…IN WHICH CHRIS GETS IN A FIGHT OVER YOU, BLURB
it’s supposed to be a chill night. couple drinks, couple laughs, chris right by your side—hand on your hip, drink in his other, keeping you close, just how he always do.
your girls talking, music bumping, the whole spot got that warm buzz of liquor and bass. it’s good. until it’s not.
popped collar. polo. creased ass jordans.
this motherfucker saunters up like he god’s gift, chin high, breath smelling like he been nursing the same crown and coke for the past hour. and he talking to you.
“you too fine to be standing next to him.”
chris exhales slow through his nose, takes a sip of his drink, blue eyes cutting through the dim lights, locked on this dumbass like he three seconds from turning his ass into swiss cheese.
he don’t say nothing yet. just watching. waiting. sizing him up.
but popped collar wanna act bold. he don’t peep the way your body leans into chris’s touch, don’t clock the warning signs in his stare. he keeps going.
“you the kinda girl that need a real man.”
chris tilts his head, licks his teeth, hand on your waist gripping just a little tighter. real man? that’s cute.
“word?” he drawls, voice slow, cocky, already knowing where this about to go.
popped collar nods, goes to touch your wrist like he really just said some smooth shit. you don’t even get a chance to pull back before chris moves.
chris gripping that fuck ass lauren polo collar, damn near tearing it off the seam, and now it look like the little polo player embroidered on his chest been rode into the ground. what in the fuck was that body cross bag placement? shit draped over the polo logo—that motherfucker look like he was riding a god damn tiger. hold up.
your girls screaming, grabbing at your arms, pulling you back before you can get caught in the crossfire. chris’s boys trying to hold him, but soon as polo’s friends jump in, it’s a wrap. hands flying. drinks spilling. whole damn club in chaos.
your friend jumps up on a chair. “ohhhh shittt.”
security late as hell, finally yanking chris and his people up off those bums, dragging them toward the exit. you and your girls follow cause you damn sure not staying in there after that. plus, the vibe was ass anyways.
but chris? he still talking his shit. walking backwards as security leads him out, chin high, all smug like he ain’t just rocked some justin bieber looking motherfucker’s shit.
popped collar trying to talk back, but it’s real hard to sound tough when you still dazed, leaning against the bouncer for support.
“fuck outta here, man,” chris scoffs, shaking them off as they get outside. he’s still hot, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. but he done now. his point been made.
car ride? dead silent. not even music. just the low hum of the road and chris’s heavy ass breathing. you glance over, lips pressing together. “at least you won.”
chris don’t react. just keeps looking out the window. few seconds later, you try again. “you really rocked his shit, though.”
he flicks his gaze to you, expression unreadable. “shut the fuck up.”
you smirk, looking out your own window now, unbothered. he’s always like this—simply hotheaded.
he pulls up to your place, hazard lights on, hands gripping the wheel. lets out a long ass sigh, staring straight ahead.
you tilt your head. “you not coming in?”
he shakes his head, eyes still on the street.
you don’t argue. just grab your purse, open the door. pause. glance back. “park up there.”
inside, you drop your keys, set your bag on the counter, start digging through drawers for the first aid kit. cause you already know.
minutes later, the front door creaks open. he’s quiet, moving through the space like a shadow. you don’t even turn around. just pop open the kit, lay out some gauze.
he steps closer. hands bruised, knuckles split, but none of polo’s punches connected. that boy was throwing air, meanwhile chris was landing every hit.
you clean him up, working fast, efficient. he’s standing there huffing and puffing, acting like he got somewhere to be.
you exhale through your nose, look up at him, unimpressed. “go sit the fuck down ‘til you cool off. you starting to piss me off.”
he let out a breath, real heavy, but did what you said, sinking into the sectional, legs spread, arms slung over the back like he owned the place. two little ass sanrio bandages sat across his knuckles now, a dumb contrast to how hard he was acting. you smirked at the sight, clipping your hair up as you restarted the load of clothes you left in the dryer before heading out earlier.
as you pass the couch, chris reaches out, fingers curling around your hip. next thing you know, you’re landing on his lap with a small oomf, his hands already wandering.
"you done actin’ stupid now?" you murmured, hands pressed against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of it.
chris scoffed, a smirk tugging at his lips. "nah.”
you roll your eyes. his grip tightens. “shut up.”
and then he kissed you. hot, deep, tongue sliding against yours like he was tryna prove a point. his hands roamed, squeezing at your hips, your ass, your thighs, pulling you tighter against him so you could feel just how much you got to him.
"gon' let me have you?" he muttered against your lips, already knowing the answer. and you did. right there on that sectional, with your dress bunched up around your waist and chris gripping onto you like he owned you. his hands never left your skin, his mouth never stopped moving against yours, against your neck, against every damn place he could reach. he made sure you felt it. made sure you knew that even with all that nonchalant shit, all that attitude, he wanted you. only you.
the next morning, you wake up on the couch, makeup smu-dged, dress wrinkled, weave tousled to hell. no bonnet. an L.
you stretch, sit up, reach to fix your hair—pause.
something’s caught in the strands.
with a frown, you pluck it free, hold it up to inspect.
a god damn sanrio bandage.
sosa’s notes: had writers block for a hot min n started typing this up. literally could not stop giggling. popped collar lowk my fav npc like
