pairing.. dealer!chris xinnocent!reader
warnings: smut, cowgirl, intimacy, strong language, smoking (weed), dealer, nudity
the room was silent except for the faint hum of the city outside, the kind of quiet that felt heavy in the air, broken only by your breathing and the slow rhythm of the bed shifting beneath you. the only light came from the moon spilling through the half-open blinds, painting the sheets in strips of silver and shadow.
your bare skin caught the glow as you moved, knees braced on either side of chris’s hips. you didn’t know what exactly this was between you—no relationship, no commitment. just friendship that blurred into something hotter, messier, something you never tried to name. you hung out sometimes. you laughed and argued and shared snacks and secrets. and sometimes, like tonight, you ended up tangled together in bed, with nothing between you but skin and want.
chris lay back beneath you, his hands firm on your waist, guiding you into a steady, unhurried rhythm. his eyes stayed locked on you—half-lidded, sharp even in the shadows, watching the way you rolled your hips over him. the moonlight made every angle of his face stand out, made the light sheen of sweat on his skin glisten faintly.
you couldn’t deny how good he looked like this—hair sticking up in places from the pillow, chest rising and falling in deep breaths, mouth parting just enough to let soft groans slip out. those low sounds spilled into the space between you, deep and raw, and every one of them made heat curl in your belly.
your own moans answered his, soft but breathless, slipping out each time your hips came down to meet him. your breasts moved with the rhythm, your hair bouncing around your shoulders, catching the moonlight in its strands. his fingers dug into your hips, urging you to move faster, harder.
“shit…” he muttered, the sound rough and unfiltered, his voice almost breaking as you rocked into him.
you felt the pressure building, both of you teetering on that edge where everything feels too much and not enough all at once. your thighs trembled, nails pressing into his chest for balance. the moment you came, it hit sharp and deep—your voice breaking into a high, helpless moan. chris followed seconds later, his grip tightening, his hips surging up into you before slowing, the heat of his release spilling between you.
you collapsed forward, chest to chest, your forehead resting against the side of his neck. his skin was hot and slick, his heartbeat loud in your ear. neither of you spoke. there was no need. you just stayed there until your breathing evened out, then slid off him and lay on your back beside him, staring at the pale ceiling.
for a while, there was only the sound of the city and the faint creak of the sheets. then chris got up without a word, crossing the room in the slow, lazy way he always did after sex. when he came back, he tossed something soft onto your stomach.
it was one of his old hoodies—the faded black one you’d seen him wear a hundred times. you pulled it on without hesitation, the oversized sleeves falling past your wrists. it smelled like him—vanilla cologne, a trace of weed, and the faint warmth of his skin.
chris had been deep into weed lately. selling, not just smoking. you’d seen him roll it, weigh it, bag it up with casual precision. you’d joked more than once about buying from him, but he never gave you any—not a single crumb. he’d just smirk and say, “nah, you don’t need my stash.” you’d stopped asking a while ago.
which is why, when he opened the drawer by his bed and pulled out a small flashlight along with two perfectly rolled joints—one in plain white paper, the other in soft pink—you blinked in surprise.
without saying anything, he held up the pink one to you.
“for me?” you asked, raising a brow.
he didn’t answer. he just gestured for you to follow him.
the balcony door creaked open, letting in the cool night air. you stepped outside, the concrete cool under your bare feet. the old wooden bench was weathered but wide enough for both of you, and you sank onto it beside him, the hoodie draping over your thighs.
chris flicked the lighter, the small flame sparking to life before catching on the end of the joint. he passed you the pink-wrapped one without a word. you didn’t question it—you just took it between your fingers, brought it to your lips, and inhaled. the taste was faintly sweet, almost floral.
you leaned back against the bench, watching him light his own, the smoke curling up into the night air. the city lights blinked in the distance, the moon hanging high above you both. he looked relaxed, the tension gone from his shoulders, his gaze distant as he let the high settle into him.
you were still trembling faintly from earlier, the aftershocks humming in your body, but it felt… good. warm. his hoodie wrapped you in his scent, the weed mellowed the edges of your thoughts, and the cool night kept you awake just enough to take it all in.
it slid onto your bare thigh, his fingers curling around it in a slow, steady grip. his thumb began tracing lazy circles into your skin—firm enough to ground you, gentle enough to make you lean into it without realizing.
you didn’t speak, and neither did he. you just sat there, shoulder to shoulder, smoke drifting between you, the city quiet beyond the balcony rail.
and for reasons you’d never admit out loud, it felt really good.
- wrapped with love, karla ᢉ𐭩
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