summary: what's worse than hooking up with your brother's best friend? hooking up while she's in the next room, of course!
contains: slight exhibionism/almost getting caught, mean!chris, praise kink (brief), dom!chris, lowkey perv!chris, unprotected sex (dont do this)
author's notes: this is for my 🐇 anon! i lost the request in the great blog deletion of 2026 :( 3k words x
It was meant to be a quiet girls' night with your best friend — wine, gossip and a movie, loud laughs and cheesy romcoms, pyjamas. It was that, at first.
You’ve drunk enough glasses of red wine, lips stained deep red — thoughts still sharp enough, but just slightly mellow, your body a little loose. Your best friend is talking — rambling, really — about her ex, her voice carrying that familiar mix of irritation and disbelief, like she’s told this story before but still hasn’t quite processed it. Her hands move as much as her words, slicing through the air as she gestures, trying to emphasise every ridiculous detail.
You watch her, half-listening, the rhythm of her voice blending with the quiet hum of the room, with the distant dialogue from the TV, with the soft clink of glass when you set yours down without really thinking about it. Her words stop mid-sentence, cut clean before they can finish, her hands freezing in place like her body hasn’t quite caught up to the silence yet. You turn your head toward her, your brows drawing together slightly as you take in the change in her expression, the way her energy has dropped so suddenly it feels almost out of place.
She sighs dramatically, palming her forehead. “I told Chris he could come tonight. I totally forgot.”
She winces. “I’ll call him, see if I can reschedule-”
The front door clicks open before she can answer.
Right on cue, Chris steps in like he was summoned by the inconvenience alone. His gaze flicks over the two of you—wine glasses, blanket, the paused romcom still glowing on the TV.
A slow, amused smirk tugs at his mouth.
“Well,” he says, “this looks intimate.”
“Leave,” you groan, sinking deeper into the couch. “You’re ruining my night.”
He looks at you for a moment that lasts a little too long. The flush in your cheeks, the way your hair’s fallen out of place, the silk pyjamas you’d decided to wear. There’s a glassy, curious look in his eyes —before deciding to ignore you completely. “Thought you told me you could do today,” he turns to your best friend.
She sighs. “Come join, then. I hope you like 10 Things I Hate About You.”
He joins you both on the squashy couch, sitting petulantly right in the middle. The cushions sink under his weight, forcing the space to shrink, nudging you both outward. The couch that felt wide and comfortable a second ago suddenly feels too small and too aware.
He settles in like he’s completely at ease, stretching back, one arm thrown along the back of the couch — close enough that you feel it hovering behind you, not touching, but there.
Your friend barely reacts, already turning her attention back to the movie, pulling the blanket up over herself again like nothing’s changed.
You continue to watch the movie, except your focus is more on the man next to you, side profile annoyingly perfect under the movie lights. You shift uncomfortably, unable to find a desirable position. You tuck one leg under yourself, then stretch it out again, then shift your weight entirely. Nothing settles. If anything, it only makes you more aware — of the space, of the heat, of him. So you stop overthinking it.
You stretch your legs out slowly, deliberately, letting them drift across the small gap between you until they come to rest over his lap, the contact light at first, almost tentative before settling fully, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. It’s casual, or at least you tell yourself it is, the kind of absent-minded movement that shouldn’t mean anything, that shouldn’t feel like anything. Your leg slings over and locks onto his tanned, strong thigh.
You glance at him then, quick, measuring. If he does have a reaction, he suppresses it dearly, because nothing on his face changes. Still looking at the movie, still laid-back. It throws you off more than if he’d reacted.
“Are you cold, reader? I got a blanket here,” your friend’s voice cuts through, light and oblivious, and before you can answer, she tosses the blanket your way. To be fair, you are shivering slightly, bare legs exposed in your pyjama shorts.
It lands half across you, half across him. You pull it up instinctively, tucking it closer around yourself, and in doing so, you draw him under it too, closing that last bit of distance without really thinking about it. The warmth builds quickly, settling into your skin in the small space between you both.
Something shifts slightly against your knee, and you think it's just Chris tugging the blanket, until you realise it's his hand on your skin, a repeated motion of his fingers. Your friend laughs softly at something in the movie, shifting again, completely unaware, and the normalcy of it presses in around you, sharp and almost surreal compared to the quiet tension building just inches away.
Your fingers curl slightly into the blanket, gripping it involuntarily as the realisation settles in, undeniable. You ignore it as best you can and try in vain to watch the movie. Your best friend is fully engaged on the screen, watching the characters fight.
You zone out, the movie blurring into colour and noise at the edges of your mind, and suddenly Chris’s hand has progressed to your mid-thigh, contact warm and gentle. There’s a quiet confidence in it, something assured in the way it rests there like it belongs, like he’s decided on the space he’s taking and isn’t asking permission. You spin your head around, looking at him, but he looks back, confused at your confusion. He looks at you vacantly, waiting, urging you to say something.
He slips his hand higher while looking at you. The movement is small, controlled, but deliberate enough that you feel every fraction of it, your body going still in response, your breath tightening again without your permission. He watches you the entire time.
Chris ventures impossibly further, slow and cruel with every brush of his hand before they reach the silk of your shorts, tugging the soft fabric to the side. You gasp, then, a quick intake of your breath. Your friend barely breaks out of her trance, looking over.
“You alright?” she asks, not really waiting for an answer, before returning to the screen. You nod, still dazed.
“I’m fine, just-” you're cut off as his thumb brushes over where you’re most sensitive; the words falter on your tongue, dissolving before they can fully form. When you catch his gaze, he does it again, with more purpose and pressure. You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste the metallic blood on your tongue.
Chris is feigning interest in the movie, just sitting there, eyes trained on it. No one would even think he’s touching you right now, just two people sharing a blanket. He keeps circling your clit, slow and cruel, and you fight every urge you have to squirm and move against him, looking for the right friction.
Chris stays exactly as he is, posture loose, gaze angled toward the TV, absorbed in the movie, as if nothing under the blanket demands his attention at all. When he teases a finger inside, you press your lips together hard, teeth catching the soft skin just enough to keep any sound from slipping out. Chris notices how you clench so pathetically around only one finger, slick and warm. He looks at you, eyes daring you to say something.
Your eyes flutter shut briefly, fighting back a moan as he adds a second finger. You clench around him as he curls his fingers at the perfect angle, reaching that spot that takes your breath away. You were rapidly being thrown closer to the brink by the mind-numbing sensation of his callused fingertips swirling over your clit. The glaze in your eyes from holding in any sort of sound catches the light from the movie, your lips faintly trembling, while Chris is studying the movie like it’s a piece of art.
The longer you try to fight an internal battle of your best friend's brother fingering you while said best friend is sitting next to you, the harder it is to ignore the heat spiralling up your spine, twisting in your stomach.
“God, work phone call. Don't wait up, it'll be a while,” your best friend declares before leaving.
Chris waits till he hears the door shut, noise grounding you both back to the moment. Slowly, he turns his head toward you. The look in his eyes is nothing short of desire — hunger, even— the darkness in his eyes only making your cheeks flush harder. He pushes the blanket off, hissing in something that you struggle to decipher, when he sees your wetness dripping down his hand.
“Fuck you,” you say, gritting your teeth when you can feel the smugness radiating off him. He only tugs down your shorts and underwear — disappearing God knows where — and adds a third finger. You let out a pathetic noise, unwittingly.
“That’s what I fucking thought,” he spat disparagingly, free hand grappling around your back to have you straddling him instead — you don't even notice that he’s got his cock out of his shorts, thick and flushed — forcing you to align with him. The stretch, the pure shock, makes your head fall into his shoulder, already clamping down like a vice.
He’s big, his length burning as you adapt to the feel of him. You forget that you’re meant to be quiet, the fact that your best friend is in the bathroom, and won't stay there forever.
“Chris- fuck, Chris, please.” You whine, your cheeks flushed and your eyes full of desperation, almost tasting the release. “Please, I need you.“
“Doing so good for me,” Chris’s voice cuts through. “But you better be quiet unless you want my sister to know her slut of a best friend is getting fucked by me.”
His degrading, and downright mean words settle under your skin, and your body betrays you for it — heat pooling low and fast like a spark catching, fed by the danger of it, by how wrong it feels and how little you want it to stop. Your hips roll smoothly on his cock, face blissed out from the pleasure. His face is flushed — red bleeding through his cheeks down to the flush peeking out the top of his shirt. His hand grips your hip, an iron grip sure to leave bruises.
“Chris,” your wanton whispers go straight to his head, his eyes fluttering shut as he jerks up into you.
“Told you to be quiet,” he says cruelly. “Guess I’ll have to do it for you.”
His hand comes up to your mouth, stealing whatever words you might’ve had left, leaving only the sound of your breathing, uneven and shallow against his skin.
Your bottom lip trembles with the imminent crashing of you coming undone. Chris picks up on this — the way your breathing quickens, the moans that stay unsaid, and the way your cunt is clenching his cock so hard, like you were fit just for him. His other hand comes back to your clit, his rhythmic touches getting you exactly where you needed to be. Your hands fly out, needing to grip something, settling for his messy curls. You rock pathetically onto him, eyes squeezing shut, and you finally come undone on his cock.
“Such a good girl,” he praises you with the words low and rough, carrying a kind of approval that sends a sharp, unexpected heat through you. Chris’s hand comes off your mouth and tugs lightly at your hair, and he reaches forward to kiss your forehead — with a striking realisation, you register that you haven’t even kissed him. Before you can think about it, his hips start to lose that precision he had earlier— moving sloppily, more erratically, chasing his release. With a low groan and his pretty green eyes rolling back, he cums, his thick hot release coating the inside of you.
Your eyes widen in shock, clarity settling in, so harsh and immediate, cutting clean through everything that came before it. The room rushes back in — the dim light of the TV, the blanket half-fallen to the floor, the hallway just beyond, where your best friend could reappear at any second. Even the thin, thin walls of this apartment put you in a position that feels suddenly, painfully exposed.
“Oh my god,” You whisper-yell at Chris, as he puts his cock back in his boxers. “Did that just happen? Christ, I can't find my underwear.”
Chris himself seems in a similar shock, before putting his smug facade back on. Something shifts behind his eyes, something guarded snapping back into place as he leans away slightly, running a hand through his hair like he can shake it off, like it was nothing more than a lapse in judgment. You decided to give up on your search for your underwear and just tug your shorts back on.
“Just…just don’t make it a big deal,” he mutters, not quite meeting your eyes this time, his tone careless.
It stings slightly as you comprehend that it wasn't a big deal, not really, while trying to make yourself look presentable. You didn’t even kiss.
“Right,” you say while looking around in a frenzy to try to make it seem nothing happened, and then you notice his hair. All mussed up and unkempt from your tugging and pulling. “Your hair.”
You hesitate for only a second before reaching out, fingers brushing lightly through it, fixing it absentmindedly the way someone would smooth out a crease in fabric, something instinctive rather than intentional. A gesture that tries to make this feel normal again, even though neither of you really knows what “normal” is anymore. You reach over and fix his hair, his eyes never leaving your face, as you try to erase the physical reminder of your clandestine affair. The quiet stretches thin between you, heavy with everything neither of you is saying.
“There,” you murmur finally, reassuming your position on the sofa, yet this time your legs don't rest on his, instead tucked up under you. You still share a blanket, and there's sweetness and intimacy within it, and you don't know why.
At that, your friend has come back, bustling down the hall. Her footsteps are quick and familiar, her presence rushing in ahead of her. Everything in you snaps into place too fast — your posture, your expression, the careful stillness of your hands folded in your lap as they’ve always been there. You’re on edge, anxiety spiking, scared that the worried look on your face will give you away, or — god forbid— she ends up finding your missing underwear.
“Ugh, that was a nightmare,” she groans, dropping back onto the couch like nothing’s changed, like the last few minutes didn’t fracture something quietly irreversible. “Work is actually out to get me.”
“Mm,” you hum in agreement, hoping the sound is enough, hoping she doesn’t look too closely.
Beside you, Chris is quiet.
“Did I miss anything good?” she asks, glancing between the two of you.
Then you roll your eyes quickly. “As if you haven’t seen the movie a million times.”
The movie continues, and you watch, but wow, is your mind far away. From the corner of your eye — you don't dare look him directly— you see something hanging from his pant pocket. Something pink. Something lacy.
“Everything alright?” Chris asks.
You freeze for half a second, your mind scrambling to catch up, to smooth over the crack before it widens into something obvious.
“Yeah,” you say, just as quick, waving a hand vaguely toward the screen without actually looking at it. “Just—this movie is so frustrating.”
But your friend just huffs in agreement, already halfway there herself. “Right? Like, just talk to each other, it would solve everything.”
When the godforsaken movie finally ends, you and Chris are at the doorway, saying bye to your friend.
“Text me when you get home, okay?” she says, pulling you into a quick hug. “You too, Chris.”
Then the door is shut, and it’s just the two of you outside, in the bitter cold.
“If you don’t give me my underwear, I swear to god—”
“Relax,” he says, like you’re the unreasonable one, like this isn’t entirely his fault. His hand dips into his pocket with infuriating calm, eyes never leaving yours as he pulls them out — pink, lacy, unmistakably yours — dangling them between two fingers like it’s nothing.
“Chris—” you snap under your breath, lunging forward just enough to try snatch them from his grip before he can do anything worse, your face burning as he holds them out of your reach.
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face, half frustration, half something you don’t even want to name. “Just keep them, you perv.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining earlier,” he shoots back easily.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder, grounding yourself in the movement, in something practical. “We shouldn’t have done that,” you add, more firmly this time, meeting his eyes properly, not looking away. “And it’s not happening again.”
There’s a finality to it, or at least, you try to make it sound like there is.
Chris exhales softly through his nose, glancing away for the first time, jaw tightening just slightly. “If that’s what you want,” he says.
And with that, you walk away from him into the night, him the opposite way. You walk alone with your thoughts before something urges you to turn back and look. You twist your neck around just to see his back — a pang of unexplainable disappointment floods you, and you keep walking to your station.
If you had waited one more second, you would've seen Chris do the very same.
