⟡ ݁₊ . ˎˊ˗ DENIAL LOOKS GOOD ON YOU
ෆ ･ request? yes! ₊ ୧ genre: slowburn, college au, friends-to-lovers-to-fuckbuddies, gossip-driven tension, smut, angst & yearning undercurrent, comedy from denial . ↳ paring: christopher bang x fem!reader
⦂ 𓈃 warnings/tags: explicit sexual content, masturbation, mutual masturbation, oral, semi-public teasing, raw passionate sex, possessiveness, dirty talk, breeding kink elements, slight age gap (older uni student!chris x younger uni student!reader), gossip-driven tension, jealousy, denial, swearing, marking, obsession masked as “just casual,” messy emotions, friends-to-fuckbuddies-to-???, slowburn pacing with payoff ⦂ 𓈃 word count: 2958
┊❛ ❜┊summary: everyone on campus is convinced you and christopher are more than friends, and the rumors only get louder when you both realize you’ve been secretly getting off to each other. denial quickly turns into late-night hookups, but pretending it’s casual might be harder than the sex itself. ෆ ･ m.list!
₊ ୧ a/n: i've been working on this for a while (i'm sorry) i hope u enjoy babes.
everyone on campus had an opinion about you and christopher. the gossip spread faster than any groupchat meme or half-assed hookup story. you were the rumor. the walking cliché, the “will-they-won’t-they” pair people swore was already sneaking around behind closed doors. it didn’t matter that you denied it every single time. it didn’t matter that you laughed in people’s faces, said no, we’re just friends. the more you denied it, the more people didn’t believe you.
you knew why. you and chris didn’t act like normal friends. normal friends didn’t share coffees at 8 a.m. lectures because “you always forget yours.” normal friends didn’t sit shoulder-to-shoulder in the library, his arm draped casually along the back of your chair, leaning close enough to make your pulse skip. normal friends didn’t text “come over” at 2 a.m. for “study sessions” that ended with the both of you half-asleep on his floor, tangled up in blankets you swore were for “comfort, not cuddling.”
and chris? he didn’t help at all. he was a year older, your upperclassman, the guy who carried his life like it was a group project he had to hold together. mature, reliable, the one professors trusted with extra responsibilities. but around you, he let cracks show. he teased. he pressed buttons. he leaned in way too close when you were bickering, smirk tugging at his lips like he knew exactly how flustered you got.
the whispers followed you everywhere. cafeteria tables, lecture halls, campus green. some bold girl had even cornered you in the bathroom once, asking if his dick was as big as she imagined. you’d choked on your water and stormed out, only to find him waiting against the wall, arms crossed, brow cocked like he knew.
c: "what did they ask you this time?"
you: "none of your business."
c: "let me guess. something about how good i am with my hands?"
you: "you’re insufferable."
c: "you didn’t say i was wrong."
he lived for it. your eye rolls, your sharp comebacks, the way you pretended not to care while your cheeks burned.
the thing was, you weren’t actually together. you hadn’t kissed him, hadn’t touched him like that, hadn’t even admitted to yourself that you wanted to. but late at night, when you were supposed to be studying, you’d catch him staring at your mouth instead of the textbook. when his hand brushed yours as he passed you a highlighter, you didn’t move away. when his hoodie somehow ended up in your laundry pile, you didn’t give it back right away.
and maybe that was why everyone believed it. because even you started to wonder if the line you kept insisting on wasn’t already blurred to hell.
the breaking point came during a group study night, a cramped table in the library with your friends snickering every time you and chris bickered. when he stole your pen and held it above your head, everyone groaned like they were watching a romcom unfold.
friend: "just fuck already."
the whole table laughed. your stomach dropped. you wanted to snap back, deny it like always, but when you glanced at chris, he was already watching you, lips twitching, eyes dark with something you couldn’t name.
c: "don’t tempt me."
the room went silent. your chest tightened. you laughed it off, rolled your eyes, shoved his shoulder. but the damage was done. the tension was a loaded gun now, and you knew eventually one of you would pull the trigger.
it happened on a night that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. just another “study session” in your dorm. chris sprawled on your beanbag chair, laptop open but long forgotten, you curled on the bed pretending to annotate an article you hadn’t read. you were tired, wired, and more aware of him than you should’ve been. his shirt clung in all the right places, his chain glinting against his collarbone, his thighs spread wide like he owned the room.
he stayed later than usual. too late. midnight turned into two a.m., and at some point he crashed. head tilted back, hoodie bunched around his neck, breaths slow and steady. you should’ve let him sleep. you should’ve closed your eyes too.
but instead, you thought about him. about the way his hand always hovered at the small of your back. about how his laugh made your chest warm. about what it would be like if he ever stopped pretending. heat coiled low in your stomach, restless and demanding, and before you could stop yourself your hand was sliding beneath the waistband of your shorts.
you kept it quiet. breath hitched, hips shifting, fingers circling slick skin as your thoughts tangled with images of him. chris, above you, pressing into you, voice rough in your ear. it was reckless, but you were sure he was out cold.
until he wasn’t.
c: "…you’re not seriously doing that while i’m right here, are you?"
his voice cracked through the silence, low and rough. you froze, heart in your throat, shame burning your skin. you turned your head and, fuck. his hand was already down his sweats, cock hard and thick in his fist, precum glistening in the dim light. he was watching you.
you: "…bro. no way."
c: "bro. yes way."
a beat of stunned silence. the air thick with something you couldn’t name.
you: "you’re disgusting."
c: "you were literally fingering yourself to me."
you: "you don’t know that."
c: "the way you’re looking at me right now says otherwise."
your cheeks burned, but you didn’t stop. you couldn’t. your fingers curled deeper, a moan slipping out before you could bite it back. his eyes darkened, fist working slow and deliberate along his shaft.
c: "fuck… you’re really gonna make me lose it."
it was obscene, the way you both kept touching yourselves, watching each other like you’d been starving this whole time. the denial didn’t matter anymore. the rumors, the gossip, the endless we’re just friends. all of it crumbled in that moment, replaced by raw, aching need.
when you came, it was with his name on your tongue. when he spilled across his stomach, it was your face he was staring at.
and afterward, chest heaving, you both laughed. because what else could you do?
c: "bro… let’s just fuck."
you: "…yeah. okay."
and that was how the line finally shattered.
the “bro, let’s just fuck” pact didn’t happen right away. you both laughed it off, swore it was just a heat-of-the-moment slip. but after that night, everything shifted. the way he looked at you, the way you looked at him.nothing was the same.
study sessions turned into staring contests. casual touches lingered. when you sat too close, neither of you moved away. it was like the universe had decided to shove you off the edge, and all you could do was fall.
the breaking point came a week later. he was in your dorm again, sprawled on your bed with his phone, chain glinting under the dim lamp light. you were pretending to type an essay, but your eyes kept drifting. broad chest, the curve of his throat, the veins in his forearm.
c: "you’re staring."
you: "shut up."
c: "nah, keep looking. i like it."
you threw a pillow at him. he caught it, smirking, then pushed off the bed and crossed the room. the air shifted, heavy, electric. when he stopped in front of you, your body went rigid, but your pulse was screaming yes, yes, yes.
c: "so when are we gonna stop pretending?"
you: "pretending what?"
c: "that you don’t want me just as bad as i want you."
you didn’t answer, you couldn’t. not when his mouth crashed onto yours a second later. the kiss was messy, teeth and tongue and months of pent-up hunger spilling out. you clutched at his hoodie, dragging him closer as he shoved you back against the desk.
his hands were everywhere. gripping your waist, sliding under your shirt, tugging you up onto the desk like you weighed nothing. when his lips trailed down your neck, biting, sucking, you gasped, thighs clenching around his hips.
c: "fuck, i’ve wanted this for so long."
his voice was wrecked, his hands shaking as he yanked your shorts down. he was rough with it, desperate, like he was terrified you’d vanish if he didn’t take you right then and there.
your protest died the second his fingers slid between your legs, groaning at how wet you already were.
c: "dripping for me already?"
you: "don’t- don’t flatter yourself."
c: "oh, i’m not flattering myself. it's the truth."
you tried to roll your eyes, but then he pushed two fingers inside and curled them just right, and all you could do was moan his name.
he kissed you again, muffling your whimpers, before pulling his sweats down just enough to free his cock. thick, flushed, leaking. bigger than you’d even imagined during all those late-night fantasies.
he didn’t tease. didn’t wait. he lined himself up, locked eyes with you, and shoved in with one rough thrust.
your cry echoed through the room, nails clawing at his shoulders. he groaned into your neck, hips jerking as he buried himself deep inside.
c: "fuck- you feel so fucking good."
he fucked you hard, messy, desperate. your desk creaked under the force, papers scattering, laptop threatening to slide off the edge. you clung to him like you were drowning, moaning into his mouth with every thrust.
it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t romantic. it was raw, unfiltered hunger. months of denial combusting in the worst, best way possible.
when you came, you shattered, clenching around him so hard he cursed against your throat. he wasn’t far behind, pulling out just in time to spill across your stomach, panting your name like a prayer.
after, silence. just your ragged breathing, your bodies pressed together, his forehead resting against yours.
c: "…so. friends?"
you: "friends."
c: "…who fuck?"
you: "…yeah. friends who fuck."
and that was how it began.
the morning after the first time, you both swore it wouldn’t change anything. no strings, no feelings, just stress relief. “friends who fuck.” simple.
but it was never going to be simple.
the next week, you couldn’t walk across campus without someone smirking, nudging, whispering about the two of you. your hoodie was spotted on him. his water bottle was spotted on you. a friend of a friend swore they heard moaning through your dorm walls.
you denied everything, like always. but the problem was. this time, it was true.
because you couldn’t stop. you’d meet in the library to “study” and end up sneaking into empty classrooms, his hand already down your jeans before the door even closed. one night, you were supposed to help him edit a paper, but ten minutes in he had you bent over his desk, books and pens sliding everywhere as he fucked you hard enough to make you forget your own name.
c: "quiet, baby. you want the whole hall to know you’re taking my cock right now?"
you: "then stop- ngh- fucking me like this."
c: "never."
you told yourself it was casual. that’s what the pact was for. but casual didn’t explain the way he lingered after, holding you longer than necessary. casual didn’t explain the look in his eyes when some guy tried to flirt with you in the cafeteria and chris immediately pulled you onto his lap, glaring until the guy walked away.
later that night, when you teased him about it, he didn’t even deny it.
you: "jealous much?"
c: "you think i’m letting anyone else touch what’s mine?"
the word mine sent heat rushing through you, even as you rolled your eyes and pretended it didn’t matter.
it became a pattern. denying with your mouths, confessing with your bodies. in the library, in your dorm, in his car parked just far enough from campus that no one would catch you. he’d spread you out on the backseat, fingers knuckle-deep inside you while his lips crushed yours, groaning about how addictive you were.
c: "fuck- don’t know how i lasted this long without you."
the gossip only got worse. your friends gave up on subtlety, openly betting on when you’d “make it official.” you both laughed, denied, denied, denied. but when you were alone, sweat-slick and tangled up in each other, it was hard not to wonder if the gossip wasn’t closer to the truth than you wanted to admit.
because the pact was supposed to make things easier. instead, it was unraveling you both.
by mid-semester, the gossip wasn’t just whispers anymore. it was everywhere. your names paired together on confessions pages, professors making sly comments about “your partner” when you showed up late together, even strangers in the cafeteria chanting just date already when you sat too close.
you and chris laughed it off, like always. but every denial felt thinner, flimsier. especially when you knew you’d spent the night before riding him until your thighs ached, his hand clamped tight on your throat as he groaned your name into your ear.
the unraveling came one saturday night. a party. someone’s off-campus apartment crammed with sweaty bodies, music blaring, cheap beer spilling onto sticky floors. you’d gone with friends. he showed up later, chain glinting under neon lights, girls already trying to tug him onto the dance floor.
you told yourself it didn’t matter. you weren’t his. you had no right to care. but watching some girl press against his chest, laughing at something he said, made your stomach twist ugly. you downed another shot.
he noticed. of course he noticed. minutes later, he was at your side, hand wrapping possessively around your waist.
c: "enjoying yourself?"
you: "was. until you showed up with your little fanclub."
c: "jealous?"
you: "fuck off, chris."
he didn’t. instead, he leaned in close, lips brushing your ear, voice a low growl.
c: "say that again when i’ve got you spread open upstairs."
your pulse stuttered. your body betrayed you, heat pooling low, thighs clenching. he felt it, smirked, and before you could argue, he was dragging you down the hall, shoving you into some empty bedroom, locking the door behind him.
the second it clicked shut, his mouth was on yours. desperate, angry, like he had something to prove. his hands yanked your dress up, your panties down, his cock already straining against his jeans.
he bent you over the dresser, shoving into you in one rough thrust. you gasped, nails clawing the wood as he pounded into you, reckless, hard enough to rattle the mirror.
c: "you think anyone else could fuck you like this?"
you: "chris- fuck-"
c: "answer me."
you: "no- no one-"
c: "that’s right. mine. you’ve always been mine."
his words hit harder than his thrusts. your chest burned, tears pricking your eyes. not from pain, but from the way the denial cracked wide open, raw and undeniable.
you came with his name on your lips, loud enough the music outside barely covered it. he followed seconds later, pulling out to spill across your back, panting, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades.
silence stretched. heavy. suffocating.
you: "…we’re supposed to be friends who fuck."
c: "then why does it feel like you’re already mine?"
and just like that, the unraveling was complete.
the morning after the party felt like waking up in someone else’s life. you and chris hadn’t gone back to the dorms. you’d crashed in that spare bedroom, sheets tangled, your body sore from the way he’d fucked you into the mattress after the first round against the dresser. he was sprawled beside you, hair a mess, chain still around his neck, arm heavy across your waist like he had no intention of letting you go.
you lay there for too long, staring at the ceiling, your brain caught between panic and warmth. panic, because this wasn’t the pact. warmth, because he felt too good against you, his breath fanning over your skin like he belonged there.
when he stirred, blinking awake, the first thing he did was kiss your shoulder. soft. unthinking. intimate in a way that made your throat close.
you: "…we fucked up."
c: "we’ve been fucking up for months."
he said it so casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
you: "we said no feelings."
c: "and how’s that working out for you?"
you wanted to argue, deny, roll your eyes like always. but the truth sat heavy between you. you remembered the way he’d snarled mine in your ear, the way your heart had stuttered at the sound.
silence stretched. he shifted closer, fingers tracing lazy circles against your hip.
c: "look… we can keep pretending, if that’s what you want. but i’m done lying to myself. everyone already thinks you’re mine. maybe it’s time you stopped denying it."
your chest ached. denial had always been your shield. the easy answer, the joke, the way out. but lying in his arms, his cock pressing lazy against your thigh, his voice wrecked from saying your name all night… denial didn’t fit anymore.
you turned to face him. his eyes were soft now, none of the sharp teasing, just raw want.
you: "fine. but if anyone asks…"
c: "we’ll still deny it."
you both laughed, the sound tangled with relief. then his mouth was on yours again, slow this time, like he had forever to taste you.
he rolled you onto your back, slid between your thighs, and kissed you until you were moaning into his mouth, his cock slipping back inside like it belonged there.
the gossip had been right all along. and for once, you didn’t care.
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