizz through you like a power surge. A high moan rips out of your throat and your hips buck sharply, eliciting a groan of his own.
"Yeah, thought so." there's an edge to his voice now, velvet and gravel, thick with want. Again he leans away to get a good look at you, hurriedly pushing your shirt all the way up to the base of your neck, baring your chest to him so he can watch how perfectly you fit in his hands.
He moves slow as he stares, drinking in a sight he's been so deprived of as if having to savour the moment to make up for time elapsed. But Chris can hear your whines loud and clear, see how your breaths get quicker and make the rise and fall of your chest more apparent, nervously ticking over in the seconds he makes you wait. So he spares you the anguish.
His elbows come down beside you, a thump on the mattress, so he can bury his face into your skin and keep his hands right where you want them to be. His kisses are more gentle than his touch, a delicate line down your sternum while both hands pick a pattern of pinching and rubbing. It's not a sharp pinch, more of a languid roll between the pads of his fingers, teasing and stimulating with careful tweaks.
He kneads at your tits in the between moments when he gives your nipples a break, constantly undecided on what to do next. His face hovers just above where his hands work when he pulls back with scintillating spit threaded between his lips and your skin, and you can feel the roll of his hot breaths with every panting exhale. He lingers there for a minute before his mouth gets jealous of his hands and he has to satiate it.
He busies himself at your left, lips barely touching you in his rush to make a path down until he can wrap his lips around your nipple. And it's there that his hunger shines.
It's a gentle suck for a split second until he loses himself in it. The flexed tip of his tongue bullies the pebbled bud, flicking then circling, then sucking between the seam of his lips before circling again. The mess of spit smears quickly, the damp sat warm on your skin and making you squirm. But the sensation is bliss.
It's a bolt down your spine as your back stays arched, settling low in your gut with a molten heat that's thick and sinuous. One of your hands comes to the back of his head and the other to his shoulder, the electric current running through you only growing stronger when your hands are on him and desperately clawing. Whines spill with the peak of each wave, groaning something sweet every time he sucks or pinches, punctuating the high of every spark.
Chris' hands keep busy where his mouth cannot, rolling your nipple between finger and thumb then swapping once he feels he's sufficiently sullied your other tit with his spit. He could stay here all day and you know it, spend countless hours admiring you just like this, but with every other kiss and flick the fire within you grows restive.
Your hips buck and nails curl into his shoulder, each shuddering breath you take turning into something like a complaint rather than the blissful sighs he wants. He pulls back with a wet lip smack, licking his bottom lip of dribble before looking up at you.
"'You okay, angel?" His pupils are blown and eyes glassy, the beautiful brown swallowed by the ink of his pupils as he stares, trying to read you. You nod but your body still aches for something more, something stronger to satiate the flame. And he can see it in the furrow of your brow.
His hands soothe down your sides and he rises up so your faces are level, not suffocatingly close but enough that nothing will get past him. His cologne engulfs you, dampened by sweat, but it still riles you all the same. He kisses at your jaw, just a gentle peck or two, before leaning back so he can meet your gaze.
"Hey, talk to me." Chris' tone is firm but not bossy, and you can hear the want to please laden within. It takes you a second to wade through the fog but when you do you come out with a giggle, hands cupping his face and thumbs sweeping over groomed beard.
"Sorry, sweet." You shake your head and laugh something airy through your nose. "Just getting impatient."
His brows raise and drop in quick succession, a matching lighthearted laugh rumbling out of his chest with lips tugging into a handsome grin. He tucks his chin with the force of the mirth, gazing down your body before lifting again and finding your adoring stare.
"I should've known." he muses, again ducking in quick to kiss at the line of your jaw. "'Can't keep you waiting, can I?"
Still you titter, hands roving down his neck to his shoulders, then to his biceps where you squeeze. "I'd certainly prefer it if you didn't."
"What'll it be then, sweetheart? What do you need?" he grunts against your skin.
You hum, feigning thought, as your fingers dance back up to the hems of his shirt sleeves. You tug at the offending material and your lips push into a pout.
"First of all, this can go." you grumble, looking him up and down like trying to stare through the fabric. Chris huffs another curt laugh and sits back on his knees once more, hands reaching behind his head to grab the nape of the shirt and pull it off that way. He makes quick work of balling it up and throwing it aside, where it hits the wall and promptly crumples to the floor.
"Better?" he smirks.
You hurry to chase him, palms urgently pushing you to sit up as your own shirt falls back down, eyes level with his navel as he kneels above you. The sight of him makes your head spin.
Toned muscle, littered scars, love handles made more obvious by the band of his pants, a wall of body hair only interrupted by the aforementioned scars that stop its growth in odd places. You can feel the drool welling on your tongue.
And, of course, the obvious bulge beneath worn pyjamas that you can't help but reach for.
"Much better." You smile, one hand wandering up his stomach while the other gently palms his erection. A stuttering gasp punches out of his throat and his hands come down to your shoulders, carefully taking purchase while you dote on him.
"Oh fuck." he groans under his breath, head falling forward and eyelids fluttering shut involuntarily. You're greedy with your touch, fingers feeling for the outline of his hard cock, rubbing and gently squeezing just to feel him twitch behind the fabric. The pad of your thumb rolls over the head, feeling the damp of pre-cum seep through the material as the attention makes him leak.
"Sweetheart—" Sparing a look up at him you find his cheeks rouged and lips parted, jaw tense and thick brows knitted in the middle. You hum an acknowledgement and continue your ministrations, one hand occupied in teasing him and the other lost in wandering up his chest.
Until he grabs your wrist.
"Angel." his voice wobbles as he clears his throat. "I can't wait much longer. Do you want to lie down for me?"
The edge to his voice, the cadence of his breaths, it makes you mind foggy as you can hear and feel the desperation behind every word. There's no doubt that he'd fall apart if you kept touching him like this, you've got him in a state so deprived that it's no been no easy feat for him to feign composure this whole time, when in reality he's aching just as badly as you.
Your bottom lip catches between your teeth as you bite down to stifle a love sick whine, taking in the sight of him, hirsute and burly, and giving his cock one last rougher palm before you lean back. But first you duck, hands on his muscular thighs, and kiss the wet patch where his tip sits with a long, lingering press of spit slick lips.
Chris throws his head back with an unbidden moan as you follow his suggestion with great alacrity, shuffling to the top of the bed. But before you lie back you hastily tug your shirt off, absolutely suffocating under the fabric, and chuck it in the approximate direction that his had went. Your hands come down to your shorts to make quick work of them too, but as you grab the waistband Chris' hands cover your own and stop you still.
"Uh-uh." he tsks, eyes dark when you meet his gaze. "Let me."
Deft, thick fingers curl around the band, the warmth of his skin pressed against your hips before he pulls the offending article away, slowly sliding the shorts down your legs until he can hook them off your ankles and cast them aside. His stare is heavy as soon as they're gone, eyes ravishing you as he positions himself above you.
"No underwear, hm?" his voice falls thick, magnetic with its allure and the way the sound sends a shiver rolling over you. Large hands push your knees apart, rolling around and up your thighs as they spread to welcome him and he eagerly fills the space. There's a heavy pause as you nod.
"Oh, sweetheart. It's like you knew I'd be home tonight."
You barely have a second before he captures your mouth in a bruising kiss, grunting as he claims your bottom lip, teeth grazing with the heat of the exchange. Your lips part unthinkingly to make way for him, swallowing every groan he lets spill and sucking gently at his top lip. It makes impatience bloom once more, spurring whines from your tongue as something hot cries out from within.
Shaky hands fly to his face as if to steady yourself, or even to steady him, and the warmth emanating from his ruddy cheeks makes you shudder. Chris is burning up the same as yourself, chest aching with the want that dictates every move and elicits every lascivious noise, a blinding desire that's all encompassing.
He starts to roll his hips into yours with little rhythm or shyness, smearing your arousal all down the front of his pyjama pants without a care. The friction makes you keen, meeting his every thrust with an equally enthusiastic buck of your hips. Again your hands slide down to his shoulders, fingers curling against flesh, but this time you push back at him.
He responds immediately, breaking the kiss and leaning back just enough to get a good look at you. There's concern there for a second until he sees the state of you, all riled up with a glint in your eye that begs for more.
"Chris," you whine. "Hurry up, please."
He can't help but smile, eyes pushed to squint with the force of it. He huffs a chuckle that curls against your spit sullied cupid's bow and nods.
"Right, sorry angel." he clears his throat.
With a quick shuffle he repositions himself, pushing your leg back so he can sneak past and lie on his side next to you, his elbow beside your head as he holds himself up and other hand coming to rest on your stomach. He's still suffocatingly close, your leg now propped up over his own, awkwardly half slung over his thigh at this angle.
"Wha—"
"Still got to get you ready, don't we?"
The skin of his palm is tough, roughened by service, and you can feel the callous on the heel of his hand as he slowly caresses down your body. His touch skips over your navel, fingers splayed and reaching downward, further and further still until he's at the bump of your cunt.
You shudder deeply, head lolling to the side to gaze at him with one hand reaching for his bicep as your turn your body toward him just a fraction. You can't find words, they elude you, you just sit ticking over with a lump in your throat in painful anticipation of his touch, biting your bottom lip and staring intently at the greed lurking in his deep brown eyes.
When his two middle fingers come together to finally draw a line up your cunt, spreading gathered arousal with a lewd slick, it lights a fuse within you. Again you arch toward him, fingers curling and nails biting crescents into his muscle. The moan of his name that falls from your tongue makes him blush, heart racing as he turns to you and noses at your temple.
"I know, sweetheart." he croons, his timbre mellow and lovesick. "It's been so long, hasn't it?"
"Too long." you retort, sighing a long breath of relief that settles into a quiet moan behind closed lips. He hums an 'mhm' and you feel his nod, going quiet as he gets engrossed in touching you just right.
Thick, lithe fingers spread you open, smearing the wetness he finds to thoroughly coat the digits. The relief is a wave over your body, a steady heat that bristles head to toe and curls zealously in your gut, the fire alive and roaring. And he's barely getting started.
The pad of his middle finger circles your dripping hole, coaxing you to clench and earning an amused sound from him.
"Hold on." Chris grumbles, continuing to tease and rub, just barely grazing your clit as he passes by. He finds each erogenous spot, your sensitivity high with your anticipation, before returning to your waiting entrance. He does a couple more circles, bordering on cruel with how soft his touch is, before you curl your fingers further into his bicep so your nails bite, spurring him on.
"Okay, okay. I hear you."
The pad of his middle finger presses gingerly and sinks inside to the first knuckle. You suck in a hiss through gritted teeth and your hips jolt, unruly and automatic, but you settle back down to the sheets as he continues to slowly push the digit further.
"Fuck, yes." The relief is something like a hot fizz that relaxes the tenseness you'd unknowingly held in your muscles, the start of something heavenly that gets the ball rolling. You grind down into his hand to chase the sensation and earn a matching curse from him as well, chesty and low.
"There you go." his voice is hushed, like he's worried he'll speak over you and miss one of the little moans he so loves. "Good girl."
A deep shiver rolls over you and Chris steadily starts to pump his finger in and out, leisurely and shallow to start. He wants to give you time, to keep his head on straight as best he can and prep you now so the evening can drag on for far longer once he has you ready. But you don't need you shallow, you don't need slow, and your impatient chasing only gets more adamant with each thrust in.
"Chris…" you complain, bucking down to try and meet his movements and force his touch deeper, aching to reach the spot where you need his attention the most. He almost seems surprised, a choked breath coming from beside you as his brows raise, but he's quick to take it in his stride.
"'That bad, hm?" He kisses your temple softly, shuffling himself closer still so you can feel the warmth of his body. You can only nod.
The sound you make is downright pitiful when he pulls his finger out, significantly soaked and glistening in the low light. But it's only so ring can join middle and once again draw those painstaking circles, enthralled by the way you tremble and clench so responsively.
This time when he pushes inside he finds some of the resistance he expected, it has been a while, after all. But you pay it no mind, rocking into the movement to encourage his thick fingers deeper still.
Your next moan is a lot more gratified, enjoying the pleasant and subtle stretch that comes with the additional finger. It's much more like what you were searching for, something that makes your mind foggy in a way you'll gladly lose yourself to. And he seems just as gratified by your reactions.
He doesn't bother with the slow build this time, having got your message loud and clear. It's intentional, not rough, building a satisfying pace with the thrust of his fingers and keeping them crooked at the knuckle to seek out that sweet spot you'd tried to push him toward. But he doesn't go for it immediately.
He's conscious to let you adjust, making sure you enjoy the stretch before you're settled and getting impatient with him again. And he too revels in the feeling.
The way you squeeze around him, dripping on his knuckles already, it makes the back of his mouth run dry and he can't help but stare down at where he has you held in place, beginning to hear muffled, wet noises echo from where his fingers disappear. His heart is hammering madly and he's made dizzy by the infatuation that blooms in his chest, the same sense of urgency that's ruling you beginning to boil over in himself.
When your breathy moans thin down into something more like mewls again Chris knows you need more. He bears forward like seeking better leverage and the pumping of his fingers gains pace. It works like a power surge sent shooting up your spine, making you bow towards him and subconsciously spread your legs as far as they'll allow.
"Oh god." Your head thumps back to the pillows and your eyes flutter shut, your hips lifted with the exaggerated arch of your back like hunting his every move. Your body begs when your words don't and he yields to every small tell, never once faltering, never shying.
With the next push in Chris crooks his fingers stronger, zeroing in on the soft spot that he knows will make stars dance at the edge of your vision. And the reaction that you give makes his cock twitch largely, almost sore from waiting.
His name tears out of your throat, pitchy and breaking with the next moan that follows, wrapping into one lewd outcry that's everything he wants and more.
He grunts and his jaw sets tense, gritting his teeth with his focus. The small adjustment to the angle of his hand is everything and allows the heel of his palm to graze your clit with every inward press, making your legs seem to jolt with the pleasure it brings. But the second it happens he spots it and can't help but croon.
"Oh, angel." If you didn't know any better you would think it's derisive, what with the thickness of his voice and the gravelly drawl it drops to. "Right there, yeah?"
Your answer comes as nails dragging down his arm, clinging on for stability. "Please—"
Chris' pace stays steady but his determination doubles, making sure to strike at the exact same angle with every thrust, and ensure that heel of his palm maintains brisk contact with your clit. He doesn't withdraw completely, keeping his fingers sat deep and continuing that pulsing ministration so that he doesn't break away from your sensitive bud.
It has you hurtling towards the heavens at an alarming rate.
The fire behind your navel had reached its brightest glow, spitting sparks that are the goosebumps all down your arms. You were losing yourself to it, at its mercy as something coiled hot and low, pulling taut and tighter still as every perfect caress sent you further toward bliss.
You barely hear his groan begging for it before the white hot pleasure rocks you.
His name comes like a scream from the back of your throat, drowned in a moan that's shaking before it even reaches air. Your legs jolt back beyond your control and the arch of your back takes you high off the sheets, forcing Chris to chase to see you through your oneiric high. It's an immediate mess on his hands, a sticky dribble over his bruised knuckles that smears along the crease of your leg.
Through the ringing in your ears you can begin to hear his praises as you come down, letting your body slump as you remember how to move it. His hand has gone still but not withdrawn, just comfortable while you find your way back to him. It takes effort to turn your head in his direction, to blink away the blotches in your vision and bring his handsome face into focus.
His smile is infectious. Ear to ear and giddy, almost inappropriately so for the situation. But you can't help but mimic it, feeling your cheeks almost go sore with the beam that breaks across your face.
"There you are." Chris hums, slowly pulling his fingers out of your sullied hole. You mewl at the loss, feeling the cold air hit you where his hand had covered the bump of your cunt, but it's only fleeting.
"Mhm." you utter. "Fuck, that was so good."
His next hum comes muffled and drawn out, and when you turn to him he's got the slick coated fingers sat snug on his tongue with lips closed around the knuckle. The sight makes a startling bashfulness creep up the back of your neck, forcing a breathy sound of surprise from you that morphs into a disbelieving scoff when he lewdly sucks them clean with a purposefully loud, and wet, lip smack.
"Yeah? 'Bet you missed that, didn't you?" The smugness is all over him now, bravado revived to its usual intensity. You roll your eyes and bat at his arm, a half hearted smack.
"Duh. 'Thought that was obvious by now."
"Oh, it is." With a huff he's moving again, reaching over to his bedside table and rummaging around in the top drawer. He emerges triumphant with a small bottle of lube you know well. "So it's a good job we're not done yet, isn't it?"
"Absolutely."
A buzzing kind of excitement sits in your chest as you readjust yourself, lying back to the pillows and watching as Chris quickly stands from the bed. Despite your heavy stare he doesn't make a show of finally stripping his pyjama pants, if anything his haste makes it a bit of a fumble as hes desperate to pull the article down and step out of the fabric.
But the sight of him, god, the sight of him.
As he stands at the end of the bed, tall, broad, all bulk with soft cushioning, the way your pulse races is overwhelming. You're sure your eyes are wide and unabashedly so, drinking in the image of him that you had been starved of for far too long. Your gaze follows his body hair down, from where it starts straggly at his collarbones to the thick woodland on his torso, all the way down to where it slightly narrows to lead to the tighter curls above his thick cock.
A pearl of pre shines pretty on the head, smeared when he pumps himself a couple of times before climbing back over you. The mattress creaks with the heft of him and he kneels between your spread legs, your thighs resting over top of his own, keeping you open.
"I can feel you staring, you know?" The lube bottle is back in his hand and opens with a distinct tch.
"Don't act like you don't enjoy the attention." you fire back, not failing to notice his smirk that admits all you need to know, or already knew.
"Mhm." You watch as he lubes himself up, generous with it, and a cold rivulet drips on the inside of your thigh. It makes you squirm, a sudden shudder that has him scoffing a laugh through his nose. Chris gathers the drop on the trigger-rough pad of his finger and smears it over your entrance, earning a stronger, larger shudder.
"Hn— Hurry up."
"How many times are you going to say that?" A louder chuckle, bemused.
"As many as I have to— Ah!"
Without warning he smacks his cock-head against your puffy clit, a brisk jolt of contact that makes you keen. It only drags out his amusement.
You feel dwarfed when he begins to run his fat tip up and down your cunt, smearing arousal and lube, the beginning of the mess you'll make together. Your hips jump unthinkingly as he does, chasing the weight of him, thick and heavy and aching, and yet he draws out your torment.
"Chris…"
"'Hurry up.' I know."
Finally he finds some urgency, lining up with your hole and barely bringing his hips forward, just enough to tease you with the anticipated stretch from his tip. It's not quite a thrust, rather he's simply taunting you with the slightest pressure, not yet letting it slip in.
You groan your complaint and try to bite your tongue, fully aware of the attitude laced into his every word and movement.
And it pays off.
When he sees that he's no longer getting a rise out of you, that your whinging has come to its close, Chris finally guides his cock to push inside your waiting cunt.
"Fuck—" It's a slow rock forward, made easy by the lube, that makes your next breath catch in the back of your throat, held bated as he thrusts slowly, really letting you get a feel for the stretch that comes with the impressive girth of him.
"There you go." his voice rattles with a shaky exhale, trying to muscle down the overwhelm that hits him with the sensation of feeling you at long last. It'll be a wonder if he manages to keep his head on straight, to not pummel you into this mattress with his hips.
The sensation bounces up your spine when he bottoms out. It's a spark of electricity, hot and fizzing through you in a steady spread. The stretch isn't unkind, it doesn't sting but it's all encompassing, the feeling of fullness after months of deprivation.
Chris leans down while you settle, resting on fists either side of your body, and watches you gaze blankly at the ceiling like you'll find the stars dancing there. But they're all in your eyes.
"Take your time." comes his laconic, velvet encouragements. God knows he needs it too or he'll blow his load within a couple of minutes.
But you don't care to wait, voice stronger with your plea. "Move."
He seems to hesitate for a split second, having assumed you'd need a moment to adjust. But when the command clicks in his head he's rushing to fulfil it.
His withdraw is gradual, almost regretful, until he returns with a sharp thrust that rocks the bed frame. It pushes a screaming moan from your throat and you scramble to grab hold of him, again finding purchase on his biceps as he has you completely caged underneath him. His own moan is throaty and rumbles into the air, it dizzies your mind like something heady.
"Yes." you utter, clawing at him already. "Oh, god."
It only takes a moment for him to build a rhythm, a perfect piston of his hips that's just harsh enough to stoke your ardent flames. Your pulse flutters, your heart races, the thrill is all encompassing and it's everything you needed, you're not even aware of every noise you let slip as you get wrapped up in the heat of it all.
"Oh fuck." he groans, gritting his teeth with the force of the pleasure that drives the drilling of his thrusts. You're gripping him so tight, wet warmth pulling him back every time he tries to withdraw, making the drag of every thrust that much more tantalising. And the sight of you, god.
Chris had missed every single detail about you. The sweet sound of your voice, the weight of your touch whenever you reached for him, just to be near you is enough for him. But this is in a league of its own.
You're pliant beneath him, so beautiful and unabashedly his, crying out for everything he provides you. The glassy, far-away look in your eyes that occasionally clears to find him for a split second makes his heart leap. The expanse of skin and your gorgeous figure overwhelms him with greed, making him pick up the pace without conscious thought. But it's the look on your face that makes him burn up.
"So pretty." he grunts, bearing down on his elbows, face looming above your own. "You're so pretty, angel."
You try to shy away but you can't, pinned by the bulk of his body. What should've been a giggle becomes another moan as he keeps his unrelenting pace, and you have to blink away the haze over your vision to see him. You manage a dopey, blissed-out smile.
"Yeah?" your voice is pitchy but still honeyed and it hits him right where it counts. "So are you, honey."
He tsks, not mean, just nonplussed. "Me?" he retorts. "Aw. You're so sweet, angel."
"I—"
Your reply is stolen by his kiss, knocking into you with some force but you match his zeal with ease. You can't stem your cries even now, spilling one into his mouth every so often when he gives a particularly delicious drill, and he returns the favour just the same. It's spitty and messy and you're each too deep in the haze to care, smiling all the while.
As you're distracted in the thrall of the kiss Chris seizes the moment and adjusts your position. His hips slow so he can slide his hand up the back of your thigh and wedge it in the pit of your knee, pushing you back, knee knocking chest, and hook the leg over his shoulder. You break away as he does, gazing down your bodies, about to question him when he strikes again.
This time, with the next slick stroke in, his cock-head perfectly pounds against that spongy spot inside you and in turn knocks the wind out of your chest.
Your outcry is chesty and poorly held together, lips just barely forming his name as he focuses his efforts there, making sure to strike with every forward surge. It makes you frantic, fervid bliss forming that boiling, spitting pool of lust that sits low in your gut.
"Chris!" you mewl, digging your nails into his skin once more and dragging down his arm, leaving angry trails of red. The other hand, forced to release him in his adjustment, finds leverage on his chest, fingers splayed and palm resting right where his heart hammers.
"Sweetheart." Sweat runs rivulets down his temple, burning up with the same fire. His grip on your leg is heavy handed and his pistoning pace is unabating, the driving force that is pushing you towards the edge once again.
It comes on quick with the new angle, the hissing coil behind your navel, the tenseness you know well that begins a quivering in your thighs. You stammer to try to tell him, lips desperate to form the words but they just don't come. Luckily, he knows this look on your far too well.
Your hands slide away from him as he sits back on his knees, your hips lifting from the sheets to keep in line with his thrusts. His grip on your leg stays steadfast while the other hand finds your sullied cunt, slipping between your bodies in search of your aching clit. He finds it with ease, of course he does, and his fingers spread over your lower stomach as his thumb keeps busy abusing the throbbing pearl.
Your body lurches, arched impossibly high from the sheets as your fists scramble to grab at them, needing anything to ground yourself now that Chris is out of reach.
"Come on." he coaxes, his words weighted with an alluringly dark edge. "I can feel it. I know you want to. Give it to me, angel."
"Chris—" you gasp, your head tipped back and eyes screwed shut with the pull of the shock waves. It's mounting, spiralling fast in a way you can't control, legs trembling and chest heaving, just waiting for it to hit.
"Fuck. That's it."
The crash is like a tidal wave.
The tension that had been brewing snaps and sets liquid fire loose all through your body. It seeps out from the catalyst in your gut, heat climbing through your veins until you were fully drowned in it, gasping down moans of breaths that did nothing to abate the bliss. Your legs thrash so hard that Chris nearly loses his grip on you, but he doesn't mind the hunt. His own moan is just as powerful, straining as you squeeze around him.
The gush is obscene, spilling out all over him and dribbling down your cunt to your ass. You can hear the way it drenches you both, his thrusts, never slowing, echoing with downright pornographically wet sounds.
"Yes." he groans sharply. "Oh my god, angel. You're so tight. So good."
It's the praise that brings you back around, barely holding your head up to see him. His jaw is clenched again and eyes fighting to stay open once his sentence ends, the vein in his neck standing proud with the mounting tension that's commanding him and gathering in his body. He's barrelling towards his high, too.
"Chris," you muster with a meek voice. "Give it to me, please."
Your dulcet begging hits him right in the gut and you can see him struggling to hold on, desperate to drag it out for a few more thrusts, unwilling to pull out of the warmth of you just yet. But his hips are starting to stutter, his rhythm grows sloppy, and the rise and fall of his chest is as fast as machine gun fire as he pants.
"Inside?" he stammers, a hiss through his teeth.
"Inside."
Chris nods frantically, his grip on you becoming tight enough to bruise. You don't let your eyes leave him for even a second as it hits him, refusing to miss a single thing.
His head snaps back in a sharp throw and he tugs your body with him, pulling your hips down onto his cock, burying as deep as possible and holding you there with no room to squirm. The guttural moan from low in this throat seems to shake the room and you can't help but echo it when you feel his release.
His cock jerks inside of you, coming undone in long pulses, spilling ropes that coat and fill you thoroughly. The sensation like that of overstimulation makes you shiver and he drops your leg from his shoulder, hunching over you with the force of his orgasm that makes him double over, barely holding himself up above you as his arms shake.
Your hands find his face immediately, always gravitating like they belong there, thumbs sweeping soothingly over his cheeks. He surges into the touch, lips wet and mouth hung open, eyes heavily lidded as aftershocks keep him shuddering.
"'You still there?" you giggle, equally as hazy. Chris clicks his tongue against his teeth, slowly coming down, and nods in your delicate hold.
"Just about. How 'you doing, sweetheart?"
You rise to kiss him, pulling yourself up to him for a chaste, tender peck. He reciprocates with the same softness, both basking in the afterglow.
"I'm good. Great, actually." your words whisper over his lips, a tickle on the cupids bow, and he steals another kiss before sitting himself up again. His laugh is short and curt.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Good girl."
Bashful, adoring warmth seats itself in your chest. The satisfaction makes you glowy, smile never ceasing as you lay peacefully in the bliss. You're only interrupted when Chris draws back and pulls his soft cock out of you.
You wince, whining for the loss and the sudden awareness of the mess between your thighs. Your cunt is drooling. A glistening sheen of arousal is spread all over and your poor, bullied hole leaks heavy rivulets of his cum.
"Oh, fuck." He stares, large hands on the inside of your thighs so you can't close him out. "Look at that."
You grumble and shimmy your hips, only encouraging the spill to continue. The mess feels impossible, keeping you trapped where you are, and you dread to think of what the sheets look like.
"Chris." You extend a hand to him. "Shit." He carefully laces your fingers together and brings your joined hands to rest on your stomach, his thumb soothingly sweeping over your knuckles.
"I uh, think we got a bit carried away." he utters, as sheepish as his smile.
"So much for being tired." you quip.
"Mhm. Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?"
"Please."
You expect him to rise from the sheets, to scraper off and go get some kind of rag, probably some fresh clothes too. But he doesn't.
Chris shuffles down the bed, the bulk of him making it creak again, until he has enough room to lay himself on his front and level his face with your sullied cunt. Your breath hitches as you watch him, pliant as he hooks your legs over his shoulders with hands resting on your waist.
"Chris—"
"Is this okay?" His eyes, blown and shaky, flicker to you, gleaming and begging with just a look alone. You sigh a grin, smitten.
"Go on, then. Greedy."
His smile is big and dopey before he dives in. He's careful, very aware of your current sensitivity, and just gently licks at your weeping entrance with the flat of his tongue. The shock bounces up your skin, near overwhelming after all that has unfolded, but you let him press on.
Your hand cards into his short hair, neither pushing or pulling him, just holding on as he licks at the mess of you. But the groan he lets out vibrates against you and you can't help but let out a high, strained moan. He apologises with further, cautiously delicate kisses, but he so wants to get lost in the taste of you.
The lewdness of it makes you feel red hot and his next move comes more like a slurp, 'cleaning' up the sticky mess that just ends up down his face rather than down your cunt. It's mostly you, having gushed for him so excessively and wholeheartedly, but he doesn't mind the mix of his own spend that leaks from you.
Your legs are quivering again in no time, at the mercy of every kiss, suck, and lick. It's still oneiric but it's frantic, not the steady current of electricity it was before. No, this sparks and stammers and makes your tummy twist. Regretfully, it's just a little bit too much.
"Chris, sweet." your voice rattles, meekly begging. "Enough. Please, I— I can't take it."
His eyes flick up, wide and starry, and he withdraws immediately, leaving with one more tender kiss against your fluttering hole. Chris wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gathering himself and nodding his understanding.
"Sorry, sweetheart. Sorry, shit, you okay?"
He's back above you in an instant, one hand, luckily not the spitty one, cradling your face while the other supports his weight. You beam and lay your own hand over the top of his own. His touch is tepid as always and works like a balm on your impossibly burning face, so you hold him there for a long moment.
"Yes, yes. Just too sensitive, sorry, honey." You can barely keep your eyes open now, fatigue seeping in bone deep, begging to pull you under and into the embrace of sleep.
"Don't be sorry, please. How about we actually get cleaned up then, yeah?" his voice is sweet and honeyed, sonorous and ringing in your ears.
You groan petulantly. "I don't think I have the energy."
He scoffs lightheartedly and you have to be grateful that his patience is unending. "Too bad, we can't stay like this, especially not you."
"Why not?"
"Sweetheart, you're soaked and so are the sheets. Come on."
One of his strong hands anchors behind your back, wedging between your skin and the mattress, and begins to lift you from the sheets. You go easily into his arms, your own winding around his shoulders as he has you half in his lap, and he guides your legs around his waist so he can stand.
You feel like jelly as he hauls you up, desperately clinging to him as it hits you that your own legs might not hold you right now if they had to. But you can tell Chris is feeling it too. Every move he makes is lethargic and he does his best to pull away the ruined top sheet so he can put you back down on the edge of the bed, asking you to wait there a moment as if you'd dare to try to stand.
His steps are far slower than usual as he heads for the bathroom, very cautious on his way, and you flop back to the blanket while you wait. You'll get a new sheet in the morning, he can keep you warm tonight. The thought makes you giddy.
You don't feel the time passing before he comes back, a glass of water in one hand and a flannel in the other. His knee knocks against your own to get your attention and you squint one eye open, finding him towering over you. He's put some boxers briefs on too.
"Here, honey." He coaxes the glass into your hand, dropping his fingers to the bottom of it like helping you tip it, making sure you take a good swig. You nod your thanks, realising just how much you needed it the second the water hits your tongue. It clears the haze somewhat and brings you back into your own head, still tired but not quite knocked down like you were.
His knees click as he kneels in front of you and you just about catch his wince, stifling a laugh and setting the glass down on your bedside table. The flannel is slightly damp and pleasantly warm as he wipes up the inside of your thighs, gentle, slow sweeps to mop you up. He gets your legs first then addresses your cunt with extra care, wiping up the copious mess with a couple of passes. You can't help the unbidden whines that spill as you're reminded of your sensitivity, doing your best to ignore it until he's done.
"Sorry." he says sheepishly. "There we go, that'll do. We can share a shower in the morning, yeah?"
"Yeah, that sounds nice." you smile as you remember his earlier offer for the same thing, though the context is now totally flipped.
"Good. Arms up."
Next thing you know Chris is guiding a shirt on over your head. It's obviously one of his own, it smells like him and it's in his size, and it's wondrously soft as it drapes over your tepid skin. You cosy into it, humming with satisfaction.
Pants come next but these are your own, of course. He guides them on over your ankles and pulls them up as high as he can before you take over to get them over your hips, lifting your ass from the mattress to get it done.
"Can I sleep now?" you ask without a second of hesitation, practically half asleep already.
"I think you mean we." he retorts, walking around to his side of the bed. He turns the amber-hued lamp off on his way, plunging the room into darkness. "And yes, yes we can."
"Thank god." You practically throw yourself at him, meeting in the middle of the mattress as you invade his side and he invades yours.
He helps you throw a leg over his stomach and guide you so you're half lying on him, chest to chest, not leaving any breathing room between you, and his strong arms wrap around your waist. His hands clasp tight in the small of your back and lock you in like a belt. Your head nestles into the junction of his neck and shoulder, breathing in the sweat and smokiness that always lingers, and all of the tension of your body, the last dregs, are gone for good.
This is how it's supposed to be. The mattress sunken by the weight of two people, the blanket poorly shared between you both, both pillows occupied and both bodies clinging together. You'd almost forgotten what it felt like, so absorbed in his absence, so used to a ghost on his side of the bed.
"I missed you so much." you utter, admittance barely above a whisper, and scatter chaste kisses over his bare skin. You feel his answering hum thrumming beneath you.
One hand slips beneath his shirt you wear and sweeps up and down your back in big, soothing motions, lulling you into the rest you both so badly need.
"I missed you too, sweetheart." his tone comes thick and sleepy, already mused by the fatigue. "I'm so happy to be home."
"I'm so happy you're home, too."
The silence that falls is comfortable and warm, full hearts and tired bodies, tangled up where you'll surely stay all night long. Your head is heavy and your eyelids even more so when they finally close, pulse slowing into a sleepy beat as you drift off. But just before the cradle of sleep gets you, you hear Chris drop off first, already snoring like a lawnmower.
You can't help your sleepy giggle. "Goodnight, honey."
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