you never quite know where to draw the line with bsf!chris, and neither does he
your front door clicks shut, all the noise and stimulation disappearing down the hallway leaving you with the aftermath to clean up. it sounded awful to say this was one of your favourite moments of the night — the quiet when everyone left, leaving some time for yourself.
you hold off from stacking empty snack bowls, turning your attention to the sound of a toilet flushing before the bathroom door opens. chris walks out, belining for the couch before he looks around. “where’d everyone go?”
“uh, home.” you respond, resuming the cleanup process as he occupies himself with a forgotten packet of sour patch kids, finishing the last few pieces.
“why? it's early.” he says it so matter-of-factly before tipping the remaining sugar into his open mouth.
you come over with the bin already in hand, waiting for him to finish. “it's home time.” you hold out the bin for him as he hesitantly throws the empty plastic in. he watches you return the bin to its place in the kitchen, picking up other empty packets along with you.
“you’re seriously kicking me out?” he scoffs, not seriously annoyed, although it's clear he's not close to making any effort to leave.
you can't help but roll your eyes. “everyone else left, what makes you think you're special?” you retort, raising your eyebrows. he remains where he is, arm slung round the back of the couch, body contorted round to see you.
he clears his throat, resting his free hand on his leg that's brought itself onto the sofa. “well.. i can think of one thing.” it comes out hesitant, of course it does because this isn't something you ever talk about — and you were stubborn about keeping it that way.
“thats very presumptuous of you.” you're looking at him from across the kitchen island, pouring out half empty cans of beer into the sink. “expecting something?”
he knows better than to be cocky and honest, turning back round to hide the growing smirk on his face. if he'd learnt one thing about messing around with you for the past few months; it was that a humorous tone meant good things from you, no matter how annoyed you tried to sound. a quiet ‘not at all’ slips out from under his breath as he draws his attention to a deck of cards that had been left out.
nothing about what you'd been doing for the past months made any sense, nor were there clear boundaries as to what could happen. it was bound for utter failure from the beginning, and instead of discussing and establishing some sort of sexual relationship it seemed to just.. float into a whole lot of nothing and everything .
the only constant appeared to be the way you kept ending up in these very situations.
“mm, your tongue’s all sweet.” you complain, pulling back from the intense making out. he grins ear to ear, relaxing back against the couch with his grasp hesitantly hovering over your hips.
"you've always got somethin’ to say when we're kissin’.” he murmurs, although there's an alarming amount of adoration behind it.
you lick over the faint sweetness on your lips. “so i’ll just shut the fuck up then.” you hum out all petty. exactly the way he liked.
“mm, maybe you should.” he nods in agreement to your own sarcasm, not giving you the chance to snap back as his words melt against your mouth, resuming the kiss like you'd never pulled apart — tongue brushing over your bottom lip, curious with a mind of its own.
you'd been keeping your hips as still as possible, always afraid of taking these late nights too far. but with the way his lips needily moved against yours along with his lingering hands on your waist, it was hard not to.
he groans quietly, letting it slip between parted lips the second your hips press forward against him — hands already slipping down to grip your ass through your jeans, pulling you firmly against the bulge in his own.
“ chris – i…” it's hard to find the words, let alone get them out. but he knows what you mean, he knows what you're trying to say.
he pulls back breathless, shifting his hips up to get comfortable before kissing down your neck — leaving a wet trail of breathy kisses and sharp nips. “just do what you want.”
fingers thread through his hair, gripping on as you try to keep your moans to a minimum. “what?” you whine, struggling to give in and selfishly take the green light he was giving you.
“ use me.”
well that you heard loud and clear, no matter how much you wanted to argue with it or how badly you felt the need to talk this out first — it's not like you hadn't gone further than this before. but usually you were drunk, both naive enough to blame it on the alcohol or pretend it never really happened.
but this was stone cold sober, and a very obvious choice. one you'd remember and most likely silently beg for again.
you hesitantly reach down to unbuckle his belt, leaning into the touch of his lips against your neck, surely sucking red marks into the skin by now. the moment you undo the zipper on his jeans he's pulling back, out of breath. “fuck.” he whispers lowly, locked on your every move as you shift back — taking off your own jeans.
he gets the gist pretty quickly, shuffling out of his trousers before discarding them somewhere on the floor. “is this okay?” you double check, because despite his enthusiasm this was new territory. potentially stupid territory.
he pulls you in by your hips, flipping you down onto your back as gently as he can before getting comfortable between your open legs. “i’m stupidly hard right now.” he murmurs into the crevice of your neck, his way of saying ‘absolutely yes’.
and god could you feel it, through nothing but his boxers and your underwear — the rigid length of his dick pressing against you in ways you'd only let your imagination think up.
“ fuuck chris.” you moan out, fingers deep in the roots of his hair, keeping him there to kiss and suck at the sensitive spots on your neck. “we can't do this again.. just right now.” you manage to breathe out.
the way he falters for a second goes unnoticed by you before he picks up a rhythm, grinding his cock against your covered slit. he doesn't need to respond, or argue. it was evident that half the promises you'd both made in the past had gone down the drain pretty quickly, because nothing about this was exuding ‘ clear cut boundaries ’.
it reeked of confusion and desperate need that neither of you knew how to handle yet alone navigate . tethering dangerously close to actual sex as you shamelessly got each other off — as if underwear itself was keeping this friendship platonic.
because nothing about you moaning his name and his dick pulsing out pre cum in response was platonic.
“oh fuck , i can’t—” he tries to pull back, tries to breathe through it and hold off whats already happening. but one look at your fucked out face from just some friction of his dick has him collapsing down, pathetically groaning as he coats the inside of his boxers.
a faint apology slips out, like he knows it was embarrassingly quick and only highlighted how much he'd wanted this and previously spilt into his own hand thinking about this.
but you're still grinding against him, catching the tip of his still hard dick over your clit to desperately push yourself over the edge. and when you do, it completely fucks him over — because no other sight will ever compare to this.
your walls down, whining out his name with nothing but utter bliss etched on your face — using him to cum. wanting nothing but his length to push you over the edge and send waves rolling through you.he's hooked, officially addicted . and knowing this couldn't be anything more, that there were stupid unspoken restrictions and nothing but complications at the end of the tunnel; it unfortunately had him by the throat, bound to leave him strung out.
