[cb97percent]

「𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚊𝚌 𝚗𝚘.𝟷」 · wolf by the tail: act ii

❝𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞.❞

➥ Bang Chan x Reader (f) — 18.7k ⁞ Read Act 1 here

➥ Prison, Inmate x Doctor, Crazy in Love

➥ Contains: Chris as the neediest dom you've ever seen and his graduation from Machiavelli's Ph.D. program, no intention to be factually accurate, Jakey Jakey, Rosa Diaz shoutout, Regina diss, dramatic angst leading up to enough cum to repopulate a small country, so much yearning that "I burn for you" can never

➥ Reader discretion advised: See the masterlist for the general warnings about this collection. By continuing, you accept to read at your own risk.

⚠ — (Non-exhaustive, full cw policy here): Delusional and distorted sense of reality caused by extreme intense devotion, themes of revenge, violence, off-screen attempted assault, crimes of passion, sabotage of birth control, fictional aphrodisiacs, sex in a(n unused) chapel

*a/n: If you haven't read Act I, this will feel like starting a show from the second season, and some references will not make sense. Watch Season 1 first to catch up with the events up to this point, then enjoy the show! 🐺

𝙱𝚒𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛. 𝙻𝚒𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚜, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎. 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚣𝚢 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚜.

Say it, and I’m yours.

Thoughts have a way of popping into your head whenever they damn please, which is why they don’t count towards your tally of sins. If they counted, no one would be able to pass by the gates of heaven, let alone earn a residency permit. 

To emerge victorious from your battle with guilt, that was how you justified obsessively touching yourself to Chris. At ungodly hours of the night. Sometimes first thing in the morning. 

But it should not matter, should it? A fantasy was just a fantasy. Nobody could be chastised for it because it just popped into your head whenever it damn pleased. So what if it involved an inmate? So what if it involved a patient? The star of your steamy daydreams was nobody’s goddamn business as long as you didn’t act on it.

But you did. 

When you crossed that forbidden line, Hippocrates wasn’t the only man you had broken your promise to, and your loveless imprisonment didn’t make the facts any less true. You had still cheated on your husband. With an inmate. A patient.

And it tasted so fucking delicious that you would do it all over again. 

Say it, and I’m yours.

How could you not? Nobody had ever asked to be yours before. 

Nobody but Chris.

A bunch of stale words that didn’t mean much, but when he whispered them into your ear, they meant everything, possessing you to do things you wouldn’t even do to get out of death row. Barely a taste, and you were already addicted. Just one touch, and it was like you were the one convicted. Seventeen counts of soulslaughter for each lick on your most neglected corners with ferocious lupine abandon.

Yes, you had counted it.

You knew there was nothing absolvable about it. You knew goddamn well it was a mistake that should never be repeated. Then why did the mere thought of his skin on yours incite an uncontainable fire inside you? 

Why did you keep catching yourself trying to make it happen again? 

The ulterior motive was hidden under such innocent layers that it was invisible to the eye that wasn’t looking for it. Just painting your nails black because he mentioned he loved the color one time. Just putting on jewelry because he “joked” you’d be matching if you wore silver. Just wearing stilettos because he said in passing they would look “fucking fantastic” on you. Just picking certain dresses because they were long enough to wear at work but short enough to make him stare at your legs and drool… You knew he liked it. He fucking loved those little treats you were feeding him, whether he was being a good boy or not. You knew they were driving him crazy, and nothing got you wetter than enticing him to the point of torture. Watching him sweat, cheeks flushed, thickly gulping, spacing out imagining god knows what with those gorgeous lips parted, licking them, biting them, baiting you into kissing them… But not like a coy, flustered lamb. 

Outrageously brazen like a werewolf in rut.

He wouldn’t even blink as he stripped you bare just with his gaze, devouring you whole, his eyes all hooded. He wouldn’t even pretend the touches he stole from you were an accident. Fuck, he didn’t even feel the need to hide the strain in his pants anymore, spreading his legs wide open as the perfect frame for the mouthwatering exhibition. You know, for you to… admire. 

With that size, it was damn near impossible not to imagine a belly bulge when he buried himself into you to the hilt. 

The days he felt particularly adventurous were the best. He would make sure to find an excuse to gently press himself against you like he was showing homework. If you listened close enough, you could almost hear the crazed monologue inside his head.

Look at what you do to me. Do you like it, huh? Do you fucking enjoy torturing me? Is this big enough for you? Does it make you salivate? Does it make you wanna sit on it? Would you suck it off? Can I cum on your face? Can I cum in your mouth? Can I cum in your pussy? Can I cum in your ass? Can I slather your entire body with my cum? Can I lick it off of you all night long? Will you have my children? Please? Please? PLEASE?!!!

He wouldn’t even dare have any hopes, but maybe, just maybe, you would decide to reward him, who knows? Maybe you would take some responsibility for his misery. One day. Just one of these days. And you were going to.

Because Chris never got his own hands dirty. 

He would push it to the limit, but then back off, leaving you to seethe in your fiery avidity, and it was getting a little harder each day to keep your dignity. All these seduction games you played, but he still wasn’t doing… that. 

And he knew you’d turn up the heat until he fucking snapped.

Less and less subtle every day. No longer coincidental brushes of your arm on his, but deliberate presses. No longer heaving tired sighs, but letting slip tiny moans under the guise of fatigue. Sexier scents, bolder colors, tighter clothes, all strategically revealing. All for the wolf who riddled your mind with fatally dangerous thoughts. All for the siren who sang the forgotten songs of your womanhood. All for the man who made you feel wanted, desired, lusted after in the most barbaric sense possible, and you welcomed it. You encouraged it. You not only craved it, but wanted it to get so much worse. You wanted to see him on his knees. You wanted to hear him beg. You wanted to taste his desperation. You wanted him to mindlessly devote himself to you. You wanted Chris.

It was all for the devil you had sold your soul to on a whim. 

All for him…

Chris had been losing sleep over you for quite some time already, but this time it was different. This time, he didn’t have to use his imagination at all. He still couldn’t believe it wasn’t a fever dream, but he knew what you tasted like now. What you smelled like, what you felt like, what you sounded like, and all he wanted to do was drown all his senses in you. 

You. 

You. 

You. 

You. 

You. 

“Chris…”

The best part of the day. Falling asleep cumming to the visions of his angel. 

He soaked his palm and imagined how he would stretch your tightness inch by inch,  lazily stroking his length. God, he just knew you were the perfect fit. Maybe you would struggle to take him at first, but no matter; he had nowhere to be other than inside you. He would be so so gentle as you took your sweet time. He would let you adjust. He would let you breathe. Kiss you wet. Caress you open. He would make love to you if that was how you liked it, of course, but… 

What if under your layers of grace lay a nasty little freak that came out only for him? 

What if you were down to fuck because he would love to drill you into the nearest surface and call you names only he was allowed to while pulling your hair. Fuck, it would take his entire self-control not to cream you if he heard you beg. Fuck, he might just draw his last breath if he fucked the smartest woman he knew dumb. Fuck, he might be the one turning into a needy, clingy sub if you wrapped your fingers around his neck and ordered him to get on his knees. Oh, fuck…

Fuck.

FUCK!!!

He closed his fist tighter and picked up his pace. 

Either keep me inside you forever or just kill me already. 

The way you reacted to him… So eager. So intense. Ain’t no fucking way you weren’t just as touch-starved as him, amazed by the maddening levels of gratification a simple wet touch could give you. It felt good, didn’t it? It felt great to melt in his mouth. It felt fucking incredible to be selfishly pleasured for once, and he got to be the first one to show you that. He got to be the first one to open the gates of hell for you. He got to be the first one to discover your flavor, and he would do anything to acquire the exclusive rights to your taste.

As far as Chris was concerned, you had lost your virginity to him, and the only way to make it right was to give you his last name. As any gentleman should.

You were perfect for each other, and he was born ready to dedicate his life to serving you. Learn all your hotspots. Study the angle of your arched back. Carve the bible of your pleasure into his brain so he could induce a climax on command. Satiate you in ways you didn’t even know were possible. Anytime you want. Any way you want. Anything you want as long as he gets to absorb you under his skin.

His strokes suddenly turned much faster.

Do you want me as bad as I want you?  

And faster.

Do you think of me when you touch yourself, too? 

And faster.

Nothing I’ve ever felt was this true.

“Touch me, Chris.”

God, I love you. I fucking LOVE YOU!!!

Chris had lost count of how many times he came to the thought of you in his bed, in bathroom stalls, in the shower, wherever and whenever he got a minute to himself. Up until that moment in his life, he had ejaculated in different holes of different people just for the fuck of it.

But not once, never once, was he riddled with the venom of jealousy when the clarity hit. 

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth, throwing an arm over his forehead. If it weren’t for a certain waste of oxygen, his reality would be a lot different. That jerkoff was the only thing standing in the way of your love, but it was at least not an un-get-rid-of-able nuisance. The chink in the armor of lowlifes like your husband was always the same. 

But Chris wasn’t about to just sit around and wait for the happy ending credits to roll.

As the sole possessor of the newly-found kryptonite between your legs, he had every intention to abuse it until he turned you into a fiend. Until you were numb to the feeling. Until you begged him to stop. You know what, maybe not. Maybe he would conveniently forget how to stop; he hadn’t decided yet. He was too busy obsessing over finding excuses to taste you again. 

As much as you were obsessing over getting him hungry enough to jump you on sight.

You weren’t even doing it willingly anymore—every second your mind was idle, Chris was popping into your head to star in extremely X-rated scenarios. At the gym. By the sea. In a fucking alley. Naked, sweaty, panting down your neck, moaning into your ear, addicted to your taste. It was impossible to stop these red-hot visions once they started playing, and OF COURSE a certain somebody would notice the way you were wriggling in your place for no reason at all, fanning yourself in a room that was 12 degrees Celsius.

The hearts in his eyes were so comically large that it was an enigma how Chris still had 20/20 vision. Well, complete tunnel vision on you, but still…

Of course he would get cocky when his girl enjoyed the view this much. Of course he would put his body more on display for you every chance he got. Of course he would let you admire his figure when he carried huge supply boxes on delivery days, fixed stuff around the office, or walked around topless when “the room got too hot” at 12 degrees Celsius.

The jury was still out on whether that last one was premium quality porn or pure fucking torture.

Listen, it was for your viewing pleasure, okay? You didn’t need to know how he produced his live show for you. So what if he was occasionally messing with the thermostat? He just needed an excuse to shed a few layers, and that was it. It was never his intention to get you to do things—he loved you too much to disrespect your modesty with cheap, underhanded means. 

But the days you took off your lab coat were lucky ones. Who wouldn’t enjoy the accidental curly fries, right?

That afternoon, at the fifth minute of watching you press your legs together like you were itching, Chris finally pierced the thick silence encapsulating the room.

“You okay?”

You turned to him, staring daggers as if he said something egregiously offensive, because as far as you were concerned, he had.

Okay? OKAY?!

No, you weren’t okay—you were wet. Soaking wet. Fucking dripping, so much so that you had to change your underwear twice a day lately, HOW was that even possible? You had never felt anything like this for anyone, and it was getting embarrassing that your body was reacting to Chris as if it had just gone through spring awakening. 

“Yes. Why?” you returned his question as nonchalantly as possible. 

“Nothing,” he responded with an annoying grin. “You just look a bit… antsy.”

Antsy, huh? Antsy.

Yes, I’m fucking antsy. I’m antsy because of you. Do it again. Don’t make me say it, just fucking do it again. Put me on this desk again. Kneel between my legs again. Put my pussy in your mouth. Kiss my clit. Lick it good. Suck on it until you make me seize. I’m gonna DIE if I can’t find out what it feels like to cum in your mouth!!!

You kept your silence, but you might as well have yelled all of it at Chris’ face. Your pupils were blown so wide that if anyone saw you right now, they would think you were high out of your ass, which… well, wouldn’t be entirely false considering you stared at Chris the whole day. The intense heat you were exuding was as scorching as a desert afternoon during peak summer. The sighs you were heaving were becoming sharper, taking a turn from yearning for something to homicidally irritated. 

But his absolute favorite sign telling him that you were writhing in frustration, merely a light breeze away from falling apart in his hands, was your scent. 

It had sweetened again, just like it did every time you got wet, inducing this weird urge in him to drizzle you on a stack of pancakes. Or a pile of waffles. Or his throbbing cock, whichever tickled your fancy.

Chris knew you wanted him, so desperately that he could mold you into any shape he wanted right now should he so wished. He loved you too much, but he could smell it in the air that you wanted him to disrespect your modesty using cheap, underhanded means or otherwise. The bottom line was, you wanted him. 

Almost as desperately as he wanted you.

“Tsk, but you’re working too hard,” he swiveled his chair towards you and pulled yours closer to him. “If something happens to you, who’s gonna take care of us?”

ME. He meant, Who’s gonna take care of ME? Who’s gonna kiss ME? Who’s gonna love ME?

Out of nowhere, he gently reached for your bare legs and rested them on his lap under your curious gaze. He wasn’t necessarily doing anything obscene, just undoing the straps of your shoes with unrushed movements, but it somehow felt full-on pornographic when he was doing it. 

“Just look how tense you are,” he pressed his thumbs on the soles of your bare feet, drawing firm circles on your pressure points.

It could very well be because he knew human anatomy, or because he practiced wizardry, but in any case, the neural wiring of those points seemed to be faulty. Chris was doing one hell of a job massaging you, but instead of relaxing, you were getting tenser. The tension was draining from your feet, but it was pooling between your legs instead.

You were imagining each one of those circles on your clit, masterfully performed by his tongue because how could you fucking not?

“Oh, wow, you’re… You’re really good at this,” you tried your hardest to keep your cool and not completely melt into your chair, then jokingly asked. “How much do you charge for weekly appointments?”

First of all, rude.

Weekly? He was offering you comatose pampering all day everyday, and you only wanted it weekly? 

Were you allergic to pleasure, by any chance?

“For you, free of charge. Obviously,” he replied rather seriously. “I wanna do things for you, not to you. You don’t owe me anything in return.”

The kick in your chest was so hard that he must have heard it. As the burning sensation on your cheeks was intensifying, the tingles between your legs were multiplying. How could they not? Nobody had ever asked for nothing from you in return. 

Nobody but Chris.

“I just want to…” he heaved a deep, deep sigh with a straight face, “make you feel good.” 

That was a lie.

Well, not entirely. Of course he wanted to make you feel good, but that wasn’t just what he wanted. At that moment, he didn’t want to fuck you, either. He didn’t want to have sex with you. He didn’t want to make love to you. 

He wanted to crawl into your ribcage, hug your heart to sleep, and give you the most brutal orgasm of your life just with a kiss on it. He wanted you to want him. He wanted you to crave him. He wanted you to get anxious when you couldn’t touch him. He wanted to worship you till the end of his days.

He lifted his head up and locked eyes with you, and all of a sudden, something shifted. Seeing you watch him with bated breath like that, awaiting his every move, thickly swallowing, lips parted… Chris lost all control of the steering wheel of his willpower, and something within him violently snapped.

Remember the thing you’d been goading him into with your black nail polish, the cute dresses, the silver jewelry, and the fucking stilettos? 

That.

Forty hours. You owed him forty hours. And in his universe, one second passed in a hundred years.

Time turned viscous all of a sudden.

Stilettos on the floor, bare legs on his lap, tense feet in his hands, his eyes locked with yours… You were too scared to breathe. You were too scared to blink, but not because of some imminent danger. You were scared the slightest flinch would make Chris come to his senses, and he’d back off. 

And you couldn’t have that. 

You had been waiting too long for this. You had been working too hard for this, and if this moment didn’t go the way you had pictured it to be, you were going to make it go that way because even a woman of your poise had her fucking limits.

Look into my eyes. Hear what they are saying to you. Come closer. Kiss me again. Touch me again. Feel me again, but feel me like a starved man.

Guilt? What guilt?

Chris was too scared to move, just staring at you with his breathing slowed way down. He knew that there was no turning back from this. The second he moved, he was going to be at the mercy of his suffocating longing for you, which was no mercy at all. It had been looking for the tiniest crack to infiltrate his mind and declare a coup. This was it. This was that moment. 

The only thing that could stop his sanity from capsizing would be your explicit command to back off, and if you didn’t give that order right fucking now… If you didn’t give that… If you…

Five seconds, you weren’t giving it. 

Ten seconds, you weren’t giving it. 

The ship was sinking fast, and you were just watching it!

On the thirtieth second, Chris Bang from Crown Street no longer held the reins of his free will. He closed his eyes and embraced the fact that his fate was to drown in the waters of you. 

What an honorable way to die…

He meant every word when he said he wanted to be the floor you walked on. Because then you would have to feel him at all times. Because then he could kiss each of your steps to thank you for gracing him with your touch.

And he was finally going to know what that would feel like.

He turned his gaze to your foot in his hands, his face expressionless, and slowly brought it to his lips. His eyes fluttered close like he was going under as he placed feather-like kisses on each of your toes, extremely softly like he was trying not to spook a gazelle. The kisses alone were more than enough to quicken your pulse, but when he wrapped his lips around your toes and started sucking on them…

“Fucking flawless…” he uttered barely above a whisper.

Your gasp came out stuttered. Your breathing got a lot heavier. You couldn’t help how your eyes rolled back feeling his tongue on your skin again, and something was poking your other foot resting so close to Chris’ crotch. 

The gentle sucks turned into wet kisses on your ankles. Then up your legs. He was gradually making his way to his preferred deathbed that was your thighs, but you still weren’t stopping him.

From this moment on, the arrow was out of the bow, and he was not going to accept any responsibility for the things he was about to do to you.

“I know you want it, and you know that I know,” he pulled your chair even closer towards himself. “Why are you playing games with me, angel?”

Your entire body was covered in goosebumps. A name. A bespoke name for you. A loving one. Something nobody had ever given you before.

Nobody but Chris.

“Do you really want to hear it? Is that what this is?” he asked, his eyes half-closed like he was drunk as he spoke into your lips. “Is this why you are dragging me through your hell, angel?”

You had long lost the ability to talk. You were just staring at him, loving the way he was quietly spiraling, but he still wasn’t touching you. His hands hovered over your skin, your lips, your cheeks, your arms… They eventually landed on your knees like two autumn leaves barely alive, almost weightless. His breath hitched in his throat when he started sliding them up your thighs, the sheer feeling of your soft, warm skin driving him to the absolute limit of his insanity. 

The way he was struggling to keep his greed on a leash was like watching a wolf go into heat in a glass cage.

He silently got on his knees before you, then looked up. The anticipation that dripped from your eyes, your lips slightly parted, your body all tensed up begging for its release, inviting him, enticing him to come be one with you… His gaze never once leaving yours, he licked his lips, hooked a finger behind your underwear, and started dragging it down. Unrushed. Languid. But terrifyingly dangerous.

Like a mute starved man.

“Just let me fucking die between your legs,” was the last thing you heard before Chris buried his head into your cunt, sending your soul booking it towards the emergency exit out of your body. 

FUCK, your taste… 

Just one drop of you dissolving on his tongue, and he was already losing it. So intense. So sweet. So juicy. So so so fucking juicy… You reminded him of the fresh peaches of his hometown that he missed so much. You reminded him of the pure sandy beaches where he could make love to you all night.

You reminded him of a possibility where he could spend the rest of his life with you.

His tongue still hard at work, he freed his rock hard cock from its tight confines and let it hang to leak, never once touching it. Then he wrapped his arms tighter around your thighs to lock you in place, licking you deeper and deeper and deeper.

What better music to his ears than the moans of the woman he’d die for in a heartbeat?

Oh, how he wanted this to be real. Waking up next to you every morning. Having breakfast in bed. Breakfast under the kitchen table. Breakfast in your car while you’re driving. Oh, he’d be the happiest man. And he’d make you the happiest woman. At the very least, a very fucked out one. 

But you’d always smile at him the same nevertheless.

“Put your leg on the desk. There you go,” he instructed you in between his obscenely loud slurps. “Now watch me.”

“Faster. Faster!” you urged him, terrified you’d get interrupted again, then held his face in place to ride his mouth as fast as you could. “Yes. Ooh, yes, don’t stop. Don’t— YES, like that. Keep doing that. That. Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t stop! CHRIS!!!”

Chris. You called him Chris.

And as he made your toes curl hard to the point of spasm, Chris came untouched to the taste of the woman he’d die for in a heartbeat.

You knew a thing or two about addiction, and this was exactly how it started forming. Intense pleasure, explosive release, leaving a dense fog of satiation and euphoria in its wake. Every morning, the first thing Chris did as soon as he saw you was have a second breakfast, and his portions were getting bigger every day. 

Of course it would go from compulsion to a survival need lightning fast. 

“God, I love these cute dresses you wear for me,” he mumbled in the middle of munching.

“Sh–Shut up!”

“Make me,” he smiled, licking a long stripe from your entrance to your clit. “Put something in my mouth so I can’t talk.”

No lie there—they were for him. He just loved embarrassing you with it for the severe cuteness aggression, watching you try to defend yourself in that state, eyes out of focus, slightly drooling, unable to form one coherent sentence. It somehow made you taste even sweeter to him.

But strangely enough, that was all he would do.

He couldn’t even bring himself to finger you, let alone fuck you, as if you were an untouched virgin. He didn’t feel deserving. Not yet. Maybe that was why he kept overdoing it with the eating because he had to get his fill so his dick wouldn’t get any ideas. 

Like… really overdoing it.

He tested his limits and pushed it as far as he could, and you didn’t even notice it. First, it was three times a week. Then it became every day. Then twice a day. And now he wanted your pussy in his mouth almost by the hour like he was fiending for heroin. Not even asking for it, just crawling between your legs and helping himself like this was his own house. 

Because it was. You tasted like cinnamon cookies to him. You smelled like home. 

It comforted him so much.

“One more. Just one more. For me.”

“M–My dress… Gonna… Gonna stain…”

“Shh, I’ll lick that clean, too.”

“I can’t concentrate!”

“Of course you can, baby. Just ignore me.” 

But he didn’t want you to ignore him, no. That wasn’t even the last thing he wanted. Your attention had to be on him at all times. All of it. All of it. Whenever you calmed down, he would lick you deeper, suck you harder, moan a bit louder so you would be reminded of his presence again. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna…”

“...cum again,” he whispered into your cunt, lovingly kissing all over your soaked folds. “Cum for me, baby. Cum for your man.”

At one point, he wondered if he should just keep eating until you passed out. You were working so hard; you would at least be forced to rest for a little while. He could make the most comfortable bed for you on the gurney, and you would sleep like a baby in his arms. And if you gave him permission to slide inside you when you were asleep, he would even meet you in your dreams. Maybe you’d see him in your dreams. Maybe you would say yes to him in your dreams, and he would whisk you away to your dream honeymoon the second you said “I do,” so he wouldn’t waste a single second he could spend loving you. He would build you an entire life in that honeymoon suite if you wanted so that you could have it forever. Amazing, wasn’t it? Your “honeymoon phase” would never ever end. 

On second thought, though, that was for mortal randos. When two people had as strong of a bond as you had, no one would need honeymoon phases and whatnot. That would be an insult. That would be a fucking blasphemy because you and Chris were forever. 

Further than forever. 

Fucking timeless.

Nevertheless, even a man living and breathing for his woman was only a man. One day, the inevitable finally started rearing its ugly head.

Of course he was content with only being your pleasure plug, but he just couldn’t control the pain, and it was worsening. The thought of you wrapped around his cock kept popping into his head at the most inconvenient times. God, he just knew you felt like heaven inside. Dripping for him, calling out to him, desperate to hug him tight and never let go. He kept wondering if that would be the right moment to ask you for your hand in his. Would you say yes? Maybe he could time it so you had no choice but to say yes. Right in the prelude of yet another earthshattering climax, he would ask you to marry him, and involuntarily or not, you would say yes. That was all he needed anyway. A yes from you. A yes to bind you to himself forever. A yes to let him devote himself to you. To serve you. To love you. To be your gladiator and crush everything that stood in the way of his having his Roman Empire, FUCK!

He was losing control, and he fucking hated himself for this, but he was only a man. He was sick of being only a man. He wanted to be your man.

And if Chris Bang from Crown Street was known for one thing, it was his knack for diabolical scheming.

“Thank you so much for helping me with this. I swear it was right there just yesterday!”

Creativity is a must if you are to survive prison. Intimidation only gets you so far. 

Every other Thursday, you spent the night at the infirmary for on-call duty, and somebody was of course aware of that. But this chip was not to be cashed in so recklessly. What chip, it was the fucking golden ticket, and Chris had to pick the day to visit the chocolate factory just right. He only had one shot at this. So he waited. 

And he waited. 

Then he waited some more. 

He waited until a Wednesday to hide your precious report for the warden six feet under your computer, just two days before it was due. Diabolical, yes, but don’t you think devilish charms are a little sexy?

Per his estimations, the freakout was going to kick in on Thursday morning, and that was when he’d gladly be your rock—calm you down and selflessly volunteer to retrieve all your hard work. If worse came to worst, he could just pull an all-nighter with you to recreate the entire thing from scratch, no worries.

He didn’t enjoy your hyperventilating, panicked state one bit, okay? Honest. But he had to make you think you had lost the file for good. Can you imagine how it would look otherwise? He’d rather die than have you think he was forcing his way into spending the night with you. He would never force you into anything. 

But he could sweetly persuade you. So sweetly that you would fall in love with him all over again.

The production value was just the attention whore showman in Chris itching to be put in the game after months of forced retirement. Wasn’t it so romantic, though? You and him, on lockdown in the infirmary because of the blackout that came out of nowhere, no patrol guards to disturb you, a few aromatherapy candles as your only source of illumination. He just needed a few more minutes of pretending to finish the work before the laptop’s battery completely died, then he could focus all his attention on your cute little first date. 

Did you like the candles? He had them specially brought in for you, you know. 

“Tsch, please,” Chris spoke while typing lightning fast. “It’s my job to help you.”

You smiled, being reminded of the moment you told him something with this exact gist. To think that he would remember such a minuscule detail… Nobody was ever good at remembering stuff about you. 

Nobody but Chris.

“It’s like you had a premonition that a blackout was going to happen,” you looked at him in awe. “The candles couldn’t have come at a better time.”

“I wish. Then I would have brought a generator with me instead,” Chris chuckled. “Sorry we’re already wasting them; these were supposed to be lit by your bedside. I’ll ask my sister to bring new ones from the next batch she makes.”

“For what it’s worth, I am relaxed,” you took a long whiff from the pleasant scent. “Please say thank you to her for me.”

Worry not, you were going to be something else very very soon. 

It was a gamble to bring these “magic” candles here to a confined space, but Chris didn’t have the patience to wait until he could light them up on your nightstand before making love to you all night. He was dying to see what you were like with all your filters disarmed, purely yourself, zero inhibition, blurting out all your secret thoughts to him exactly as they popped into your mind no matter how obscene. It obviously meant he could hear things he’d SO rather not, but it also might never happen. Even if it happened, you would help him forget with kisses all over his face anyway, right? But all over his face. Cheeks, lips, forehead, nose, eyelids, the whole spiel.

The payoff was so much superior to the risk that it would be stupid not to take it. Stress was good. Stress was nice. The tighter you wound the coil, the harder it snapped, no?

“Though I have to say, I’m a firm believer of positive reinforcement,” he knowingly smirked. “You should reward me for a job well done.”

“Will you stop?” you landed a light punch on his shoulder.

“No, I won’t,” he turned the computer off after his final Ctrl+S and looked up at you sitting on your desk. “I’ve missed dinner for this, and now we’re locked in here. You gotta make it up to me.”

He slowly scooted the rolling chair closer to you, then he rose to his feet to be on eye level with you, tucking your hair behind your ears. Your eyes closed on cue. It was like a learned reflex at this point—whenever Chris leaned in, you braced yourself for the impact on your lips. Soft. Wet. Crawling with desire mixed with spoonfuls of longing.

But this time around, something was… odd.

His kisses were the softest they’d ever been, yet it was inducing something rabid inside you. You had this urge to crush all these walls into dust all of a sudden. You were convinced you could open that dungeon gate of an iron door with your bare hands.

“I’m… I’m gonna ask you something,” you suddenly stopped him. “But um… I don’t know… like… like how to…”

You looked distressed, breathing slightly heavier, like you were nervous about something. Your fever was spiking, and your eyes were slightly out of focus.

Nice. The candles had started to kick in.

This right there was his reward for a job well done, and he was going to enjoy the shit out of this moment.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to weigh your words with me,” he smiled at you so wholesomely that you almost disintegrated into your atoms when you saw those dimples. “Just say it.”

“Why won’t you fuck me?”

SHOOT HIM RIGHT BETWEEN HIS EYES, WHY DON’T YOU?!

Goddamn, even he wasn’t expecting that much directness from the get-go. Your voice almost came out as a whine like you were begging him to do it rather than asking a question, and Chris might have gotten a bit weak in the knees.

“B–Because… you never asked me to,” he answered, slightly stuttering with how off-guard he was caught.

“You’re lying,” you furrowed your brows. “That’s not the reason.”

“What other reason could there possibly be?” he asked, legitimately aghast.

“You don’t find me hot enough.”

“Enough?” he raised his voice even more.

“And your compulsive eating habits have nothing to do with me either, does it?” you derided with a disappointed huff. “I’m the only woman you see around here, and you’re just killing time.”

“Baby, I invented contraband. You think I can’t smuggle an entire brothel in here if pussy was all I wanted?” he started laughing. 

Your mouth opened and closed, but all that came out was air. Meanwhile, Chris was aggressively endeared, VERY highkey enjoying your small-scale tantrum. He wrapped his arms tighter around your waist and pulled you closer, speaking right into your lips.

“That delicious curve of your waist, this spot on your neck, your little habit of licking your lips, the way you crease your brows when you’re focused, the way you smile at me when you say good morning, the way you close your eyes when you moan my name, the way you hold my face and look at me with begging eyes when you’re about to cum…”

“W–What are you talking about?” you asked, super flustered.

“Things about you that make my cock twitch,” he declared.

Without taking his eyes off of you, he held your hand and curled your fingers around his girth. You let out a tiny gasp when you realized just how painfully hard he was.

“Feel this? This has everything to do with you. I can’t fucking remember what it feels like to stay soft anymore. I’m like this every minute of every day because of you. Fuck ‘enough’, it has to be illegal to be this hot. You should be locked up in here with me,” he grunted in a single breath through his teeth. “Of course I don’t find you hot enough. I find you so concerningly hot that it takes insane amounts of effort to behave myself around you, otherwise I swear to fucking god, I’m gonna fucking jump you one of these days.”

He closed his eyes and took a very deep breath to calm himself, then continued with a much saner voice.

“I never attempted anything because…” he trailed off, “I thought you didn’t find me hot enough.”

“WHAT?”

“It’s okay!” he reassured you with a smile. “I’m content even if you’ll just let me ho—”

There was probably someone hiding in the room, because Chris was sure he had just been struck on the back of his head with a blunt object. Otherwise why would he suddenly feel concussed?

Unless he hadn’t blacked out, and you had actually unleashed yourself on him. 

This was by far the hardest you’d ever kissed him, so heated, extremely wet, biting into the flesh of those full lips. You jumped him. You literally jumped him, and you were now harshly dragging him towards the bed at the back of the office, discarding layers and layers of clothing along the way like a basilisk shedding centuries’ worth of skin to rebirth itself. Lab coat off, your blouse off, his tank top off, your shoes off, his pants off…

Off.

Off.

OFF!!!

“If I don’t find you hot enough…” you licked a stripe on his neck.

“Oh…”

“If I’m not about to go crazy if I don’t feel your cock inside me…”

“Ohh, baby…” 

You held his hand and placed it between your legs, slick coating all over his fingers. 

“Then what the hell is this, huh?”

“Fuck, I–I don’t know!” he whined. “Maybe you love making me miserable.”

“I’m driving you up a wall to make you miserable,” you scoffed with a lopsided smile. “Not to get you to jump me, or anything.”

Chris looked at you with wonder in his eyes, completely awestruck, like he was directly looking at the angel responsible for processing his most heartfelt prayer.

“Y–You want me to?” he asked through his labored breathing. “Really?”

“Fucking jump me, Chris.” 

Chris. You called him Chris.

So it was true. Under your layers of grace indeed lay a nasty little freak that came out only for him. You didn’t want him to make love to you. At least not right this second. You were down to ‘fuck’.

It was as if a switch had turned on inside his head.

“Why don’t you get down there and let me feel those lips around my cock for once, baby?” he held your chin, pulling you into a soft kiss.

And it was as if you no longer had something called free will.

His wish was your command.

As Chris watched you kiss your way down, he bit into his smile, arms tucked under his nape, aroused out of his damn mind but also strangely moved. Even this right there was proof to him that you were so meant to be. You were slithering down his body like the most enticing snake, and he was your charmer, the only man ever to lure you out of that dark basket you were abandoned in. All he needed to do was to blow the right whistle, and you came into the light again, albeit ominously hissing. Ready to strike. Ready to bite. He hoped you would curl around his throat and choke the shit out of him so he could die in your hands.

Chris couldn’t have asked for a better consummation night than falling victim to your venom.

He kept flinching in his place as you placed wet kisses all over his crotch, his thighs, his balls, relishing the way you were teasing him. He was lovingly stroking your hair as if he wasn’t looking right at his demise, and when you finally took him inside your mouth…

“Ooofff, baby…” he squeezed his eyes close, slightly arching his back. “Fuck, you know my body so… well… GOD!”

It was never not going to make you shiver every time he called you baby, but knowing his body? 

Oh, this man was out to kill you.

“God, yes. YES, like tha— h–hhaa that’s deep!”

You know what, maybe so were you.

You fucking loved how he was responding to you, losing his whole damn mind right before your eyes. Nobody had ever reacted to you like this before.

Nobody but Chris.

You never thought blowing someone could be such a pleasurable experience for you, but turns out you needed the right man for the job. The way he hissed with every bob of your head just made you want to take him deeper, hold him a little tighter, make out with his balls until you entirely soaked him with you. And while Chris was dying in your mouth, an overwhelming sense of pride started taking over him. 

Nasty little freak. But only for me.

“DON’T! Don’t make me cum,” he suddenly stopped you. “Come up. Come here.”

He drowned your face in kisses, loving the way his precum tasted on your lips, and lay you down on your back. You weren’t thinking straight. The only thing you knew was that whatever he would ask right now, you would do, and even if you did it for five hours straight, it wouldn’t be enough to sate your hunger. Feeling him seemed to have the opposite effect—the more you tasted him, the more you wanted him. The more you craved him.

The more you wanted to own him.

You wanted Chris so carnally that you were scared you were about to transform into a full-fledged black widow.

“I’m gonna show you a magic trick, but need you wet as shit for this,” he descended between your legs, kissing everything he ran into on the way. “Close your eyes. I’m gonna paint you a picture.” 

You did as he said, and Chris prepared his canvas with his kisses, easel with his licks, and palette with his gentle sucks. Once he was finished with his sketching that put you in a comatose state, he sat down on the stool and hit the first stroke with the boldest color he had in his arsenal. 

“Nighttime,” he quietly began. “It’s our first date.”

Even the hypothetical thought made you throb so hard it squeezed a soft chuckle out of him.

“Mm, where did you take me?” you reached for his head to caress him, melting on his tongue.

“We’re at my place.”

How strange. Chris did have a life outside, but it had never occurred to you until that moment. You didn’t even know where to start if you wanted to picture it. 

Who knows, maybe he was aware, and that was exactly why he was doing this.

“Where do you live?” you asked. 

“Easton Park.”

“Fancy,” you giggled, thinking of all the high-rise buildings in that area.

“No, fancy would be the penthouse.”

“Which floor are you on?”

“The penthouse.”

Your soft laughter was like rolls of velvet in his ears, tickling him in just the right places. The blurry picture behind your eyelids started taking a clearer, more concrete form with each detail he drew with different brushes, some narrow, some wide, some thinner than a string of hair.

Not gonna lie, though, a penthouse did scream Chris.

“First, I make you amazing food,” he prodded your entrance with a finger, pushing it just a single knuckle deep. “We have a really nice dinner. Killer wine. Great view.”

“A chef, too, huh?” you sighed dreamily. “Hot.”

“And I’m the best. Getting wet yet?”

The quiet laughter you shared in between felt even better than his kisses. You were getting warmer, but it had more to do with a swelling feeling in your chest than arousal.

“We get a little tipsy,” he licked into your hole. “Then I take you to the roof.”

“What’s on the roof?”

“I have a heated infinity pool. It’s really pretty with the neon purple lights I installed in it,” he smugly bragged. “You’re all naked, sitting at the edge. Your legs are in the water. You look so relaxed already.” He placed three kisses on your clit back to back, “I dive from the other side and swim my way to you. Then I spread your legs apart. Slick everywhere.”

“Fuck…” you breathily moaned.

You felt very small licks on your folds, nowhere near enough to even feel friction, but you knew you were ruining the sheets under you. You could no longer tell where his spit stopped and your slick began. It was a complete mess down there, and if Chris could ask for a last meal, it would be exactly this.

“Then it’s time for dessert,” he wrapped his arms around your thighs, “but only for me.” 

“Oh, fuck… FUCK!”

This wasn’t anything new. Chris had been sliding between your legs for a while now, and frankly a bit too frequently, but for some reason, it had never felt this intense. You felt each lick in your bones, and your clit was so swollen that you could tell you were just a few flicks away from detonation.

“Ah, Chris…” 

The happy humming stopped so abruptly that you opened your eyes. You watched Chris crawl up, chin thoroughly drenched with your arousal, and settle between your legs. He lifted them up and pushed them as far back as he could, drooling at the sight of your glossy cunt.

“And that’s just the beginning,” he smiled as if he was uttering the wholesomest thing while pressing his leaking tip against your sodden entrance. “There won’t be a single surface in my house you haven’t been fucked on!”

“GOD!”

The impact was crushing, and neither of you could process this moment as your reality. You felt so full. Chris felt consumed. You were so wet that he easily descended into depths that no one had ever reached, and soon enough, he was pressing somewhere that made an unfamiliar pressure build inside you.

“W–What is this?!” you widened your eyes.

This? Couldn’t you tell from the mating press? 

This was where he was gonna cum. Where he was gonna breed you. Where he was gonna be yours forever. Hold it. Hold it in. Be a good girl, and hold it in for your man, yeah? Sure, there was always a risk of you taking a Plan B, but there was no fucking Plan B, only Plan A, and that was you as the mother of all his future children.

Oh god, he could die right now. 

“Chris, please!”

“How the fuck am I gonna say no to this face, huh?” he grunted, squeezing your face with a single hand. “How am I gonna say no to this voice?!”

“God, have me,” you held onto him tighter, eyes barely open. “All of me. It’s yours.”

He started hitting even deeper at a much faster pace, and the pressure on your bladder intensified tenfold. If he kept going like this, you were… you were actually…

And before you could think of a way to block that looming embarrassment, you were squirting all over his dick. You came so hard, your legs shaking like you were having a seizure, clawing at his shoulders, and Chris changed dimensions with you in his arms. 

One hell of a fucking magic trick…

“I’m sorry,” he pressed his forehead against yours, panting heavily. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t help it. I’ll do better. Just, please, don’t hate me. Please.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” you giggled and placed a kiss on his damp forehead. “That’s what the pill is for. Never really been a fan of condoms myself.”

He intertwined his fingers with yours and placed a kiss on your hand, then collapsed next to you, lovingly caressing your face. As your breathing returned to normal, a cozy silence cradled you both. The room was drowned in darkness; you couldn’t see anything except for what the candles illuminated, and they illuminated only the most important things. You and Chris. At this very moment, you didn’t feel like you were in a prison. 

It felt like you were in bed with the love of your life. 

“You came pretty fucking hard,” he proudly grinned at you. “I reckon I did a good job this time?”

“This time?” you smiled through your creased brows. “You’ve done what you’ve always done.”

“How come I’ve never seen you seize like that before then?”

“Because for the first time in my life, I came with the man I’m in love with.”

Chris’ endearment levels were fucking nuclear. He was so overcome with emotion that he was about to cry. He held you tighter in his arms and pulled you into a kiss, and you kissed him like you had only been with one man your whole life.

And he tasted like nothing but freedom.

When the first lights of the daybreak came knocking on the barred windows, the candles had melted away completely, and you had spent each other to depletion just like those candles the whole night. You hadn’t slept a wink, but you weren’t tired. In fact, you had never felt this alive. When the lockdown ended, you were sent home to rest, and Chris was sent to his wing, excused for the day from his work detail. There was an unerasable smile on your face when you got into your car. You decided to stop by your favorite diner on the way home to get some breakfast and look up divorce lawyers.

After reluctantly saying goodbye to you, Chris went to have a stale breakfast as a changed man. It had never tasted this delicious to him before, and he just couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot. Once he finished eating, he made his way to the library, whistling a cheery tune to himself. Nobody ever came in here, which made it the perfect stash storage. He removed the ventilation grates behind the third bookshelf, took out a certain cellphone he had stolen from O’Connell long ago, and placed a call.

“Hey, Liv, it’s me.”

“Fang?!”

“I don’t have much time,” Chris checked the door to see if anyone was nearby and lowered his voice. “I have a job for you.”

“Anything for the Crown. What kind of a job?”

“Your usual, but for really wholesome reasons this time,” he smiled to himself brightly. “I need an obstacle removed so I can be with the mother of my child.”

“Aww, congrats, man! You’re finally gonna be a father?”

“We started trying,” he sheepishly scratched his nape. “So? Are you my girl?”

“You bet your ass, I am. Send me the guy’s info, we’ll make death do them part,” Liv responded, “but I call dibs on being the maid of honor at the wedding.”

“You got it. I also have a side quest, but you will do this no questions asked. Deal?”

“What is it?

“At an address I’ll give you, I need you to look for some medication and swap the contents with condensed flour. Make sure the shape, the weight, the packaging, everything is exactly the same,” Chris explained as fast as he could. “It’s a delicate job, but I’ll generously pay you if it’s well done, no worries.”

“Odd as fuck choice even by your standards, but I don’t judge,” Liv tsked on the other end. “What am I gonna look for?”

“Birth control pills,” Chris answered, scarily expressionless.

“Jakey Jakey~” Inmate 8MS3HF92 spoke into the receiver in a singsongy voice, greeting his guest behind the plexiglass. “Are you behaving?”

When Chris was asked to provide a visitors list on his very first day at this prison, he refused to submit one. Not because he didn’t have anybody that cared for him; he was the one strictly instructing his crew to not even think about visiting him. He was doing just fine white-knuckling it through his sentence, and the awkward attempts of comfort were only going to make him feel pitied. Besides, if anyone from Crown Street walked in here, there was no guarantee that they could ever walk out. 

But special circumstances required some exceptions. 

“Are you?” Jake grinned, seemingly delighted by something. “I heard something through the grapevine, and the entire Crown is shook.”

“No, we’re not switching to sex trafficking,” Chris responded flatly. 

“Quit joking, mate. Is it true you’re getting married?”

A smile emerged on Chris’ lips in slow motion. Hearing it out loud from a third party made it all the more real, and he could not control the butterfly invasion in his stomach.

“Yeah,” he confirmed, uncharacteristically abashed, eyes turning into hearts with each word he uttered, “and I kinda need you to be my best man.”

“BANG ON!”

“Visitors, keep it down,” the guard firmly warned.

“Geez, fine,” Jake mumbled to himself as he side-eyed the guard. “Good news is fucking contraband here apparently.”

“Obviously the spot comes with a few responsibilities,” Chris continued. “You up for it?”

“Name it, brother,” Jake replied with zero hesitation. “If I have to get blood on my tux, you’re paying for the dry cleaning, though.”

“Might just have to, but I’m willing to go as low as cum,” Chris disclosed his starting bid. “I’m gonna need you to fuck Regina.”

Jake’s face immediately fell. If anyone saw how aghast he was, they’d think he was asked to shoot his own brother or something.

“Bro…”

“You said ‘anything’, didn’t you? Bitch needs to get off my dick,” Chris spoke, eyes and voice equally dead. “It’s either that or the grisly alternative, and I’d rather not turn my honeymoon budget into a dry cleaning trust fund.”

“Ask me to change the sky to green and it’s still more doable, but that one,” Jake made a rotating motion right by his temple with his finger, “is not.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, man. You got rizz for days,” Chris flashed a sleazy smile.

“I know, motherfucker, it’s not that,” Jake scowled. “Did you know she took a VERY public chastity pledge that only expires when you get out? She draws a knife at anyone who even just says hi to her.”

“The choice is yours, Jakey. You either become a daredevil and seduce her, or send me the dry cleaning bill,” Chris’ eyelids drooped with sheer disinterest in these banal details. “I thought it was obvious, but you kinda fucking owe me.”

Right at that moment, his eyes landed on something behind Jake in the distance—the woman clad in a white coat receiving some documents from a guard. When you locked eyes, Chris smiled so fondly, turning into a shy schoolboy with rosy cheeks. All that was missing from the scene was him actively kicking his feet.

“That’s the sister-in-law?” Jake followed Chris’ line of sight, spotting the target of his silent affection.

“Beautiful, my angel, isn’t she?” Chris longingly sighed as he watched you leave the visiting area. As soon as the door closed in the distance, however, he switched back to his demon mode in the blink of an eye. “Which is why you will take care of this. I got a fucking wedding to plan here.”

“Does Noah know about this?”

“He doesn’t need to know the fine print.”

“Fang,” Jake spoke a little more sternly, his sharp gaze popping the heart balloons manifesting over Chris’ head. “The land is on the horizon, man. Don’t fuck this up.”

“How do I put this?” Chris idly tapped his nails on the plexiglass, seemingly pensive. “You know you’re no different than a brother to me, right? I’ll do anything for you.”

“So will I.”

“Try and stand between me and the love of my life, and I won’t even blink when I kill you, Jake. I’m not fucking around with this,” he declared, scarily calm, then quickly rose to his feet to report for duty for the day. “So do what I say, and bring me the good news, yeah? I don’t care which way you do it, just get it done.”

With one more thing checked off his wedding planning to-do list, Chris was in the highest of spirits, whistling the tune to ‘All I Do is Win’ to himself as he made his way to the infirmary. What a great day. Fuck great, it was a spectacular day. And on top of that, he could finally breathe the same air as you again after a looooooong time. 

Well, 72 hours to be exact, but still…

“You’ve been gone forever,” he hugged you from behind, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going to take a few days off?”

“Well, excuse me for not informing you of every damn step I take, Your Majesty, fucking CHRIST!” you spat, frantically going through some documents.

You had never snapped at him like this over anything, so of course uneasiness would sprout in the pit of his stomach. Were you stressed about work? Did the warden give you an impossible task again? You would tell him if you were upset with him, right? Right?

Right?!

“Don’t be mad. I was just so lonely without you,” he nuzzled against your neck, slowly turning you around towards himself. “I barely last a night when you’re gone for the day. I miss you too much.”

Maybe part of Chris’ morning routine was injecting passiflora into his lips because his soft kisses immediately started raining on the clamorous irritation parade inside you. He held you close, running his hands on your back as if to comfort you, and when you opened your eyes again, you felt significantly better.

Witchcraft.

“I’m sorry, I’m…” you averted your eyes, embarrassed to realize that your outburst might have been a little excessive. “I just had to take a sick leave. Nothing important.”

“What? WHY?!” Chris immediately panicked, eyes blown wide with alarm. “W–What is it? Are you okay? Do you feel faint? Do you need—?”

“I’m fine,” you held his face and slowly uttered the words. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Then don’t scare me like that!” 

His knees gave way, and he collapsed onto the rolling chair, heaving a sigh of relief. He pulled you into his lap and hugged you tight, burying his face in your chest. The warm and fuzzy swelling of your heart lasted only a few seconds because when he inhaled a lungful of your scent, it gave you a proper hot flash.

“I was wondering where that sweet scent was coming from. Turns out it was you,” he observed, looking up at you. “New shower gel?”

“Greyhound much?”

“Hmm, honey and…” he sniffed around your chest, “...vanilla, right?” 

“Good job, wolfie,” you chuckled, patting his head.

“Are you trying to entice me by any chance?” he bit into his mischievous smile, hearts bursting out of his eyes.

“That’s a bit presumptuous of you,” you sneered.

“Don’t give me attitude. I told you it’s my favorite scent,” he grinned. “God, it’s mad sexy when it’s on you.”

“Stop it,” you playfully punched his shoulder.

“Mm, you smell like cookies,” he pulled down the bust of your dress just a little. “Huge craving for milk all of a sudden.”

He was melting you with each kiss on your cleavage, each one turning wetter than the last. His bulge was growing bigger under you, making your clit buzz every time it throbbed. He freed your breasts from your bra, salivating at how firm and perky they looked, and closed his mouth on your hardened nipple almost on instinct.

But before he could suck even once…

“NOT—!”

You jumped with a gasp as if you were pricked by a needle. Chris looked up at you with huge eyes, resembling a wolf cub more than ever.

“What’s wrong?”

“Er erhm, I uh…” you cleared your throat. “I’m afraid not today.”

“But why not?” he protested with a loud whine, legitimately sad, and gently cupped your breasts with his thumbs hovering over your nipples. “Was I too harsh wi—?”

You flinched again when he rubbed them. It was barely a brush, but you were reacting like he was overstimulating you to tears.

“Chris, please, today’s really not a good day,” you attempted to climb off his lap.

“Hey, hey, hey. Look at me.”

He hugged your waist tighter, intently examining your face, his brows knit together. He knew something wasn’t right, but he just couldn’t put his finger on it. You seemed… distressed, almost. 

“Not that I don’t enjoy it, but first, you bite my head off, then you’re fidgety as hell. What’s happening to you?” he asked with concern. “Are you on your period or something?” 

When silence followed his question, a smile began to grow on Chris’ lips. His worry was rapidly melting into excess enamorment, and he was seconds away from biting you hard.

“Wait, are you?” he started laughing in earnest, endeared out of his mind.

Your mouth was opening and closing, but for some reason, you couldn’t say anything. Well, yeah, it was a mundane occurrence that repeated periodically, thus the name, but that wasn’t why you didn’t want to say it out loud. Meanwhile, Chris was about to bust out the fireworks because he fucking knew why. It wasn’t because you were in pain, was it?

It was because you were horny!

“Oh, my poor baby, did your cramps get too painful? Is that why you took the days off?” he caressed your face, about to die of cuteness aggression. “Is that why you’re trying to stay away from me?”

“I’m not trying to stay away from you,” you pouted with a frown, getting ticked off again.

“You should have just told me,” he tenderly pecked your lips. “I got your remedy. Don’t you know that?”

“What remedy?”

“You’re the doctor, you tell me,” he knowingly answered. “Aren’t orgasms known to help with period pain?”

“I— That’s— HUH?”

“Am I wrong?” he continued with the results slide of his informal research presentation. “You feel good, your body relaxes, and it swims in so much endorphin that it forgets to communicate pain. I’m basically walking Advil for you.”

“Adv… Advil?”

You couldn’t fucking think straight!

Your entire mind was infested with thoughts of Chris. Only Chris. Those full lips. That flawless skin. The heat exuding from his body. His sweat dripping on your chest. The way he moaned. The way he licked. The way he fucked… You were riddled by this intense urge to tackle him to the ground and ride the shit out of him and…

GOD, YOU WERE SO HORNY!

“You really thought a couple of drops of blood could stop me?” he pulled you closer harshly, eyes darkened to pitch black. “I don’t give a fuck. I’ll eat your pussy all day.”

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR FUCKING MIND?”

“Yeah, but I thought you knew that by now.”

“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”

“Shh, shh, shh… Calm down. Deep breaths. I’m not asking you to kiss me afterwards or anything,” he giggled, extremely entertained by how scandalized you are. “Though you’re so on edge if I so much as kiss your clit right now, you’ll fucking explode.”

“S–Stop saying things like that!”

“And I kinda like it when you’re desperate for me. Gets me fucking horny,” he grazed his teeth on your jawline. “Tell you what, call in sick for the whole week next time, and I’ll take care of you. I’ll be your personal attendant at your beck and call. I’ll kiss your cramps away. I’ll massage every single spot of your body. I’ll make you anything you wanna eat. I’ll feed you with my own hands; you won’t even have to lift a finger. Then I’ll make you cum. I’ll make you cum over and over until you’re spent. You’ll sleep like a baby in my arms.” 

He placed his hand on your bare thigh, loving the extra warmth on your skin, and started sliding it up.

“But when you’re ovulating,” he hissed in delight, “you’re fucking mine.”

“PHONE! The phone is making sounds!” you jumped at the landline, trying to keep him on a leash with a single hand. “H–Hello? Yes, thank you! I’ll be right there.”

“Don’t go,” he whined, clinging to your waist.

“I just need to pick up a package,” you finally managed to peel yourself off of him. “You’ll survive.”

“You don’t know that!”

You burst out laughing as you headed towards the door. Right before you pulled on the handle, however, something suddenly occurred to you, and you turned around.

“Wait, how are you even supposed to take care of me all the way from here?” you narrowed your eyes, residual smile still clinging to your mouth. 

“Who said anything about here?” he pursed his lips.

“W–What do you mean?” your face drastically changed, anxious and hopeful all in the same breath.

“My parole verdict came back today,” Chris looked at you with the most loving eyes, for once with no traces of rascality in his voice. “I’ll know what you look like under sunshine soon.”

It was never a pleasant experience to be called into the warden’s office because it was always about something grim. Casualty numbers, assault reports, some other bleak headline… Naturally, your heart was thumping in your chest as you made your way down the hall first thing in the morning, trying to make a bet with yourself on how many times he was going to say blood this time. The gen pop manager’s presence in the room was an unfamiliar addition, though.

“I’m afraid we have some bad news, Doctor.”

A part of you was relieved this didn’t have anything to do with your little fling with a certain inmate. It would definitely be grounds for a disciplinary hearing, if not getting your license revoked altogether.

But no way in hell were you expecting the news of your husband’s passing in a hotel room.

Your ears were ringing so much that the voices were suddenly muffled. You could pick out words, but your brain wasn’t processing any complete sentences. 

Heart attack. 

Party crowd. 

Fake ID.

Amphetamines. 

Sexual activity. 

And among all that word salad, you heard three that suddenly shocked your existence back to reality, spiking your blood pressure to the point of a headrush.

“...s to the Crown Street Cartel.”

“I’m sorry, what?” you shook your head as the full audio feed was restored in your ears.

“The persons instigating the event. They are found to have ties to the Crown Street Cartel,” the warden repeated. “My connections from the DA’s office told me they might be looking into murder charges.”

That whole string of information landed like a nuclear bomb in that dark room, rendering you completely numb. You didn’t know what to be appalled over first. Your husband gone. Being divorced by death. Debauched adultery involved not that you were pure as the driven snow. And the cherry on top…

Crown Street.

“I’m truly sorry for your loss. Please take as much time as you need and let me know if there is anything I can do for you,” the warden solemnly nodded. “Officers will be giving you a ride home.”

The following days were all a blur. You refused to give a eulogy at the funeral because any words of affection coming from your mouth would be a bald-faced lie. What else were you going to talk about anyway? How you hastily got married over a pregnancy scare, and how things were never the same after your miscarriage? How he didn’t even make one attempt to maybe reconcile things? How he either spent his nights out or on the couch, forcing you to drown yourself in impossible amounts of work so that you didn’t have to think about it all? How he died right before you actually mustered the courage to tell him that you didn’t wanna live like this anymore? 

WAS THAT WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO TALK ABOUT???

People kept telling you to take time off to properly grieve, but what did that even mean? Grief was for loss. Could you even lose something that was never there? Maybe you had been grieving for years; why did no one think of that? The loss of your unborn child. The loss of your youth. The loss of your happiness. The loss of your trust. 

The loss of your hopes to be loved one day.

Nevertheless, sitting in the eye of the storm wasn’t going to change anything. There was still a confrontation to be had, and the closer it approached, the antsier it was driving you. It approached. It approached.

And finally arrived at your office door one morning.

“You’re back!” Chris beamed up at the sight of you and attempted a hug. “Were you on sick leave again? I was wor—”

“FUCKING SAVE IT!!!” 

You had resolved to do this the adult way. Calmly, with room temperature volume. But as soon as you saw Chris, something jumped out of your body like you wanted to get into a physical altercation with him. 

“I’m gonna ask you point-blank,” you pointed at him with a trembling voice, eyes already welling up with angry tears. “Do you or do you not have anything to do with my husband’s death?”

Now, why would you word it like that, huh? Why would you put a possessive adjective in front of it as if it meant something to you?

“Your husband?” Chris creased his brows, looking like he was genuinely confused. “The last I checked, you were roommates with a ghost.”

“WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!”

“WHAT HUSBAND? I AM YOUR MAN!”

For the first time ever, Chris scared you. You had never heard him raise his voice before. Those beautiful eyes that looked at you with endless affection and longing were filled with something else now. 

And it was anything but sane.

“You thought I was fucking around just trying to get some pussy? I never joke about devotion,” he started walking towards you with slow steps, eyes psychotically widened. “You said all of you is mine. When you were in my arms. When I was fucking balls deep inside you!”

“You can guess why I became a doctor, right, inmate?”

Your deadpan voice made it infinity times worse. As detached from emotion as it could be. If you just aimed a gun right at his forehead and pulled the trigger, it would have been a lot more preferable for Chris.

Inmate. You called him fucking inmate.

“Didn’t I save your ass every time you fell down? Didn’t you tell me you owe me your life?” you met him halfway and stopped right in front of his face, pushing his chest with all your might. “WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO PLAY FUCKING GOD?!!!” 

His expression was unreadable. It could very well be interpreted as upset, angry, sad, or whatever the fuck he claimed to feel.

If he could feel anything, that is.

“You didn’t love him. You… You love me,” he started breathing erratically. “You belong with me. We belong to each other!”

“And that was your way of expediting things instead of waiting for my divorce to be finalized,” you started laughing hysterically, your eyes constantly switching between blank and neurotic. “Do you even know what it means to love someone? It means you want to make them happy, not fucking traumatize them.”

“Do you know what it means, doc?” Chris countered you.

Doc. What a cold, impersonal address. It was the very first thing he called you, long before you even knew what each other tasted like, but it somehow felt even more distant than that now.

“You’ve been trapped in a prison of your own for god knows how long,” he read the epitaph of your marriage’s tombstone. “I set you free so that you could be happy!”

“At least I fucking know not to take lives as I see fit and call it devotion,” you scoffed.

“Then maybe you’ve never been in love before.”

Chris was breathing heavily through his nose, trying so hard to find the right words to appease you so you wouldn’t do something that was going to kill you both, but he felt just like the day your hand brushed against his for the very first time. At a complete loss. Of words. Of his mind.

And now, of you.

“Angel, I—”

“Go,” you turned away, clenching your jaw as hard as you could to suppress your tears. “We’re done here.”

And that was exactly what Chris did. He watched your back like he was witnessing you evaporate into thin air like smoke, then he turned around and left.

After that day, you started paying frequent visits to what used to be the old prison chapel, now just an unused space with all its decorations still intact. Not to pray, just to be by yourself. Maybe it was the pretty stained-glass windows, but you found a piece of peace in that quiet, very unlike the deafening silence crawling all over your house, driving you to the brink of insanity. Every day during lunch, you went in there, locked the door behind you, and sat on one of the pews. Just breathing. Breathing. Breathing. Trying to hear yourself think. Trying to hear yourself think about something other than Chris. Anything but Chris.

Every day, you lost yet another battle against yourself.

After that day, you kept waiting for the grief to kick in. It was probably just the shock of a sudden death. Any day now. You were waiting. And waiting. And waiting. 

But it still wasn’t coming. 

You weren’t grieving, nor were you turning Chris in. You kept denying. And denying. And denying. But to your infinite misfortune, it wasn’t because you didn’t have anything to pin the crime on him. You had basically heard a confession directly coming from his mouth.

It was because… you didn’t want to. You just couldn’t bring yourself to.

I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.

Not only could you not prevent it, but it was well on its way to metastasizing in your heart.

Chris was still losing sleep over you, but the tossing and turning no longer had anything to do with counting down the minutes until he saw you again. The butterflies in his stomach had turned into moths that reeked of death, rotting his insides with restlessness. The last unprotected touch you shared burned like hell on his chest. It was as if you had divorced him and told him to get the fuck out of the house.

Fine, could he pay the alimony in the form of a trillion kisses now?

Bouncing a ball against the cell wall, he kept thinking of ways to extend his stay here a little longer without completely burning his parole. If he got in a fistfight with a guard, would it at least grant him a few more weeks? He would massacre half this prison to upgrade his sentence to life if he knew you would be there forever, but how could he even make sure you wouldn’t just resign and walk away one day? Was there an option where your medical license wouldn’t be valid anywhere but in a prison, for example? What other prisons could you go to? Was the location contingent upon you having family members in the area? Just asking so he could initiate his paperwork for a transfer, no biggie.

When his work detail was reassigned to the kitchen, he attempted to take a few pages from his old playbook, inflicting relatively minor but absolutely-needing-medical-attention-from-your-healing-hands injuries on himself, and he almost had a heart attack when he saw some other doctor tending to people at the infirmary instead.

A man, for that matter.

“Where’s the chief attending physician?” he asked as casually as he could manage. 

“Bedrest,” the stranger doctor flatly responded.

“WHY?”

“None of your goddamn business,” he held his gaze, stern stare filled with suspicion to the brim. 

Bedrest? What bedrest? Was it a cold? It had better be a cold. Did you have anyone taking care of you? Could he bribe Officer Langdon into sneaking him out just for a few hours at night? Or at the very least bring him intel on you? Where the fuck was this man anyway?! 

One day. Five days. Nine days. Pacing. Worrying. Craving. Yearning. 

Yearning.

Yearning.

“Fang, doc wants to see you.”

“MOVE!”

Chris hated hospitals. He hated the color white. He hated that antiseptic smell, and yet he was dashing to the infirmary at lightning speed like he was gunning for a record. Yes, he would change his permanent residence to a hospital for you. Yes, he would move into an all-white cell for you. Yes, he would inhale antiseptics instead of oxygen from now on, just… Just let him see you again. Let him touch you again. Let him hold you in his arms again. Please. Please.

PLEASE!!!

“Thank fuck, baby, I was going crazy without y—”

“WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!!!”

When you turned around to face him, Chris didn’t know whether he should drop to his knees or go on a killing frenzy. There were bruises on your face. Scratches on your arms. Your lip was busted, and it was killing him that you were looking at him with eyes turned vermilion with acrimony.

“Wh–What happened to you?!” he shrieked, face all convoluted with a mixture of shock, worry, and rage.

“Are you really gonna pretend you didn’t unleash some fucking lunatic on me?!”

“A WHAT?”

“He was one of you, too, wasn’t he?” 

“Who?”

“Don’t lie to me, I saw the goddamn crown necklace.”

“On WHO?”

“God, you’re such a self-absorbed fucking lowlife who will stop at nothing until he gets his way!!!”

Chris was on the brink of tears, but even he couldn’t tell what emotion was trying to crack open those floodgates. Was it sorrow? Anger? Resentment? Yes, he had some imperfections, and yes, 97% of the time, he was guilty of everything you just said. But how could you collect them all and throw them at his face with full conviction about something like this?

How could you even think he could ever wish any harm on you?

“I swear I don’t have anything to do with this,” he pleaded, reaching for your hands. “I’d die before I let anything happen to you!” 

“Then fucking DIE!” 

Oh, the hatred… The unmitigated loathing crawling in your eyes… As if you didn’t swear yourselves to each other once upon a time. As if you didn’t tell him all of you were his. As if you never once loved him. He didn’t even know he had one, but for the first time in his life, Chris heard his heart break. 

Completely crushed to dust, never to become whole again.

“Fine.”

He walked to the cabinet behind you with quick steps, picked up a 15-blade, and handed it to you.

“Kill me.”

Unable to comprehend his request, you just stared at the blade, your features visibly softening, then looked up at him in utter disbelief. It made you want to throw yourself at the blade when you saw those bloodshot eyes welled up to the brim with tears. It hurt. It hurt so much to see him like this, but… But why did it hurt? This man was a monster, just why did it hurt?

WHY DID IT FUCKING HURT?!!!

When you didn’t take the blade, Chris put it in your hands and pressed the tip on his chest.

“If in your heart of hearts, you have a grain of doubt that I don’t live and breathe for you, that I wouldn’t thrust myself deeper into this blade just to be a few inches closer to you, that I’m not going to annihilate whoever laid a finger on a strand of your hair, then fucking kill me right here, right now,” he declared in a single breath, voice trembling, lips quivering, face drenched with tears, but still with a straight face out of sheer pride. “Call Brad in here. I’ll tell him where to dump the body and how to get you out of it without a scratch.”

A torrent of questions flooded your head, making the room spin. Why would a man who didn’t even flinch while confessing to a hit job feel the need to lie about an ambush? Why wasn’t he just telling you something along the lines of ‘What did you expect for crossing me?’ Why was he crying over his magnificent handiwork? He got what he wanted, didn’t he? Then why? 

Why? 

WHY?!

“NO!” 

When Chris actually attempted to walk into the blade, you pulled your hands back like you were electrocuted, and the sound of metal hitting the floor made your ears ring. He looked down at what could just save him from his misery and then up into your eyes, and what he saw in there immediately summoned the butterflies to chase away the moths with flaming pitchforks because…

Why didn’t you just let him walk into it? Why didn’t you just let him take his last breath in your hands? If you hated him so much, he was right there, giving you a chance to get rid of him for good.

You couldn’t, could you?

He took a vigilant step towards you, extremely careful not to spook you, and when you stayed in your place despite him getting closer, he found the audacity in himself to feel your warmth on his fingertips again.

“If anything were to happen to you, I’d kill whoever dared lay a finger on you, and then myself. You’re my everything, angel,” he gently held your face. “Hate me, loathe me, despise me from the bottom of your heart, I don’t care. Nothing can make me want to harm you. Nothing.”

He tenderly kissed the corner of your lips. Right under your eye. All your bruises one by one. Unbeknownst to yourself, tears had started running down your face, as if they wanted to soothe the burn that came from deep within you.

Everything was hurting ever since you told Chris to go.

He enveloped your hands in his, moments away from wrapping you in a tight embrace to shelter you from whatever demons were after you. He didn’t give a fuck if you wanted to curse him to the bottom circle of hell. Curse him, he didn’t care. Just let him hold you in his arms. Feel your warmth. Inhale your scent. Have your heart beat on the other side of his chest in the exact same rhythm.

Anything for you.

“I’m begging you,” he caressed your hair, looking at you with so much longing that you were getting crushed under its weight. “Tell me what happened.”

“Bribe whoever you need and make sure he ends up here. I don’t care if it’s millions.”

After you pressed charges against the culprit, Chris had been relentlessly pursuing his person of interest, planning everything down to the finest detail. No hit job for this scum of the earth, oh no. He was going to scrape him with his own hands and look straight into his eyes as he watched the light drain from them.

And after what felt like forever, the lamb finally walked through the front door one fateful morning.

“Cooper, right? Welcome to the den, mate,” the wolf greeted his prey. “What are you in for?”

“Judge rage, brother. Wasn’t anything that big to land me here if you ask me,” the guy slapped a crooked grin on his face. “Took a little field trip to a house I thought was empty. I should have just left when I emptied the safe, but a hot piece of ass lying in bed like that? Would be a dumb fucking move not to hit that, you know what I mean?”

“Did you…” Chris forced a sleazy smile while killing this guy five ways in his head. “Did you get to…?”

“Nah, man, bitch had an iron bat and damn did she know how to use it,” he cackled, touching the bruise on his nape. “I was actually fucking turned on by it.”

“Better luck next time, huh?” Chris slammed his hand on Cooper’s shoulder, a lot more like a punch fully intended for assault rather than a friendly slap. “Stay strong.”

“The rest will follow.”

“You’re goddamn right it will, cocksucker,” he mumbled under his breath as he headed to the kitchen. “They’re called consequences.”

Fuming out of his nose, he slammed his fist into the refrigerator, suddenly alerting Paco tending to his carrots in the corner.

“No disrespect to Crown, Fang, but that Cooper asshole gets on my last fucking nerve,” he complained. “It hasn’t even been 24 hours, and the fucker already acts like he’s the king running this shit.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Chris stared at the shelf of glass jars, and then at Paco’s nauseated face. “And I’m happy to report that our interests are suddenly aligned.”

Of course this waste of oxygen didn’t deserve a quick exit. Remorse didn’t just manifest out of thin air, did it? One had to realize the weight of their sins. They had to walk a few miles in those thorny shoes and see how they liked it. 

Then stand before the public with their bleeding feet and let this be a lesson to all who even thought about doing the same thing. 

Chris wrapped a towel around one of the empty jars to suppress an alarming crash sound and slammed it on the metal counter, making Paco’s brows arch.

“You’d legit take out one of your own?” Paco asked, utterly incredulous.

“He’s NOT one of my own!” Chris threateningly pointed at him, eyes as wide as a madman’s and teeth chattering from pure rage. “My own would never disrespect me like that.”

Paco dropped the carrots in his hands and walked towards Chris still panting out of sheer rage.

“Doc isn’t your girl, brother.”

“Just because I haven’t put a ring on her finger yet doesn’t mean she isn’t.”

“As if she will say yes to a convict when you do.”

“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT!”

“Get a goddamn grip, man! The dude didn’t even know who she was!”

“Then he should’ve had a fucking premonition, Pac,” Chris spat, frothing at the mouth with revenge vision.

He grabbed a plastic pickle can and started rolling it on the broken glass like he was rolling out dough, crushing it into fine dust. 

“We use a different kind of seasoning in my hometown for kings, you know,” Chris spoke, suddenly way too calm. “Especially if they happen to run this shit.”

“You’re one sick motherfucker, Fang,” Paco maniacally smiled.

“That’s some god-tier compliment, mate. Appreciate it,” he psychotically smirked back.

Chris had to summon the patience of a thousand monks to convince Cooper they were now ride-or-dies while constantly battling the urge to put a pillow in his face in his sleep. He listened to his dumbass stories with scarily genuine interest. He not only let him in on the drug ops, but put him in charge of the meth line. Every meal, he served him bigger portions as a “special treatment”, seasoned perfectly with a side of charming smile. The heartburn and the stomachache were just the horrendous oil they had to use, man; he’d get used to it soon enough. 

Not that he was well on his way to a massive internal hemorrhage or anything. 

I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.

When the body came to you for an autopsy, you first checked the tag attached to the toe. Cooper Walsh. So it had a name. You thought the sight would give you some form of satisfaction, but it was as if the lights had gone out in your brain. You weren’t feeling a thing. 

When you removed the sheet to get to work, however, you saw a small envelope resting on the chest. Inside was a hurriedly scribbled note along with what looked like crushed pieces of a crown pendant. You felt something reading those words, but admitting what it was out loud would mean you were now officially under the category of the infirm.

Anything for you, my queen.

“Brad?” you called out towards the door.

“Yes, Doctor?”

“Can I bum one?” you pointed at the Marlboro pack peeking out of his pocket.

You weren’t particularly feeling by-the-book-y that day, and turns out being employed at a shithole where no one knew how to spell “accountability” had its perks. The guard walked into the cold room with a half-confused, half-surprised smile and sat by the small table in the corner.

“Didn’t know you smoked,” he opened the pack and offered you a cigarette.

“I don’t,” you pulled one out.

He lit your cigarette, then lit one himself. You smoked in silence for a few seconds, your blank eyes fixated on the lifeless body.

“Do you know what happened?” you asked, nodding towards the table.

“No,” Brad pursed his lips.

“Sorry, I meant did you know how Chris was going to kill this piece of shit?”

His earlier pleasant surprise melted into mild shock as he looked at you with something akin to awe.

“You know why he did it, right?”

“That wasn’t the question,” you tilted your head.

“Yes, I knew,” he acknowledged after a brief pause.

“There’s dried blood around the mouth. I’m assuming something didn’t agree with his stomach,” you observed. “What am I gonna find in there? Poison?”

You already had an idea just how loyal Chris and Brad were to each other—just the fact that Brad’s name came up in the most grim scenario you ever heard was proof enough. Sitting right across you, he was sizing you up, clearly trying to decide how much he could divulge without getting Chris in irreversible trouble. 

It put a faint smile on your lips.

“If you turn him in, you’re gonna burn his parole, you know,” he gave you an alternative answer instead. “He might get life.”

“I know,” you said calmly. “I’m asking so I know what to lie about.”

Brad heaved a deep sigh. Maybe it was relief, maybe it was the helplessness of having to do a leap of faith, but he finally confessed, hoping against hope that this could only help Chris.

“It’s glass. He’s been feeding him crushed glass three meals a day for god knows how long.”

Fucking diabolical. You didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified, to be frank, but somehow it didn’t even surprise you. Only Fang would think of something that could never be traced back to him, wouldn’t he?

Because he never got his own hands dirty.

“Does anyone else know?”

“One other guy, but he’d never snitch on Fang,” Brad replied. “They are tight.”

“Good.”

You blew out the smoke and stood up, crushing the cigarette butt like a roach under your heels. You moved to the table and quickly examined the body for any obvious signs of foul play, and unsurprisingly, there were none. 

“Is this guy known to use anything at all?” you asked without looking at the guard, closely inspecting the arms.

“Haven’t seen it myself, but he dealt meth for Crown.”

“Bring me one of the shakedown syringes you’ve confiscated,” you firmly ordered and threw him a pair of latex gloves. “Wipe them clean. I don’t want your fingerprints on it.” 

As Brad stepped outside, you picked up a sponge and started cleaning the dried blood around Cooper’s mouth. Carefully. With bone-chilling tranquility. Replaying in your head every terrorizing moment in the alleged safety of your own house, of your own bedroom, chuckling to yourself when you remembered how your late husband scoffed at you for wanting to keep a bat under your bed.

Oh, karma, you beautiful, beautiful bitch…

Brad was gone a long time. By the time he returned with your order, you had cleaned out the stomach to get rid of any residual remains of glass. You took the syringe from him and emptied the contents on the floor first. With zero expression on your face and lips pursed with full focus, you placed it in Cooper’s hand, making sure his fingers were located just at the right spots, and punctured his left arm with the needle. Throughout the whole macabre marionette performance, the guard stayed quiet so as not to disturb the sanctity of your witchcraft, watching you completely mesmerized.

You and Brad stayed in that freezing-ass room for god knows how long, Cooper’s body slowly rotting away in the corner. You listened to his story. You listened to how he was as astray as you were at that moment before becoming a guard. How it wasn’t that bad to be one once he learned how to get by. He didn’t have any kids, but he was married, and he didn’t see any problem with taking bribes as long as it meant he could put food on the table for his lady. He wouldn’t shy away from violence if it meant protection for his lady. He didn’t care if anyone called him a corrupt murderer; he would do anything for his lady. He had killed three people so far, and he would do it again.

“You don’t feel any guilt?”

“You know how polarized this cesspit is, but even the raging lunatics here agree on one thing, doc,” Brad answered in a stone-cold voice. “You kill a man, you’re a hero, but if you even think about harming a child, you don’t deserve to live.” 

Once you decided enough time had passed, you rose to your feet and started wrapping things up. 

“It’s really poetic, actually,” you spoke with a serene smile as you put the syringe in a bag to send with your report. “Being able to choose his death is a prisoner’s last taste of freedom, isn’t it?”

“I thought you were going to inject that in him,” Brad nodded towards your hands.

“No need to complicate our lives,” you uttered while filling in the label, then gave him his final instructions. “If anyone asks, you saw him steal from his own stash, and these are the track marks to prove it.”

“Aren’t they gonna ask for proof of drugs in his blood?”

“There is proof of drugs in his blood,” you responded flatly, handing him the fake report for a preview since you weren’t going to submit this for a few weeks. “Because I said so.”

Brad didn’t understand anything in the document, but the very last line with your whole signature right under it put a content smile on his face. Turns out the destination of the leap of faith was the fluffiest clouds he could ask for.

Cause of Death: Perforated ulcer due to acute methamphetamine toxicity

You had completely lost your sense of time. It felt like days were passing, but you couldn’t tell how many. Was it even days? Or were hours just stretching on to forever?

You found yourself in the chapel again, but after locking the door behind you, you didn’t hide inside the darkness of the confessional this time. You tried. God knows you tried. Even if there was no priest to absolve you on the other side, you wanted to believe your heart would feel less heavy if you confessed out loud. Things no one should hear. Things you had the hardest time confessing to yourself.

Even if there wasn’t a single soul around to shame you, you still choked every single time without fail. 

You wanted to try your luck at the altar this time. If you lit some candles, maybe, just maybe they could absorb some of this unbearable heaviness. Nothing that happened as of late felt real. You kept waiting to feel bad. To feel some remorse, but it just wasn’t coming. You did despise yourself, but not because of what you’d done. It was because of this fire that just wouldn’t stop smoldering deep within you. 

You were missing Chris terribly, and you were a horrible person for it. 

You couldn’t find solace anywhere. Your home was no different than a grave. Even the vast ocean felt two sizes two small. The gigantic knot in your throat had no intention of dissolving. It was turning into stone instead, suffocating you, getting too heavy to carry around day by day. You had no one to talk to. You had no one to turn to. No one would understand why you did what you did.

No one but Chris. 

I will not be ashamed to say “I know not”...

But you were ashamed. You were ashamed not because you didn’t know what it was you felt but because you did. You were ashamed because nothing you did was enough to erase it. You were so ashamed that you couldn’t even bring yourself to give these crushing feelings a voice.

Turns out one does not love Fang by choice.

Burden after burden piling up on your shoulders finally collapsed on top of you, and you started uncontrollably sobbing. Just letting it out as loudly as you could, begging for the venom to drain even if it was just by one drop. How was this even possible? How could you love a man who had blood on his hands? How could you not even blink walking all over your dignity, your integrity, and for what? To wash his hands off blood but getting it on yours? 

You were complicit in fucking murder now, how were you even going to LIVE WITH YOURSELF?!!!

“God, please,” you pleaded, your face soaked with tears, voice already hoarse with your wails of anguish. “Please, please take these feelings out of my heart. I CAN’T LOVE HIM!”

“Would that really be the worst thing?” 

Your sobs were suddenly cut in half with a knife. You swiftly turned around, knowing damn well what you were going to see, but it still felt like you got sucker-punched. 

“W–What are you doing here?” you hurriedly wiped your face with the back of your hand as if it was going to magically make you uncry. “W–When did you come in?” 

“Today or since the first time you walked in here?” the wolf approached closer with slow steps, scared that maybe you would want to run away from him. 

One beautiful man fucked up beyond repair looking at you with the saddest eyes, wearing his broken heart on his sleeve, his soft voice snowing on your charred heart to pacify it in its soothing embrace. He finally stood before you, holding your face in his hands ever so gently, unable to stop himself from welling up a little bit. 

“I will burn this world down for a drop of your tears, please don’t cry anymore,” he kissed your forehead, pulling you into his chest to take shelter in him. “It’s over now, baby. It’s all over.”

You wrapped your arms around him, clutching at the fabric on his back, and let his heartbeat drain the rest of your venom. You cried. You cried. You cried until you had no more tears left to cry, and even though Chris died a little more with every sob, he just held you in his arms. He caressed your hair. He kissed the crown of your head.

“Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Please. I’m nothing without you,” he kept quietly begging. “I love you, angel. I love you with everything I’ve got.”

Something tried to jump out of your chest so hard that your ribcage almost cracked.

Thinking it was something, but hearing it was something else. The very first time the 143 spilled from his lips. It made it real. Oh, it made it so real, and now you were fully convinced that you indeed belonged with the infirm. 

An absolute lunatic confessing his love for you should terrorize you. It should make you want to bolt out of there without looking back, take on a new identity, and change continents. NOT make your heart swell to the point of bursting and splattering longing everywhere!

“Love me. Love me back. Please love me back,” he held your face, directly appealing to your eyes now. “Have me for the rest of your life. Be one with me. I’ll do anything. Anything. Just… Just love me, baby.”

God, you had fucking enough of your decades’ worth of solitary confinement.

“I’m so insanely in love with you, I fucking hate myself,” you blurted out.

Chris could die of overdose euphoria when you pulled him into that kiss. Your hands were all over him. You were wrapping your arms and legs around him, pressing his body against yours as hard as you could like you wanted to merge into a single entity, and if you didn’t cut it out soon, he was not going to take any responsibility for what he might do to you. So much adrenaline was pumping through his veins that, unbeknownst to him, he found himself lifting you up and setting you down on that altar. 

“Closer,” you panted against his neck, inhaling his scent to fill your lungs with him to the brim.

“I’m here, baby,” he soothed you, intertwining his fingers with yours. “I’m right here.”

“YOU AREN’T CLOSE ENOUGH!!!”

You almost ripped his top off, and when your eyes landed on his tattoo, your movements came to an abrupt halt. You reached for his arm and traced your finger over the ink, then brought it to your lips and kissed it lovingly. You kissed it again, and again, and again, then ran your tongue on it from beginning to end. 

And that was the last straw for Chris.

He gently pushed your chest and lay you down on the altar. You looked so beautiful under the soft candlelights that it made him want to cry. He rid you of every piece of fabric hiding you from him and spread your legs wide, kneeling before you to pay his respects to your body. You propped up on your elbows to see him better, and he took one last look at your face before dipping his tongue into your wetness.

Your eyes immediately closed with a loud exhale.

His arms tightly wrapped around your thighs, he dragged his tongue all over your folds to at least attempt to quench his insatiable thirst for you, but the more he sipped, the thirstier he was getting. The obscenely wet sounds mingled with your moans echoed in the empty space, ricocheting off the stained-glass windows to come back to his ears like a love song you composed just for him. You tapped on his arms to hold his hands, staring deep into those eyes you wanted to get lost in as he bombarded the bars of your solitary cell with a loud crash, one lick at a time. You didn’t talk. You couldn’t talk even if you wanted to. You just hoped he could translate what you were trying to say with your shaking legs, your swelling moans, your fingers sinking deeper into his flesh…

All punctuated with a piercing scream of his name at the climax. 

He didn’t waste one second and jumped back to his feet, freeing himself from his own chains, his breathing stuttering when he merely pressed his tip on your soaked entrance.

“I miss you,” he let out a moan bordering on a whine. “Baby, I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist.

“BUT I MISS YOU EVEN RIGHT NOW!!!”

His features shattered beautifully with that first thrust, and his pace immediately went berserk, craving all of you but clueless as to how to have it all. He dove into your lips headfirst, trying to cling to the last drop of his sanity before he took his last breath in your hands, but those very hands running all over his face were just making it worse.

“Have me,” he panted against your mouth, thrusting as deep as he could like he wanted to spend the rest of his life in there. “Have me, I’m begging you, just have me forever.”

What a strange sense of familiarity like you had known each other through several lifetimes. What an eerie feeling of completeness every time he disappeared deep inside you like he had always belonged there. Just one look into his eyes, and your world would stop. So would your heart. So would all logic because there was simply no explanation for why you would willingly let a snarling wolf hold your heart between his fangs.

But maybe there was no need for one in the first place.

“Fuck, I’m g— Kiss me. God, kiss me, please!”

As Chris’ breathing quickened, you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck and kissed him like you had only been with one man your whole life, your whole existence rejuvenated with his warmth spilling inside you. It had happened again. He tasted like nothing but freedom.

That just could not be a coincidence anymore.

I will prevent disease whenever I can, for prevention is preferable to cure.

The morning sun had not been awake enough to shoot its sneakily scorching arrows, letting the pleasant chill from the night before hang around a little while longer. Sitting on the hood of the black Corvette was a woman scrolling through her phone, her attire rendering her completely unrecognizable to the employees of this prison. 

They were used to seeing their former chief attending physician in smart dresses, a lab coat, and heels—not in a leather jacket, combat boots, and jeans.

I will remember that I remain a member of society, with special obligations to all my fellow human beings, those sound of mind and body as well as the infirm.

The heavy front gate opened with a loud alarm, and a man appeared behind it like he was about to go on stage, dressed in his civilian attire for the first time in months.

Silver. Silver rings on long, dexterous fingers, silver necklace around the neck that held his head way too high, and silver tongue in his mouth home to all kinds of sins… 

Ask anyone who that guy was, and they would roll their eyes over how he wouldn’t shut the fuck up about his healer.

You may not have been able to prevent the disease, but maybe it didn’t have to be the disaster everyone thought it was. Antidotes were made out of venom, too. Loving Chris this much may have permanently changed your status to infirm, but if you had such special obligations to your fellow human beings for years, why not have them for the only person that truly mattered from now on?

Yourself.

I will not be ashamed to say “I know not”...

When you handed in your resignation, you didn’t think so far ahead. All you knew was that you wanted to open a new chapter in your life, and you had no idea what the future held for you. And maybe you didn’t need to. 

You hadn’t planned on getting your heart stolen by some lupine charmer, either, had you? 

You locked your phone and put it away in your pocket, a smile blooming on your lips as you watched Chris walk to you with steady and firm steps. As soon as he reached you, he dropped his bag on the ground and sneaked a hand around your waist, kissing you deeply like you hadn’t seen each other in forever. 

His kisses still tasted like freedom, but for good reason this time around. 

“What do you wanna do on your first day as a free man?” you asked him as he settled in the passenger seat.

He brushed his fingers on the crown necklace you were wearing, his fond smile deepening his dimples.

“I want to die in your arms, baby,” he made his wish, knowingly smirking.

“Then turn off your phone,” you started the car, setting the destination to Easton Park. “You’re off the grid for the next forty hours.”

Funny how happiness can change a person. A tunnel of nightmares you had passed through, yet your conscience couldn’t have been any lighter. All you did was love each other—that was the only thing you had done wrong. Everything that happened in between felt like some made-up tale in a forgotten song. It may have taken way too long, but you no longer felt like you didn’t belong. 

The rest indeed followed; you were the miracle Chris Bang from Crown Street had been praying for all along.

Stay strong.

Kia Kaha.

「𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙴𝙽𝙳」

❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to make Chris burn this world down for you.

WBTT CREDIT ROLL SOUNDTRACK (Mandatory listen for full aftertaste immersion)

AUTHOR'S NOTE

And they lived maniacally ever after 🫠

Jillion years later, it's finally finished 🙌 In my defense, the full OG story was 12k in total whereas this rewrite went north of 30k, but at least now it truly aligns with my original vision for MANIACS ^^ If you were here in 2022, I hope you've enjoyed this transformation, and if not, I hope you've enjoyed the story! Should you have any questions about any part of WBTT, you are encouraged to spam my inbox because I LOOOOOOVE discussing lore!

Since I already have open HJ wips and there was only 0.5% difference in voting, the next MANIACS rewrite will be Minho's. Hope to see you there~

「© 2022-2026, cb97percent · No translations, rewrites, or reposts permitted」

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[wolfiesroom]

Kia fucking Kaha, bitches.

Scarlet, you’re a fucking master of the written word and I’m smitten, as always.

[cb97percent]

「𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚒」

❝𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙.❞

➥ Bang Chan x Reader (f) — 12.5k

➥ Crime Lord Werewolf, Cyberpunk Fantasy, Destined Soulmates

➥ Contains: Love and Deep SKZace, tsundere wolfie who is a softie but I'd be careful when he's horny, pregnancy risk because bro doesn't flirt he wordfucks you, toxic possessiveness but it's sexy because it's him™, opposites that cannot attract any more than this, mythical levels of simping, thousands of years worth of angst and romance, werewolf awakening

⚠ — (Non-exhaustive, full cw policy here): Violence

➥ You have dedicated countless hours tailing Duskfall, the notorious energy smugglers of Verona City, and on the day you're supposed to go undercover, you wake up to the news that their leader is dead. Trapped between paranoia and a hunch, you defy your chief's direct orders and go rogue to pursue the intel you received from your long-time silent informant. When you finally lock eyes with the most wanted man in the country, however, you get this intense feeling of déjà vu.

Like you know him from somewhere...

*a/n: Idk man, I just missed him too much and found myself in a draft from last year. Enjoy.

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄: 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄

You can tempt fate, but you cannot beat it. Whatever is set in stone, you have to fulfill it. You can repent, but it means nothing. The debt of anguish must still be paid. You can tempt fate, but you can’t defeat it. Whatever is set in stone, you have to fulfill it. The same torment rewinds to punish a stray vow. Unless you can turn the stone into ashes somehow... Ice stuns fire. Fire swallows ice. Frost soothes pyre. Blaze lulls rime. And higher above desire Lays our paradise. Everywhere your light touches is home to me.

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. 

He walks into his cavernous living room barefoot, stepping on the pages of sheet music scattered all over the floor. The name of the room is just a figure of speech; even though some decorator has put serious effort into this cathedralesque space, it has not been lived in.

His castle of darkness is not meant for entertaining guests.

The misty night framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows doesn’t let much streetlight in, but he has no desire to illuminate his den anyway. He sits on the piano bench, puts one arm over the open fallboard, and rests his forehead on it. His slender fingers make love to the keys, delicately playing a glum tune that has been living in his head for as long as he can remember. It’s reminiscent of Moonlight Sonata but with no moonlight in it.

The soft keystrokes wake up the miniature phoenix sleeping by the fireplace. She flies across the room and perches on his shoulder, gently rubbing her head on his stone-cold cheek. The longer he plays, the more perfectly symmetrical snow crystals form on the keys with cracking sounds. It’s always fernlike stellar dendrites, and each needle pierces his heart, spilling his longing for something obscure all over his insides. 

He relishes that pain. He thrives on it.

It makes him feel alive. 

He doesn’t feel much, nor does he want to. That detachment is the finger that pulls the trigger with no hesitation. It’s the thumb that wipes the blood splatter on his face. It’s what makes him walk away from dead bodies with outrageous nonchalance as if all he did was break a glass. He has committed lifetimes’ worth of sins to be found guilty, but he feels no guilt whatsoever.

He lives to be feared above all else. It’s the only thing that satiates his appetite for destruction.

“The car is ready, sir.”

He turns to the man backlit by the entryway lights and nods, then pets the phoenix’s head to say goodbye. The fiery bird is the only thing that makes him feel… something. He puts on his combat boots, grabs his leather jacket resting on the Chesterfield sofa, and heads out.

The ride to his destination is silent spare some jazzy instrumental playing in a tolerable volume. He watches the neon lights pass by from his tinted window, a murder of crows flying circles in his head. Every minute he’s awake, he’s playing chess with invisible opponents, and he has to calculate all the way to the endgame, not just two moves ahead like a fucking amateur. 

He’s had enough of busybodies, especially an exceptionally nosy law enforcer constantly trying to get all up in his business. She just doesn’t know when to give up. She thinks she’s all that, but he thinks he’s all this. Sure, he can make her think she’s onto him, that she can throw him behind bars any day now. He has some needs, too, you know. Even a man who spits on the world he owns needs to be entertained sometimes.

Everything bores him to tears.

She is not your ordinary agent, he knows that. She is all that. Criminally beautiful even though she runs something called Criminal Resonance Intervention Team. Quite intelligent; it hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park to dodge her. A fellow Sigma gene holder, but most likely clueless about the actual extent of her power. There is no way the people she blindly pledged her stupid allegiance to told her the truth. It’s not like she can find out she is an Outlier on her own anyway.

But he knows. He knows everything. 

That’s why he wants her.

He finds it cute that her core is fire when his is ice. It’s like the universe wants them to slash each other’s throats while doing a bad impression of star-crossed lovers. 

He doesn’t believe in hogwash like destiny. 

When the car comes to a stop, he loads his gun for good measure and gets out. Life’s volume is so mute in this part of town that his steps on wet concrete sound louder than bombs going off. Next to the rusty door of what looks like an abandoned hangar is a brick column. He slides the third brick from the bottom and a holographic retina scanner appears before him. The authenticator decides he is not a stranger whose eyes should be pierced with neurotoxin needles and authorizes his entry. There is only darkness inside. He walks down the stairs towards the only light at the bottom of the chasmal space and meets three men in surgical attire working under sickly fluorescent lights. 

“It’s ready, Boss,” one of them greets him with childlike enthusiasm.

There is a reason why one man’s trash is another man’s treasure. He collects suspended doctors like a dragon hoards gold. He looks at the corpse on the table bearing his identical features all the way to the freckles on his body.

“Nice work. I should give you all a raise,” he smirks in contentment. “When you wrap up here, serve it to our friends from the press at our agreed-upon time.”

As he climbs the stairs to the ground floor, he issues three payment orders of a million each. His chauffeur is waiting outside holding a bottle of hand sanitizer for him. He dispenses two pumps and coats his ruthless hands with invisible gloves, then gets into the car.

“Did you feed the bird?”

“Yes, sir. Everything is in place,” the man in the crisp suit confirms and starts the obscenely expensive car. “She thinks she is meeting Callum in person.”

He flashes a sensuously devilish smile as his contentment doubles. 

They head to a vantage point that reveals what a beautiful slut Verona City is. He gets turned on while gazing at her sometimes. If he could fuck her, he most certainly would. Maybe even take her as his mistress. He finishes two glasses of scotch while he patiently waits. When the alarm on his phone goes off at exactly 2:23 a.m., he takes out something that looks like a car remote from his pocket. The small device has a minuscule orb that contains glowing blue plasma and a whimsical button under it that says ‘Bye Bye’.

“I haven’t said happy birthday to you yet, have I?” he speaks to the man in the driver’s seat, the apology in his voice a genuine knockoff. “Make a wish.”

He rolls down the car window, sticks his hand out, and presses the button. One of the warehouses on the West Side turns to dust with a deafening roar. He watches the explosion in the distance like he’s watching fireworks, not as cheap but certainly tenfold more entertaining.

Even a man who is sick in the head needs to be entertained sometimes. 

“Let’s head home,” he closes the window and looks at his chauffeur in the rearview mirror. “I’m fucking starving.”

The car starts again, and they take the scenic route back to the base. He makes a quick stop on the way to pick up cassia seeds for Ember. As soon as he makes it home, the bird smells her favorite treats all the way from the fireplace and flies like a bullet to greet him by the door. 

Instead of his dinner table, however, he heads to his piano, sits on the bench, puts one arm over the open fallboard, and rests his forehead on it. His slender fingers make love to the keys, delicately playing a glum tune that has been living in his head for as long as he can remember.

Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

He has never once claimed he was sane.

𝐒𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐀

Third night in a row… 

It’s the middle of a very harsh winter, but it feels like someone is pouring molten lava all over you. These hot flashes you’re getting every month only seem to deteriorate. You can’t breathe. You can’t sleep. Every healer that steps foot into the palace claims they have the remedy, but nothing works. You are so restless, you are about to claw yourself out of your skin.

You have heard the rumors like everyone else, of course, but your father deems it a fool’s tale. There is no such thing as healing springs. You are not to leave the grounds under any circumstances, especially when you do not have any control over your blaze. You are strictly ordered to just rest and wait for this desert storm to pass. Sleep on it. Take baths maybe.

You are about to die laughing.

How about you bring spices with you instead of lavender petals while you are at it? It would certainly do a much better job of bringing out the flavor of the stew you will turn into, since the water starts boiling the second you dip your toes in.

You’ve had enough.

You wait until midnight to make sure the meddlers are asleep. Once the murmur in the marble hallways comes to a standstill, you gently wake up the phoenix sleeping with her head under her wing by your bed.

“We have to be really quiet, Cyra,” you offer her a veiled apology. “We won’t be long, I promise.”

The fiery bird rubs her head on your cheek, then flies to the balcony by your side. She perches on your back and sinks her claws into your cloak, swiftly taking you away to Skotia Woods. The darkness of midnight safely shrouds you, and the cold wind blowing at such heights is already so soothing that you can only imagine the relief you will finally get when you arrive at your destination. Your heart races in your chest as if you are running to a lover you have been longing for all your life.

Cyra makes her descent into the heart of the dense forest and lets go of you a few feet away from the lake, perching on a rock nearby to keep watch. As soon as your bare feet touch the pure white snow, you can feel your soul healing. You slowly walk towards the frozen body of water, your eyes closed, relishing the comfort of the rime melting under your steps. 

Once you make it to the edge of the lake, you strip. It’s perfectly dark everywhere else, but the moonlight shines bright, ricocheting off the solid white surface to place heart-fluttering kisses all over your naked body. The ice begins to crack with each step you take. Steam starts to rise as you move further into the water. When you reach a point that’s deep enough, you submerge yourself fully, entrusting your misery to the cold, hoping it keeps it and never ever gives it back to you. It’s blurry when you open your eyes underwater. There is nothing much to see anyway. Darkness reigns supreme here, too, but you can still make out the whites of the ice further ahead. 

You resurface and comb your hair back with your fingers. The harsh wind howls in the distance. It must be below zero; you can see your breath in the air, but it feels like a balmy spring day to you. You smile in delight when you look around. The path you have paved under the water is perfectly visible on the surface, drawing a nonsensical abstract shape. You start laughing. You are genuinely laughing for the first time in a very long time with the joy of a child making snow angels on the ground. You swim some more, paying no regard to the time, bathing yourself in the moonlight as much as the healing waters of the small hot spring you have unintentionally carved in the ice.

When you are sufficiently rejuvenated, you walk out of the water. Ghosting your palms on your body, you dry yourself and put your clothes back on.

“You really shouldn’t venture so recklessly.”

The low voice manifesting out of thin air gives you a terrible start, and your heart sinks with sheer terror. Cyra shrieks and flies towards you, opening her gigantic wings to the sides to shield you. You are more scared that something will happen to her. If the approaching shadow is what you think it is, there is no way she can survive a strike.

“Down, Cyra,” you whisper your command to the bird. “Do not move.” 

A pair of Alexandrite eyes glows in the dark like a kaleidoscope, part blue, part violet, part aqua in hue. You try to keep a composed façade, but your heaving chest betrays how unnerved you are. No rumors. No legends. Most certainly not a fool’s tale.

The Ice Lycan is as real as the healing springs and is now prowling towards you.

“Stay back, beast!” you muster all your courage to come off as intimidating as you can. “Show some respect for your princess!” 

“Tsk, but where are your manners?” he taunts, words falling off his lips like rolls of velvet.

The closer he approaches, the more prominent his figure becomes. He stands tall like he has unyielding pride for a spine. His arms are burly like he has built this very forest with his bare hands. He quietly growls like he is sick and tired of being starved. 

The shadow steps into the moonlight and transforms into flesh and blood. Your heart falls out of your chest.

You have never beheld such beauty in your life.

It’s the kind of beauty that hides inside the most weathered boulders. Coarse at first. Badly beaten. Most will take one look and then walk away because it’s just a stone. It’s nothing special. It’s everywhere. But if you can be patient enough, if you are adamant to crack that rock…

The Alexandrites it carries in its bosom will mesmerize the life out of you.

“You are on my land, and you expect me to bow down to you?” he leans into your face threateningly.

“Your land?” you scoff, in disbelief at the audacity. “Everywhere is my land!”

“Why, please grace me with the tales of your triumphs to conquer this land, princess. How much blood did you spill? How many tears did you shed?” he places his hand on your face, descending to your chin beguilingly softly, then harshly lifting it to force you to look into his eyes. “Did you at least break some sweat?”

You are stunned, frozen in your place, but it has nothing to do with his subzero touch. You get lost in those eyes. The fractals dancing in them hypnotize you. You can see every detail quite clearly from such proximity. The subtle cracks on his skin, the stray snowflakes clinging to him…

Your vision starts to blur for some reason.

He feels confused; you are supposed to be petrified, not look at him like he is the only thing you have ever wanted from this life. You are even more confused; his frigid existence not only brings your heat back but also makes it ten times worse. You don’t even realize how heavy your breathing becomes when your gaze lands on his lips, tempting you like all seven sins morphed into one. You want him. You want him.

You want him.

Your world is shaken to its core when you hold his face and close the distance between you completely. The glacial sensation engorges the quiet fire burning within you like a rising tide, but somehow pacifies it at the same time. The thin layer of ice coating his skin starts to crack at the corners of his lips. Your fingertips go numb and begin to stiffen, slowly taking on a light blue tint. 

You feel a thump in your chest, but it’s by no means metaphorical. 

He pushes you away and presses his fingers on his lips, eyes widened in shock. His bare torso looks like it’s suddenly drenched in sweat, little drops freezing as they trickle down his magnificent body. He waves his hand in the air in panic, palm facing the ground, and the sword-like icicles manifesting from the hasty line he draws between you all point at you threateningly.

“Take your songbird with you and do not come back here!” he roars and disappears into the darkness.

Your heart should break, but instead, it sings. A smile creeps up your lips. You have always been told these lunar beasts are as vicious as they come, but you aren’t as sure anymore.

You have never seen something as endearing as a flustered Lycan before.

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

“Good morning! Today’s date is September 25, Friday, 2054, and it’s -2 degrees Celsius outside. Your outfit recommendations are ready in your closet if you wish to go out today. Your breakfast is—”

“Geez, Xandra, you’re worse than the Chief!” you groan at the voice of the faceless digital assistant, salty as fuck for waking you up from a bombastic dream. 

As soon as the word ‘breakfast’ is pronounced, a white cloud bolts into your bedroom as the final destination of his parkour route, jumps on your bed, and licks all over your face.

“Yes, okay, breakfast time, Samoyay!” you break into a giggle fit. “Good morning to you, too, baby boy.” 

While baby boy describes his mannerisms perfectly, it paints a very misleading picture of the gigantic Samoyed that smiles all the time like he’s constantly excited about something. As you refill his bowl in the kitchen, your phone rings, a remarkably odd occurrence for 6:30 a.m in the morning.

“Did you see me in your dream last night?” you answer Minho’s call.

“Get your ass in here,” he urgently cuts to the chase in a dismal voice. “Now.”

At the bureau, the entire CRIT crew has its eyes on the big screens decorating the walls of the watchfloor. The breaking news is about an explosion that has taken place on the West Side, citing multiple casualties. The arson is suspected to target Duskfall’s notorious leader Zephyr, real name unknown, who has been pronounced dead on the scene.

“We are two seconds away from storming that base and it’s razed to the ground with him in it?” you loudly scoff. “Not buying it.”

“Congratulations on unlocking a brand-new paranoia achievement, Captain,” Minho retorts.

“How did they even identify the body?” you point at the screen like you want to pick a fight with it. “We have jillion different visuals all claiming it’s him, plus all the verbal accounts we’ve collected to date vastly differ from one another.”

“The coroner’s team ran the DNA samples from the scene and got a hit in the evidence database,” he explains. “They confirmed the death.”

“For all I know, the coroner works for him. I expect everything from that motherfucker,” you cross your arms over your chest. 

“Put the tinfoil hat away. You need to accept that our prime suspect is gone,” he implores you to see a microscopic amount of reason. “It’s over.”

“It’s over when I say it’s over, Minho.”

“I don’t think it works that way, Agent.” 

The Chief’s voice echoes behind you, stern but somewhat resigned. When all else fails, you always look to him to reassure yourself that it’s only turbulence, but when even a seasoned commander like him looks that defeated, it’s about 97% confirmed that the plane is going to crash.

“Patrol fleets did a pulse check. All his known affiliates went into hiding,” he debriefs the team. “Until there is at least Level 2 activity resurfacing on our radar, this case is now classified as cold. Effective immediately.”

“But sir—!”

“Let it go, Agent. It’s time to move on to other things that can actually yield results. We wasted enough time,” he gently taps your shoulder. “Dismissed.”

You don’t want to accept it. It can’t end like this!

Your every waking minute has been dedicated to this energy smuggling case for god knows how long now. With every extraction operation you have busted, with every base you have raided, you have been closing in on your faceless target inch by inch. Indeed, the distance between two things will never close if one of them jumps two steps further every time the other comes only one step closer, but for you, that’s never been a reason to just give up. Because giving up means you are turning Verona City into an all-you-can-eat buffet for Duskfall. Giving up means no Sigma gene holder is safe from being randomly kidnapped on the way to work one day. Giving up means even stronger weapons of mass destruction will be built harvesting their core energy.

Countless hours, terabytes of data, hundreds of victims, comrades dead along the way…

It cannot be wiped out with a half-assed ‘Because I said so.’

Once the crowd starts dispersing, you get closer to Minho and nudge him to walk towards the break room.

“I’m still going tonight,” you whisper to him after making sure no one is in the vicinity to eavesdrop. “My guy is meeting me there.”

“Captain…”

“I just know it in my gut that Zephyr is still alive, Minho,” you start arguing your case. “Callum says I will definitely find what I’m looking for at this event, and he knows who I’ve been fucking bloodlusting after.”

“You keep calling him he for convenience’s sake, but you don’t even know who this silent informant is,” he begins his own opening remarks. “How do you even know this is legit?”

“Because every piece of intel he has ever provided us checked out,” you answer feverishly. “Did you forget we cleaned up most of the West Side thanks to him?”

“Yes, but that was then. The winds have shifted since,” Minho assumes his role of logic’s advocate as usual. “If Chief hears you’re disobeying a direct order, you will get suspended!”

“Which is why he won’t,” you emphasize, eyes threateningly widened like saucers. “I’d much rather ask for forgiveness than permission, and I’m just letting my partner know on the off chance that something happens.”

“At least let me come with you.”

“No, that will draw unnecessary attention. I only have one ticket anyway,” you firmly refuse. “Are you still my ride or die?” 

He’s exasperated. There is no point in trying to talk you out of it since it’s nothing but a futile attempt with your stubbornness. 

“If it looks like things are gonna go south, do not do anything dumb,” he urges you, more like a brother than a subordinate. You squeeze his shoulders with a triumphant smile on your face.

Yes, it’s a risk. It’s a stupidly big risk, but you’re willing to take it.

Because you have nothing to lose anymore.

𝐒𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐀

Oh, it’s a miracle. 

The news of the princess waking up with no embers on her skin reaches His Majesty first thing in the morning, and the latest healer that just happened to be in the palace receives his weight in gold as a reward. You have no intention of telling your father that he is being scammed because you cannot risk divulging that you are indeed frequenting a certain spring mentioned in some fool’s tale.

You have been visiting the woods every night to bathe, but it’s not just to soothe your blaze. A small, unwavering hope in your heart longs to see the Alexandrite eyes again. You want to feel his frost on your skin again. You want to tell him if he feels lonely all by himself among the evergreen trees, you can keep him company. But he never shows up. 

Your hope is dying like a candle in the snow. 

As you prepare to leave on the fifth night, a deep howl reverberates throughout Skotia Woods. It’s not a bone-chilling omen of danger; it wrenches your heart the way it sounds like a lament over something that will never come back. It’s dead silent except for the echoes still resonating within you, and you are trying to figure out which direction is home to that sound.

Before you can take three steps, a leviathanic cotton ball appears through the trees. It has to be a cotton ball; you have never seen a wolf this big and white as snow. It looks more like an oversized dog. Cyra flies towards it in alarm, but her shrieks are quick to subside when she hears whimpering. She lands and hops alongside the beautiful beast as it limps closer and stops at your feet to smell you. Cyra sadly chirps, showing you the red stains on the dog’s back legs.

“Oh, you poor thing, what happened to you?” you kneel, eyes filled with worry. “It’s alright. It won’t hurt in a bit, okay?”

You sit in the snow and tenderly embrace the gentle giant in your lap. It looks twice your size when you are at eye level. You close your eyes. A warm breeze blows from your palm as you ghost your hand over the bleeding wound, and vibrant pink strings of light swirl around the leg. Moments later, the whimpering stops, and you are attacked with affectionate licks all over your face. 

“What did I tell you last time? Are you trying to fall prey?!”

Your giggle fit instantly stops like a sword has fallen on it, but your heart chirps as loudly as Cyra does at sunsets. The Alexandrite eyes are looking at you again. Then they look at the dog. Then its legs.

They take a full aqua hue when they land on the blood stains.

“What did you do to him?” he lunges at you, coarse hand holding your throat in a tight grip. “What did you DO?!”

“I–I didn’t do anything, I swear! He was hurt! I w–wanted to soothe the pain!” 

The cotton ball acts faster than Cyra and bites the Lycan’s ankle to throw him off, then gets in front of you and aggressively growls at him. Your cough softens as you rub your throat. His heavy breathing calms down. As he caresses the dog’s thick fur, an icy blue light appears, covering it in a coat of ice so thin that it’s invisible if the moonlight doesn’t directly reflect on it. 

He suddenly gets up and leaves with rushed steps. The cotton ball takes one look at you, then follows suit. You hurriedly get on your feet and start tailing them.

“What is your name?” you ask as you try to catch up to him.

“Stop following me.”

“I just want to know your name.”

“Do you intend to call out to me at nightfall?” he derisively spits. “I do not grant death wishes. Leave.”

“Why do you have to be so rude?!”

“A myriad of apologies. Did my beastly ways upset the princess?”

“Why are you staying away from me?” your voice rises. “I’m harmless. I won’t hurt you.”

“But I will hurt you.”

“Just… LOOK AT ME!!!”

He turns around so fast you almost bump into him. His chest is heaving, nostrils flared, jaw clenched tight like he’s forcing restraint. It doesn’t scare you. His eyes still glow aqua, but not as brightly anymore. You approach closer. Slowly. Throwing caution to the wind. You don’t know why you naively think he’s not going to do anything to you. Maybe he will, and you will die in this forest tonight, and no one will ever find your body. But you don’t care.

You just don’t care.

You reach for his face and put your hand on his cheek again. It feels like the finest porcelain under your touch. You are terrified you will somehow damage it.

“How are you this beautiful?” you admire him, hypnotized by his sheer existence. “I just want to gaze at you for hours.”

The softening of his features is imperceptible to the naked eye. As your hand descends from his cheek to his neck, his heart races just like the way it does when he’s running wild in this forest, but this feeling is brand new. He doesn’t like it. He feels tickled inside. His spine starts to sweat.

You are quite literally melting him. 

“Kritzephyr.”

You don’t understand what he’s trying to say. Your eyes narrow when this seemingly unknown tongue caresses your ears. 

“My name,” he averts his gaze from you, brows still creased. “It’s Kritzephyr.”

“Kriz…tophr?” you tilt your head trying to pronounce the strange word.

Your failed attempt at replication amuses him. The crack in his stoic façade is so subtle that you will miss it if you don’t own a magnifying glass.

“Sure,” he suppresses the chuckle growing in his throat. 

“Can we sit here together?” you point at the lake to your right.

He nods as he stares at his feet. The cotton ball chases Cyra like she’s a butterfly, and she taunts him by floating over his head. You both sit on a rock, just watching them in silence. This is the first time you witness his smile, and it’s nothing less than glorious. Your heart beats harder when you notice he has dimples embellishing the curls of his lips. He doesn’t look at you, but he can tell you are looking at him. His pinky moves just enough to touch yours. You intertwine your finger with his like you’re making a promise.

Behind the trees, a pair of poison ivy irises gleam as they watch the two silhouettes sitting side by side. The more she wants to throw up jealousy, the brighter they glow with homicidal rage.

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

“Altipotens.”

If Chief were to see you in your disguise, he would probably bid you a fun evening rather than confiscating your gun on the spot since it looks like you’re about to attend some nepo baby’s ostentatious wedding. The hosts have packaged the event as a fundraiser, but their choice of venue is remarkably bizarre for something that’s supposed to be for public benefit. There are no lights oozing out of the derelict building you are standing in front of to indicate any sort of human activity inside.

Worst case scenario, you will commit your first arson in self-defense and flee the scene.

The Judas window on the iron door slides close when you utter your bespoke code, and the door opens. You are greeted by five people in security uniforms and Venetian masks covering their entire faces, a perfect addition to the already strong off-the-wall vibe, and they scan you for any devices or weapons you may possess as you are strictly not allowed to carry any on you. One of them gives the green light, and the door to the right of the dark space unlocks on its own. Jazz progressions immediately flow into the darkness you are standing in and hold your hand to come play.

Your itinerary is pretty much by the book so far. Wear an ice blue dress: check. Find the correct location: check. Go through security detail: check. Don’t die in the meantime: in progress.

You approach the bar and sit on the only stool available, squeezing yourself between two sharply dressed people. Now all you have to do is wait for Callum to spot you.

“Anything to drink, miss?”

“Any sauvignon you have is fine. Thank you.”

As you look around the room, impatiently tapping your fingers on the counter, a shadow is cast on the dapper bartender’s features. He subtly presses a button before him, then reaches for a wine glass.

“She meant guacamole,” the stoic voice of the man sitting to your left corrects. “Excuse the improper fundraiser decorum. She is a virgin.”

The bartender dips his head in acknowledgment, but his eyes cling to suspicion as he leaves. You don’t know if it’s to prepare this strange order or not. Your head turns towards your savior. He has an almost-finished glass of scotch before him.

“If you think a bartender wants to take your drink order in a place like this, you’re asking to get killed,” he softly whispers, then finally turns to his right to meet your gaze.

The second you lock eyes with the pair of Alexandrites behind the Phantomesque mask covering half his face, a strange feeling sets in. You would remember if you knew anyone with such distinct gemstones for irises, yet it’s so strangely familiar that it’s driving you crazy you can’t place where you know him from. He reaches for your face and leans into your ear, warm breath starting an ice cold blizzard on your skin.

“Don’t say anything stupid and follow my lead,” he whispers with a gentle kiss on your earlobe.

“First time someone is with you, sir,” a man in a crisp suit greets with a synthetically polite smile.

“That would be because I’m not usually the biggest fan of human interaction,” your barmate responds with a languid turn of his stool. “She is obviously my guest.”

“May I see her insignia?”

He breaks into a smile. It’s a smile of tranquil lunacy. It’s the kind of smile that signals a rapidly depleting supply of patience, and there is no telling what may happen if it’s completely bankrupt.

“I will pretend I didn’t just hear this for your sake,” the nameless Phantom pulls you close from your waist with aqua hellfire blazing in his eyes. “Certain parts of my lady’s body are for my eyes only, and I will be required to gouge yours if you perceive her.”

The suit man swallows. He pretends he has asserted sufficient authority to follow code.

“My most profound apologies,” he nods in remorse wrapped in equal parts respect and terror, then leaves.

When the suit man walks out of your field of vision, the relief spreads in your veins so fast that it gives you a headrush. Your shoulders droop as you catch your breath.

“I… really appreciate it,” you offer your gratitude.

“You’re welcome, but I can’t say I reciprocate the sentiment. I’m a little sick and tired of constantly moving because of you.” He waits for a couple of seconds before he lowers his voice to a seductively discreet volume. “Agent.”

His endlessly entertained smile feels like the most derogatory insult that can touch any pair of lips. It jumpstarts your synapses. Your breath stutters in your throat, and something hot starts spreading in your chest.

The legend of the underworld stands right before you.

“It’s you.” You work up the courage to utter the name you have only heard in hushed whispers. “You are Zephyr, aren’t you?”

“Extreme pleasure to meet you in person,” he inserts a chivalrous filter in his voice, still acting like the intents and purposes of the night are entertainment-related. “I don’t mean to be crass, but you are so much more pleasant to look at up close.”

“I fucking knew it!”

Your impulses take full control of you, and tremendously miscalculating what would be the correct time and place to blast a scorchstorm on your mortal enemy’s face, you raise your hand. At least you want to. All he does is move his gaze from your lips to your hand, and in the zeptoseconds that lapsed between the two destinations, you lose the ability to move. He stares at your hand like he is no longer amused. He stares like he is disappointed. Like he is offended.

He stares like he is bored.

“Don’t make a scene. You will be dead before you can say freeze,” he turns to his drink again and conjures ice cubes in his glass with a circle he draws in the air. He chortles to himself when he realizes the unintended pun he made. “The irony would be almost as cute as you, though.”

“Unfreeze my hands, fucking monster,” you quietly spit through your clenched teeth.

“Some jobs make you a monster, some jobs you have to be a monster to do,” he takes a lackadaisical sip and relishes the chilly bitterness on his tongue before it burns his throat. “Whichever you think I am is wrong, by the way.”

He twists his stool in your direction, and one look at your hands melts your invisible shackles. You can move your hands again, but barely; it feels too hot and too cold at the same time like a frostbite. Like you’ve been standing in a snowstorm for hours.

“Let’s skip the foreplay. I’m getting turned on,” he heaves an impatient sigh. “I will give you something way bigger so you’ll get off my dick.”

“There’s nothing bigger than you!”

“Why, thank you for noticing,” he grins, all but humble. “Feel free to ride me to death, but I meant metaphorically.” 

You’re caught so off guard, your mind goes fully blank. He takes the opportunity to segue into more serious matters.

“Dynamo Inc. in exchange for an already dead man,” he rips off his seductor dimples as he makes his offer. “I’ll tell you what they’re bidding on tonight and what they intend to do with it over the next five years.”

If you could find your voice, you would yell a deafening “WHAT?!” like you do when you are astounded at the choices made by the characters of your favorite shows. You can’t believe their affiliates are roaming this shady as hell place right this moment. 

Dubbed ‘pioneers of human life betterment’ with those Xandra assistants they invented, Dynamo has created a ‘respectable’ front for themselves as energy tech giants, and that tremendous success came with an absolute market monopoly they can abuse. Even though there is still no conclusive evidence on it, it’s a known fact that their corruption goes deeper than the sewers of Verona City, and the talk behind closed doors has it that Duskfall is just a measly subcontractor serving the gargantuan scope of Dynamo’s activities.

No matter how much you suck at mental math, this probability problem holds grave importance, and you have to solve it fast. 

Hard fact: He is not actually giving you Dynamo—just the information that can tank one of their hundreds of possible operations, which apparently has a five-year plan.

Harder fact: There isn’t a single person that embodies Dynamo as a whole, which means they can always grow back an arm that’s cut off. The absence of the man that finishes the job, on the other hand, will inevitably expose a lot of operational vulnerabilities until they can replace him.

The hardest fact: Zephyr is a solid yes whereas Dynamo is a doubtful maybe. He is standing right in front of you right now.

Ergo, close but no cigar.

“No,” you firmly reject. “I want you.”

“Baby, believe me I want you, too, but there are too many people here,” he licks his lips as he drags one finger from your shoulder down your bare arm. His soft voice suddenly turns ruthlessly stern, painting a clearer picture of the actual status of his mental stability. “You should think of this as payback for the informant services you’ve been using for free for so long.”

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

FUCK! 

You should have known better. You shouldn’t have naively believed in the vigilante spirit of the civilians wanting to fight for their city. You should have known that you were being played for a majestic fool.

“You’re Callum?!”

“In the flesh,” he triumphantly smiles, knowing full well he just checked the mate, and tucks your hair behind your ear. “If word got out who your source was all along, one might think… I don’t know, you are colluding or something. We wouldn’t want the honorable captain of CRIT to get a corrupt rep now, would we?”

“We didn’t ask you to provide intel for us.”

“But you also never bothered to ask for the price. You’ve racked up quite the debt, beautiful.”

He gets off his stool and stands tall before you, wrapping one hand around your waist like a snake as he lifts your chin with the other. He gazes at your beauty with eyes glowing a ferocious violet, utterly mesmerized. You should feel angrier than whatever it is you are feeling right now. He looks at you like he wants you both to get the fuck outta there and have your naked showdown in an obscenely expensive bedroom somewhere, ravishing each other all night long.

And a granular piece of you wants to let him.

“You really should pay attention to who you’re getting in bed with before you get your cunt licked. I’ll gladly do it either way, but it’s you who will black out when you can’t take it anymore,” he throws your biggest failure to date with the suavity of an overpriced homme fatal, each word whispered against your lips like sweet nothings as if you’re in between his sheets. “It’s time to pay the piper now.”

“And if I refuse?”

He pulls you closer, and something sharp and pointy presses right under your left ribcage. You can’t tell what it is, but it feels too cold to be a mere blade. It’s somehow dry and wet at the same time. 

“I don’t think you have that luxury,” he places the softest kiss on the tip of your nose. “Please don’t make me do it before we kiss even once.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing within the realm of impossible.” The poking feeling subsides as he pleasantly smiles at you as though you just agreed to a dinner invitation. He nods towards a large matte black door in the distance, the very same one the suit man walked through not too long ago. “We’re gonna go into that room, and you’re gonna put your horrendous acting skills to good use for me.”

“As what?”

“I already insinuated something to cover your pretty ass, and everybody inside is probably already talking about it,” he brushes your face with the back of his fingers. “You will act the part of either my mistress or my queen. Your call.”

It isn’t excitement, you’re sure of it, but you still don’t know what caused something to thump that hard in your chest when he said queen.

“I’d still like to keep whatever remains of my dignity, thank you very much.”

“My queen, it is,” he finally peels himself off you. You shiver when he takes a step back. He extends his hand, launching his dimples at you without any servings of smugness for once. “Do we have a deal?”

As if you have a choice. Exhaling out of your nose in frustration, you shake his hand. He intertwines his fingers with yours and places a chivalrous kiss on your hand as he stares into your soul. You can’t tell for how long he’s lingered there, but it feels like minutes, nor can you look away from his hypnotizing Alexandrites, now gleaming in a shade of warm purple. Much closer to a cozy pink than a faded blue.

You could swear you heard a cracking sound when he removed his lips from your skin this time. 

𝐒𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐀

“Why do you never come out during the day?”

Snowdrops are in full bloom in Skotia Woods. It’s much colder than usual tonight, but the thin layer of scorch that outlines your body helps you keep warm. You are unwittingly radiating a pink hue around you. Cyra and the cotton ball you now named Chion are playing as usual as Kritzephyr sharpens his dagger. You wonder why he feels the need to carry a blade when he has several of those for teeth already.

“How do you know I don’t?” 

You falter when he responds with a question in that blizzard voice of his. He steals a glance when you’re not looking, and the corners of his lips curl ever so slightly. 

So you come to the forest looking for him when the sun is out, too, huh?

“I sleep through the day now,” you pierce the silence again, a somewhat bashful smile creeping up your lips as you glue your eyes on the small fire you set before you.

“Why?”

“So that I can wake up at night.”

“But why?”

Isn’t it obvious? It should be obvious, but he insists. It embarrasses you when he does. You feel like you are overstepping even though you are the owner of everything the light touches. 

“No… reason,” your voice wanes into a whisper.

He has been alone for as long as he can remember and liked it that way. Never in a million years did he think there would come a day he would enjoy someone’s company. He likes asking you questions he knows the answers to. He likes being liked by you. 

Maybe a bit too much.

“It is not wise,” he sternly declares as he turns the other side of the blade. “The forest is crawling with all kinds of beasts.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“By blasting little matches from your hands?”

Oh, you see red. It makes you so mad that you unleash that fury by sending a raging fire on a mass of ice floating on the river. It doesn’t melt; it immediately sublimates.

“That was unnecessary,” he looks at the hot vapor floating in the air with blank eyes.

“What does it take with you?!” you jump to your feet in exasperation. “I have done nothing to you! Why are you so cold to me?”

“Are you really asking that to me?” he retorts, voice as calm as a winter night, and points to his left to remind you of the white blanket covering the entire forest. There is nothing but ice as far as the eye can see.

“If you didn’t want me here, you would tell me to go,” you pout with the stubbornness of a child.

“I did. Many times,” he corrects. “You don’t seem to understand what it means.”

“Do you… really not want me here?”

He looks up at you and witnesses your sorrowful eyes. The glow around you has turned into a faded pastel. Fuck, he has gone too far. He panics really really bad and feels his chest tightening. He wants to ask you to burn him alive as punishment. No. No. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. 

“It’s… n–nice,” he stammers, “wh–when you are here.”

You smile at him so brightly that he can feel his spine sweating again. Your heart takes flight. You rush to his side and sit right next to him, one hand gently caressing his face. He melts a little more when he feels you on his skin.

“What are you so afraid of, my ice king?”

He closes his eyes and leans into your touch. He wants the world to stop. He wishes he could be something else other than the monster he is. He can’t even look you in the eye as much as he wants to.

“Of… scaring you,” he quietly replies.

“You mean when you change?”

He musters a little courage and aims his Alexandrites at your gaze. His brows are furrowed. They are furrowed so often that there are permanent creases on his forehead.

It still doesn’t take anything away from his beauty. 

“Do you know what happens when my kind falls in love, princess?” he continues without waiting for an actual answer. “It’s very ugly.”

The glow around you suddenly turns hot pink when he says fall in love. You wonder whether that question means what you think it means. You have heard things about Lycans being… devoted creatures, but that’s about it. 

“But how can something as pure as the snow be ugly?” you ask him with genuine curiosity.

He squeezes his eyes like he’s in pain, then abruptly stands up to leave.

“You won’t understand.”

“Then explain it to me,” you grab onto his wrist.

“No.”

“Tell me!”

He turns around and kneels to be at eye level with you. From that up close, he looks like a predator about to devour you in one bite, eyes glowing a ferocious violet. He looks enraged. He looks wild.

He looks hungry.

“I will forsake everything that’s not you. I will know no such thing as a moral compass, and I will be solely ruled by my instincts. Anything and anyone that dares to take you away from me will perish. My devotion to you will be my sole guide in everything I do, and every full moon, I will love you so vehemently that you will gasp for air. Will you still want to be my crystal bride THEN?!”

You lean forward and take his lips within yours with no hesitation. He doesn’t push you away this time. His is a passion so clandestine, and the frost it’s buried under is the only thing that can calm your blaze. It doesn’t matter that he is a beast; it’s still as pure as the snow surrounding you. His kiss is a soothing touch on your lips. Your kiss is a cozy embrace on his. It feels like the exact thing the other needs.

…has needed since lifetimes ago.

“Yes,” you delicately hold his face in your hands. “As long as you have room for me in your heart, I will always want to be your bride for an eternity.”

He holds you tight in his embrace, feeling your heat on his fingertips. As he tastes your lips deeper, your heat comes back, fueling his. There are voices in his head, whispering abominable things to him. His breathing escalates. He is scared of himself because he can feel how violent he is getting inside.

He forces himself to stop even though it’s not even the last thing he wants.

“Do you not… want me?” you look at him with the saddest eyes he’s ever seen.

“There is nothing I want more,” he holds your hands tightly. “Not in this life, not in any other, but just…”

You are willing to completely devote yourself to him, but you can’t understand why he is so apprehensive. It’s not naive to think he’s not going to willingly hurt you. Maybe he will, but even if he does, you know it will not be because he wants to inflict pain on you. Even if he does, pain from his hands will still taste so sweet, you know it. 

You just know it.

“You are my snowdrop,” his face falls with shame. “How can I ever do this to you?” 

Your sorrow subsides, and a smile blooms on your lips again. Your heart swells with your adoration for him.

“You are not doing anything to me,” you touch his face. “I want to belong to you. I already belong to you; I just want to seal it. 

“I don’t wish for you to… see me like that,” he divulges his biggest fear. “I don’t want you to be scared of me. It will kill me if you abandon me with myself again.”

You lift his chin and make him face you. His beautiful eyes are glowing a faded blue. You press your hand on his chest, hoping against hope that you could absorb some of his burden.

“There is nothing that can make me walk away from you,” you reassure him. “Even you couldn’t.”

A small drop of relief burns his chest. He kisses your hands with gentleness that does not match his frame.

“In three nights’ time, it will be new moon,” he hesitantly speaks. “If you… still want me then…”

“I will always want you.” 

He can’t help himself and steals a kiss from you again. It rapidly escalates. You force yourself to stop this time because otherwise you won’t be able to keep your hands off of him. You know you belong here with him, but if your ice king wishes for it to be on a new moon night, you shall respect it.

You shall be his under the sheets of the night.

“In three nights’ time, I shall take you as my bride,” he kisses your forehead and sees you off. “Come back to me safely, my queen.”

He watches the fiery bird whisking away the owner of his heart until it becomes another gleaming star in the sky. As he touches his still ablaze lips to feel you once again, he notices there are remains of a smile there. He feels excited. He feels nervous.

“Good evening, my lord,” a raven-haired woman approaches closer. “Went for a walk in the moonlight, did we?” 

And when he hears that voice, he feels furious.

His smile immediately perishes. He doesn’t acknowledge her and walks away with firm steps.

“Didn’t you forget a little something during your little… confession?” she chirps, following right behind him. “Like how you are supposed to take me as your bride?”

“I told you this many times,” he responds without looking at her. “No such thing will happen.”

“I am your fate, my lord. No one can go against it.”

“Only fools would believe in your voodoo called fate,” he suddenly turns around and threateningly points at her. “And even if it existed, you sure as heavens would not be in mine.”

She is not intimidated in the slightest. She contently chuckles like a lunatic instead. He attempts to leave, but with a snap of a finger, poison ivies from both sides of the path hold hands and block his way. 

“This is your friendly warning. I strongly urge you to come to your senses and untether yourself from the princess when there is still time, or I will not be as nice next time,” she warns. “I will destroy everything you hold dear.”

Snowdrops are in full bloom in Skotia Woods, but when she stares at them with that much envy in her eyes, they turn charcoal black and wither in an instant.

“Starting with her,” she places a kiss on his bare shoulder and walks away with a sinister smile.

𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘

“Stop looking so nervous. We are here to shop,” your forced plus one hisses under his breath, his arm linked with yours. “You’re my queen. Act like it.”

You start walking among the tables hosting different casino games, the kind of cash that can save a small country thrown around like measly tips. It’s unclear what fund is being raised for what cause here since nothing about blood money says philanthropy.

“Your little trick at the bar,” you speak softly not to raise suspicion, watching dice roll and cards flip all around. “Your core is ice?”

“If you have to ask, I will start second-guessing my estimation of your intelligence,” he responds with a smirk.

“Is it considered cannibalism if you eat ice cream?” 

“Very amusing,” he turns his head to you. “Quit your job and come be my personal entertainer instead. I’ll pay you bank.”

“You’re a Sigma gene holder, too,” you grimace, not hearing him. “How can you even live with yourself?”

“You’d be surprised what you can live with, beautiful. Nothing is ever what it seems,” he heaves an indifferent sigh, detaching himself from you once he notices a table in the distance. “Wait for me here.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do by myself?!” you shriek.

“Just check out the merchandise,” he fixes his cuffs. “If you like something, put it on my tab.”

“Can’t I just come with you?”

“Entrance is by invitation only, and not even being my mistress entitles you to admittance.”

“Your mistress?” you repeat in the language of ‘I beg your fucking pardon?’

“What? You’re still my queen,” he smiles with mirth in his eyes. “Do you see anyone around wearing wedding rings? People come here to misbehave.” 

He pulls you close by your waist, catching you off guard, but as soon as the distance between you becomes almost nonexistent, his face falls. The smug grin evaporates. He looks like he’s getting mad at something, and you can see his eyes are slowly turning violet again.

She is yours. Take her.  

A shiver slides down his spine.

He has never felt anything like this before in his life. A hot flash envelops him like a straitjacket, immobilizing all his faculties of reason, and he suddenly feels very antsy. His chest is tightening, his heart rate is escalating, and his teeth are itching. He wonders if he’s on the verge of a heart attack because if he is, he really needs to get his priorities straight—all he can think about is creaming your pussy so thick that it gushes out of you.

Then you kiss him out of nowhere like an intrusive thought, and his knees almost give way.

An intense wave of déjà vu washes over you. His taste, the shape of his lips, the texture of his skin, everything is so maddeningly familiar as if you’ve been kissing each other for decades already, and it drives you crazy that you don’t know from where. It’s just a kiss, but you can feel something long dormant within you has just been set alight. You just can’t be sure if there was a sign inside that said Do not awaken.

When you look at each other again, his eyes somehow turn into shooting stars—they flash luminous violet for the briefest moment, but the gleam instantly dies out. 

“Do not mingle. I don’t like anybody touching what’s mine, and I’m not in the mood to off someone,” he speaks into your lips in a hushed tone. “It’s hard to find a body shop that doesn’t ask questions at this hour.”

He then walks away, and something finally releases you from its death grip. You can breathe normally again, though slightly dazed like you just woke up. You pat your cheeks to snap out of it and channel your attention to the room instead, scanning the tables for any familiar faces. 

“Good evening.”

To your left stands a man. He wears a cologne crafted to make people smell like gentlemen, but it isn’t enough to mask the stench of his sleaziness. 

“Good evening,” you greet him nevertheless. 

“You seemed so lonely from afar,” he approaches closer. “Can I offer my company to the beautiful lady?”

“Oh, I’m with…”

You don’t know anything about this man! Do people know he’s Zephyr? Does he go by another name? You don’t want to divulge something you’re not supposed to and make people even more suspicious. You would prefer it if you stayed in one piece tonight.

But you’re horribly blanking. 

“…a date,” you eventually finish your sentence.

“Some date, huh?” he rests his hand on your bare shoulder. “I wouldn’t let a beauty like you off my arm for one second.”

You stare daggers at the fingers calloused from counting so much money, giving this entitled slime a three-second grace period to fucking remove it. You’re trying your best not to make a scene here, but if it comes to that, you’re not above killing a man just with your thumb. 

“Do you want me to handcuff you to myself, baby? Because I’ll do it,” a maniacal voice graces your ears.

His blizzard arrives before Zephyr does. He appears out of thin air and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close as if to shield you. He pierces a hole into the slime’s forehead with his radioactive aqua eyes, bright enough to blind half the room, yet he has such a pleasant smile on his face. So damn pleasant that it’s fucking terrifying. 

“Good evening, Markus. Did you have a death wish?” he politely asks. 

“M–Mr. Bang,” the slime stutters, clearly about to faint. He then bows so deep, his forehead almost touches the tip of his toes. “I apologize, sir. I–I didn’t know you had a guest with you.”

“Guest doesn’t quite cover our bond,” he turns to you and gently kisses your neck. “Wouldn’t you say, my queen?”

He is yours. Make him kneel. 

His lips make contact with your skin, and you hear words reverberate inside your head. You don’t know why, but you believe it. In that moment, you believe you are his queen. Your heart has already started doing weird somersaults when he’s close by, but the more you are around each other, the stronger your body seems to be responding. 

When you remain silent, he lightly squeezes your side for you to come to your senses and react.

“Stop embarrassing me in public,” you touch behind your ear and giggle bashfully.

He knows it’s fake, but it still sounds like music to his ears. He holds your hand and brings it to his nose, the hot flash blasting on his face at full force again. His eyes close on their own. He doesn’t know why either, but he finds himself inhaling your scent from your wrist and softly kissing it, looking damn near blackout drunk. Or maybe he’s been drunk this entire time. 

On what, the jury’s still out on that.

“Keep this seat warm for me, will you? Your man has a little… business to take care of,” he emphasizes, holding your chin. “Don’t miss me too much. I’ll be back before your drink arrives.”

He’ll be away just for a few minutes, but he still kisses your lips goodbye like he’s going to war, and your heart tries to break free from your throat. You get whiplash when the butterfly-adjacent feelings quickly turn to stone-cold terror as Markus gets dragged to what seems like a supply closet in the distance. It’s so loud that nobody even bothers to look in that direction when the door slams close.

“Which hand did you touch her with?” Zephyr asks with eerie tranquility. 

“Sir, please…”

“Which… hand?”

Markus raises his right. Zephyr grabs the work gloves resting on a shelf nearby and shoves them in the slime’s mouth. His face contorts in pure rage, and there’s no telling what he’s about to do to this man. 

But all of a sudden, he stops as if invisible fingers pull him back from his collar. 

“What am I doing?” he shakes his head like he’s just coming to his senses. His features soften, he smiles, and reaches for a handshake. “Just promise me that you won’t do it again, okay?”

Markus fervently nods and takes the hand that will absolve him. As soon as the ice-cold fingers wrap around his, however, his entire arm freezes solid, little snowflakes forming on his skin with subtle crackling sounds. It feels so fucking heavy that he’s about to fall to his side. He can’t move.

“But you did touch my queen, though.”

Zephyr twists the arm as hard as he can, and it breaks with a loud crack like he’s walking on ice wearing lava shoes. Markus’ eyes immediately well up with tears, his ear-piercing scream a mere whimper because of the suppressor he’s chewing on.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” his punisher smiles like all is well and leaves. 

When he walks back into the loud room, Zephyr spots you grabbing two champagne flutes from a passing waiter. He smiles again, but this time it’s by no means saccharine. Come to think of it, this might be the only thing from tonight that was genuine. 

Well, along with that other thing that happened when he kissed you.

“Aw, you care about me,” he coos while reaching for the extra flute in your hand. 

“Bang,” you repeat what you’ve heard a few moments ago. “What’s your first name? Click?”

“Trying to be funny?” 

“Not trying, I’ve been told I’m very amusing,” you imitate him. 

“You are,” he acknowledges, clinking his glass with yours. “My offer stands. Just one hour a night with me, and I’ll change your life.”

“I’m not your actual mistress,” you deadpan. You’re not sure you even want to hear the answer, but your morbid curiosity puts a gun to your head to ask him, “You didn’t do something to him, did you?”

“Doesn’t concern you since he will soon be a dead man,” he casually answers.

“What? Why?!”

“Because no one touches what’s mine,” he leans into your face, “and certainly not my queen.”

“I’m not your queen!” 

“Aren’t you, though?”

He rests a finger on your collarbone and slowly drags it towards your cleavage where the pendant of a snowflake necklace rests. 

“Such good taste,” he admires. “You should know, nothing turns me on more than blind loyalty.” 

“How the fuck is wearing a necklace pledging my allegiance to you?” you cock a brow.

“Everything ice touches is mine, snowdrop,” he firmly declares. 

You shudder from head to toe when you hear that name.

No one has ever called you that before. You’re not sure you’ve even seen snowdrops in your life. Then…

Then why?

“Dance with me,” he holds your hand and pulls you to a secluded corner. 

He doesn’t ask. He tells and he does. For such a crass man, he holds you unusually tenderly. A strange feeling fills you up when you look into his eyes. They are so distinct; no way there is another pair like this in the universe, let alone in Verona City. Which is why it’s even more uncanny that you feel like… 

…you know him. 

You don’t know why you feel the need to wrap your arms around him tighter, but you do. For the first time the entire night, you see him get the tiniest bit flustered, and it surprises you.

“You’re not really the big bad wolf you make yourself out to be, are you?” you chuckle.

“Sure,” he suppresses the laughter growing in his throat. 

He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t know you, not personally at least. This is the very first time you have interacted in person, yet it still ticks him off to homicidal levels when he notices the mark on your neck.

“Wasn’t aware you were already running with the wolves,” he clenches his jaw. “I’m a very jealous man, just so you know.”

“Look who’s trying to outfunny me,” you scoff.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny. I’m known to cause bloody scenes,” he responds flatly, “but you already know that.”

“I don’t know what your sick mind is imagining, but that’s a birthmark,” you inform him.

He doesn’t believe it. It looks too distinct to be a birthmark. He wonders if he can remove it if he stares at it long enough. He wonders when you would be available for a dermatology appointment.

His thumb caresses the mark, and you suddenly wince like someone has pinched you. A frame of a frozen lake flashes before his eyes in one-tenth of a second. 

She is yours. Take her.  

He looks at your lips. You look at his. The violet shooting stars appear again, but they don’t immediately die this time. Your hands move on their own and slide down his broad chest. His hands move on their own and slide down your back. One of them stops at your hips, but the other continues until it reaches your inner thighs. You suddenly forget what you’re supposed to do, where you are, who you are… 

All you know is that you want him deliriously.

He is yours. Devour him.

“Christopher,” he says out of nowhere.

You don’t understand what that has to do with anything. Your eyes narrow when this unfamiliar name caresses your ears. 

“My name,” he repeats, not even blinking as he breathes heavily. “It’s Christopher.”

Christopher. Chris.

This is the very first time you’ve heard it, but somehow a part of you still wants to say “I know”. You look around to see if there is a clock nearby so you can declare the time of death for Zephyr. 

“Why are you telling me this?” you ask him. “It can and will be used against you.”

Chris never sweats, but he can feel the drops forming on his spine. He can feel the scorching heat you are exuding, pulling him in, swallowing him whole, threatening to melt him to depletion. But he doesn’t care. 

Even a man who has seen everything including death needs to be entertained sometimes. 

“Because I wanna hear you moan it,” he answers and crashes into your lips headfirst.

You grab the collar of his shirt and pull him close until your back hits against a wall. That tight space you are squeezed in between a locked door and an out-of-order slot machine is not exactly interchangeable with a room. You are indecently groping each other in a room full of people. Any passerby can see what you’re doing if they squint into the darkness, but you don’t care. This isn’t a sudden itch you have to scratch. This isn’t a whim you are luxuriating in. 

This feels like a survival need that has to be met right now, otherwise you will fucking die.

As he lets you undo his belt, Chris runs his hand up your thigh. He slides your underwear to the side and teases your dampened folds. You are wet, but you can’t take him like this. Without him getting you to beg for mercy. Without him working you to the brink of passing out. Without him making you flow a river of slick.

Slick.

SLICK.

He sees red.

She is yours. Take her.  

GOD he should have just grabbed your hand and fucked right off to an obscenely expensive bedroom somewhere, but he’ll make do with what he has. 

He harshly rips your underwear and drops to his knees, sliding your dress up to your hips. Fuck, you look so tight. Oh, you look like he could gobble you up in one bite. Like he could swallow you whole.

He puts your pussy in his mouth, and that’s exactly what he does.

He is yours. 

His hands are wrapped around your thighs, firmly keeping you in place, but you feel like an earthquake is happening. You don’t understand how this is even possible. He just licks, but licks deep. He licks like a dedicated servant serves the master he’s crazily in love with, so intense that you’re screaming at the top of your lungs like you’re getting triple penetrated. It’s intense, but you still push his head deeper into your cunt, trying to beg for your release. You would if you could form a single sentence. All that comes out of your mouth is incoherent sounds of pleasure. And guttural moans of his name. 

Chris is about to lose it. 

The more his tongue flicks on your swollen clit, the hungrier he gets. The more he pushes you to the edge, the more your legs shake. It’s alright. He just needs you to be ready for him. He needs your walls all engorged. He needs you to drown him in your slick.

Slick.

SLICK.

“CHRIS!!!”

The more you seize with inhuman amounts of pleasure, the more he feels an inhuman kick between his legs. 

You dig your fingers into his shoulders and pull him up, then latch yourself to his lips. The more you swirl your tongue around his to taste yourself, the more you feel the rasp of the growl in his throat. You finally free him and palm his girth, but something feels odd enough to make you stop and stare. 

He’s… big. Inhumanely so.

It caresses his colossal ego that your jaw drops at his size, but your frantic movements come to such a sudden halt that he looks down, appalled at what he’s seeing himself. He is almost twice as big as he knows himself to be, and what leaks from his slit does not look like precum. You look at each other again. Your eyes are questioning. His neon violets are impatient.

“Spit on it,” he firmly orders. 

He says the words, and something drips down your thighs as though on command. It’s so much that you think you’ve soiled yourself for a moment. It’s thicker than water, but not as thick as blood. Colorless, but not at all odorless. Smells sweeter than a flower’s nectar, in fact.

It’s as if you’ve rented your mind and soul to someone else. You no longer feel like yourself. 

A deranged smile blooms on your lips as you stare at him. You collect all the spit in your mouth, let it slowly drip on his soaked tip, and as soon as it makes contact with his skin, your back hits the wall again. It hurts a little bit, but it hurts good. Your smile devolves into maniacal laughter that does not belong to you. 

So do your words.

“Devour me,” you demand with narrowed eyes.

And that’s exactly what he does.

You don’t remember ever feeling this wet. It’s so slippery that he slides right in despite his inhuman size, and he seems to be growing even bigger inside. The obscene squelch of his thrusts is the only thing you can hear. It hurts, but it feels so right. You feel like you’re about to burst with how full he makes you feel, but it feels so right. You might die right fucking now, but it feels so right that you’re on cloud nine.

“Chris…”

“Louder. No one’s gonna hear,” he pants into your mouth. “Now be a good girl and take it.”

“Chris.”

“Take it.”

“Chris!”

“Take it!!!”

Something explodes inside you with such pressure that it feels like a bomb has gone off, your thighs drenched with the cum gushing out of you. As the euphoric haze starts to clear, you feel disoriented like you’re coming down from a bad trip, and a sharp headache pierces your head. The awareness of what you’ve just done knocks on the door of your consciousness, but the commotion that you haven’t even noticed has erupted in the room doesn’t let you process any of that. 

“What’s going on?” you ask, sanity barely there. 

“We’re leaving,” Chris grabs your hand and bolts towards the exit. 

You remember there were maybe fifty people in here, but it’s as if the population has somehow tripled. Chris tries to push through the crowd as fast as he can, but there are so many people trying to make a break for it that they push through you, the torrent of bodies separating you in an instant.

“CHRIS?!”

“WHERE ARE YOU?”

“CHR—!”

The loud explosion temporarily deafens you. Darkness swallows your vision as the ringing in your ear subsides. The last thing you remember from your consciousness is a painful howl,  but it’s not a bone-chilling omen of danger.

It sounds like a lament over something that will never come back.

❥ Reblog & drop your feedback to make Chris' eyes glow violet.

*a/n: End of Vol. I. Don't freak out; this story only has two volumes.

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[wolfiesroom]

If I could only read one author for the rest of my days, it would truly and genuinely be Scarlet’s writing. If you want to read something that makes you actually feel something, both tantalizing and enticing, their writing is where you should find yourself. I can’t wait for part two.

[igot7bulletproofmonstas]

Bloodlust

Pairing: Bang Chan x Reader

Category: Smut

Word Count: 3283

Warnings: Period sex. Unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving, but we didn't go all 'red wings' here, so don't freak out!), creampie, period sex, blood mentions, period symptoms, Chan's crippling breeding kink is mentioned, did I say period sex? I need you to know period sex is discussed here!! (not as messy as real life, that's for sure. This is actually quite tame compared to the real thing)

A/N: I got the following ask a couple of weeks ago after I posted my SKZ headcannons:

I didn't know when I'd write anything, I just knew I would. The idea hit me last night, so I wrote it out today and finished in about 2 hours. I'm not sure if this is what Nonnie wanted, but it's what felt right to me? All that to reiterate; YES this fic involves period sex! Full stop! If you're squeamish or think that's nasty or dirty, keep scrolling. I'm a grown ass adult who had experiences like this when she was married to her ex-husband, so I wrote about those experiences. There's NOTHING WRONG WITH THIS, so I don't wanna hear any bitchin'. Keep that shit to yourselves. Anyways, on with the show!

You laid on the couch, mindlessly flipping through channels, your hair still dripping water from your 3rd scalding hot shower today, soaking your shirt and the throw pillow you rested on, but you couldn’t care less; not when cramps straight from the seventh circle of hell were currently rolling through your abdomen.

The doctor assured you that switching to this new birth control would help alleviate the cramps and the nausea and the headaches and the PMS symptoms you’d been plagued with since you hit puberty.

The bitch lied through her teeth.

You were pulled from your thoughts as you boyfriend entered the room, arms laden like a pack mule with various comfort items. He’d been waiting on you hand and foot for the last couple days, much to your displeasure. It’s not that you minded him doing things, in fact you appreciated him greatly, but you felt bad watching him run around the house trying to find something, anything, to ease your misery.

He’d already spent the better part of the morning rubbing your back, stomach, and hips for over an hour, without a complaint in sight. Now he’s plopped down next to your curled legs to deposit his newest inventory onto the coffee table.

“Ok, Tylenol, Ibuprofen, full water bottle with no ice this time, adhesive heatwraps, a hot water bottle, your large WolfChan stuffie, 2 chocolate bars, canned espresso and…”

“Pickles?!” you ask incredulously.

“Yes, pickles. You need electrolytes and the vinegar triggers a nerve reflex in the throat that tells your body to relax. It’s why you see me drinking pickle juice when I come back from the gym. Sounds crazy, but trust me.” Chan replies matter of factly.

“Ok, Shaun T. Are we gonna sweat to the oldies with a Beach Body workout next?” your sarcastic giggle is cut short by another wave of cramping that causes you to curl into yourself tighter.

“Babygirl, I can’t stand seeing you like this. What can I do?” Chan asks with a pained expression.

“There’s not much you can do, babe.” you reply through gritted teeth. “That bitch ass doctor said the new birth control would help, but she was a lying TWAT OW!!” another solid pinch comes from deep within your abdomen.

“Want me to go get your wand?” Chan asks as he rubs soothing circles into your thigh.

“It’s dead and I really don’t feel like dickin’ with it. No pun intended.” you finally relax your body a bit as the recent wave of pain subsides.

“Fine, then I’ll dick with it.” he announces as he rises from his seat next to you and bends to hook an arm under you leg and one under your neck and carries you off to the bedroom.

“Chan! Put me down! What the fuck?” you cry out in surprise, no choice but to hang on for the ride.

“You know orgasms help cramps and I’m at my wits end here seeing you like this. I’ll take care of it my way.” he replies as he deposits you at the end of your bed and goes off to the linen closet to retrieve towels and a couple washcloths.

“Chan, what are you thinking?” you ask, knowing full well what his answer will be. For months now he’d been begging you to let him ‘relieve your pain’ with either giving you head or literal sex during that time of the month and you always shot him down cold. It’s not that the idea completely turned you off, per se, it was more of the fact that you couldn’t imagine letting anyone do something like that, no matter how badly they seemed to want to.

“You already know what I'm thinking and I’m not taking no for an answer.” he affirms as he lays the linens on the bed next to you. He notices your apprehensive glare and adds “Unless you really don’t want me to and it’s a hard stop I'll honor but, please let me help you babygirl?”

“But it’s so gross!”, you whine, falling back on to the bed from where you were propped up on your elbows and watching him.

“How is it gross?” he asks genuinely.

“It’s dirty.” you answer with a shiver of disgust.

“I beg your pardon? How is anything regarding your body, dirty? Especially when you’ve taken 3 showers this morning that were hot enough to boil a lobster?” he seemed genuinely offended by your remark.

“Ok, fine. It’s messy.” you scrunch your face at the thought.

“Uh-huh. Sex is always messy.” he points at the towels and rags by your feet. “That’s what these and soap and water are for.” he replied simply, as if he was referring to the sky being blue or water being wet.

“Have you even tried it before?” he asks, sitting down beside you nearer to the head of the bed.

“I mean, yeah. Once a long time ago, but it was a complete accident because I didn’t realize I’d started. The guy was pretty sketched out too. Thought he’d popped my cherry or something and I was gonna be a stage 5 clinger after. He ran like a scalded rabbit.” you explained. “Have you? Done….that?”

“Yeah.” his affirmative held no emotion beneath, yet it still sparked white hot jealousy in your gut for a split second. It was bad enough you had to accept there were women before you, but there was also someone he cared enough about to do that with her? For her? Oh these hormones are bullshit.

Chan, being the ever observant boyfriend that he is, immediately notices resentment cloud your features and pulls you into him.

“I did it because it honestly doesn’t bother me. It’s a natural bodily function like breathing or sleeping. I’m not a squeamish person to begin with, but even if I was, I would find a way to get past it to do this for you. I love you. I love everything about you and I want to take care of you in every way that I can. I want to be close to you, even if it means getting a little blood on my sword.” he quips with a lewd grin, causing you to swat at his chest with a groan.

“Maybe we’d get lucky and I could stop your periods for about 9 months because the medicine’s a dud.”

“CHRISTOPHER!” you shout before burying your head into his chest, his chuckle vibrating through you.

“C’mon babygirl, let me make you feel better. Please?” his tone held a teasing weight as his hand found it’s way between your thighs, the warmth of his touch sending a shock of arousal through your center and causing a different kind of cramp.

“A-Are you really sure? I mean really?” you worry at your bottom lip, feeling slightly embarrassed for even asking.

“I’m very sure, babygirl” his lips peppering light kisses against your neck as his fingers trace lazy circles above your clit with only a barrier of light cotton underwear and shorts separating you.

“Make me feel better Chris.” you whimper as he trails kisses down to your collarbone, pausing only to pull your shirt over your head and watch as your nipples tighten in the cool air.

He takes a breast gently in his hand, lightly jiggling it and discerning it feels heavier; fuller from the added hormones in your body. You wince slightly.

“They hurt don’t they babygirl?” he lets go of the flesh and wanders his hand back down towards your belly, resuming a light massage. “I won’t mess with them anymore.” he promises with one last hungry look at the globes he so desperately wants to taste as he slides his hand under the waistband of your shorts. You tense instinctively.

“Shhhhh babygirl. Just relax. You don’t have to do anything else but relax and enjoy, okay?” his fingertips slide below the band of your underwear and continue toward his desired destination. His fingers brush against your clit, pulling a whimper from you as you actively will your legs to unclench.

“That’s it. That’s my girl” he praises as he slides down your body, peppering more open mouthed kisses as he goes. You clench again, only this time it’s from another cramp ricocheting through your body. It distracts you long enough for him to get his fingers closer to his target where he confirms his hope. You’re brought back to the moment when you feel his fingers gently tug at your tampon string.

“Oh babygirl, you prepared my meal I see.” his tone is heavy with desire as he situates himself between your legs and nuzzles directly into your clothed heat. He reaches up to pull at the clothing that keeps him from his prize. You lift your hips shakily, still nervous about where things are going, even though you know you’re safe with him, but it still startles you when you feel his lips ghost over yours between your thighs and you jump backwards at least a foot.

He meets your wide eyed stare with one of complete calm even though he wants nothing more than to dive headfirst into the deep end. “Babygirl, please? It’s okay. You’re okay.” he soothes the inside of your thighs with light touches before he slowly starts pulling you back down towards him. You meet his gaze with momentary reservation before you relent and lay back, closing your eyes and allowing your man to soothe your painful body.

His tongue flicks out to swipe against you, barely enough pressure to spread your lips apart around his wet muscle and make contact with your swollen clit. A labored gasp escapes you just before his tongue returns with much more pressure this time, swirling around the throbbing pearl just the way you like; pleasure awakening along your nerves slowly like a sunrise.

“Chris, god, feels s-so good.”

He groans at your affirmation, the vibrations from his voice drawing more blood flow to your stiffening nub. His tongue swipes around the innermost corners of your labia without getting too close to your entrance in fear of you shutting this whole thing down; he opts to voice his desires instead.

“Wish this damn thing wasn’t in my way.” he pouts as a fingertip glides across your entrance and over the cotton string. “Wanna taste you babygirl. All of you, so fucking bad.” his lips suction around your clit like he’s physically trying to pull your orgasm out of you; your nerve endings firing to full power.

“Chris, I need more...more...so m-much more” you beg, your hips grinding against his face of their own volition. You don’t recall ever being so instantly aroused in your entire life and it’s a little overwhelming.

“What do you need, babygirl? Tell me, tell me allllll about it.” he purrs, replacing his mouth with his fingers, gliding over your flesh easily with the amount of saliva he’s left behind. He ruts into the mattress to grant himself a moments reprieve from the consistent throbbing ache of his cock.

“Need you inside, please. Please fill me up Chris, I feel so empty.” your begging intensifies as your fingers grip the comforter beneath you painfully.

“Well now, we can’t have that.” he pulls himself up to his knees, so he can reach to grab one of the towels to place under you. He smooths his hands over your calves and thighs to prepare you for his touch. “I’ve gotta get rid of this, though. Okay?” he says calmly as reaches and tugs a little more insistently at the fiber string. You firmly bite into your lower lip and nod your agreement before muttering a breathy “Yes.” He pulls earnestly now, removing the product from inside you and flinging it neatly into the trash can by the bed before working the button and zipper to free himself from the clothing prison.

You glance down when you hear the metal teeth of denim closure and your eyes widen in amazement. “How are you that hard?!” His response is little more than a confused pout at first.

“How can you ask me that? I have the girl of my fucking dreams writhing beneath me and begging for my cock. Hell, I’m proud of myself for not cumming in my pants like a horny virgin!” he chuckles as he pulls the rest of his clothing off and tosses it behind him. He pumps his length a few times to spread the generous amount of precum glistening at his tip before taking his place to enter you.

“Wait! Condom!” you grunt, angry at yourself for stopping him, if you’re honest.

“What the fuck do I need that for? Unfortunately, you’re already on birth control; my offer to pause this nonsense for just under a year still stands, by the way.” he smirks.

“No, the mess. C’mon…” your words trail off as you turn your head and try to bury your face in the nearest pillow.

He reaches for your face and tugs your jaw to look at him. “It’s just blood, babygirl. It’s no different than me cleaning you up after a cut or scrape. It’s no different than your sweat or saliva on me when I’m pounding you 6 ways from Sunday.” his voice drops to a deeper whisper as he leans close to your ear, his cock brushing against your throbbing sex. “It’s no different than your tears when you’re choking on my cock.” he punctuates his sentence by adjusting his hips to prod the head of his cock perfectly at your entrance, hands free.

“Fine then just...ohhhhhh” your thoughts are completely derailed as you feel his girth split you open agonizingly slowly until he’s buried to the hilt. You’re already wet enough that there’s very little resistance, but he can feel how inflamed you are because of your cycle. It already breaks his heart enough that he’s had to accept the necessity of forcing his lengthy girth into your tight channel more often than not, albeit gently as possible, due to his size; but doing anything less than a glacial pace while you’re so puffy and sensitive? Unthinkable. It would be physically torturous for you, emotionally and mentally excruciating for him.

“Chris...move please.” you grit out the words through a clenched jaw. Pure euphoria scattering across your body like glitter from the feeling of him so deep inside you.

“G-Gimme a sec” he sputters, the throbbing of his manhood is easily felt even through the inflammation in your walls. He shivers harshly as he pulls out slowly and thrusts back in. Willing himself to ignore the streaks of red along his shaft lest he fills you already. “I’m trying not to blow the top of your head off, from the inside.”

He starts a slow, but steady pace. Gliding his rigid cock in and out effortlessly. Pleasure bloom deep inside you and spreads with every trip he takes inside. “Babygirl, you feel incredible.” he pants, his thrusts increasing in strength causing you to dig your nails into his shoulders. “Yeah, that’s it. Let me know how good it feels.” he moans as he watches you start to fall apart under his ministrations.

Before long, the bed springs are creaking and the headboard is banging into the wall relentlessly; each thrust of his hips numbing the pain from the inside and you feel yourself about to implode.

“I’m almost there baby, harder!” you cry out, wrapping your legs around his ass and holding on for dear life as he pounds into you mercilessly.

“That’s it, come on my cock baby. I’m right there too. I’m gonna fill that pussy up until it can’t hold anymore.” his hips slapping against the backs of your legs echoes through the room as you feel yourself tip over the edge; eyes blinded by white hot orgasmic ruin.

“Fuck!” he shouts before thrusting as deeply as he possibly can, his seed coating your insides like a healing balm; your passion melting the pain away to nothing.

Completely spent, he drops to his elbows, forehead resting against yours. You feel his sweat drip rivers down onto your skin, but you dare not move. You can’t. You’re boneless and floating on a sea of ecstasy. He brings you back to the moment with chaste kisses across your face, punctuated by whispers of love and devotion.

He carefully pulls out of you and reaches back for one of the washcloths, placing it across your center gently before pulling you up to a sitting position. “C’mon baby, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He pulls you into him and wraps your legs tighter around his hips. He wiggles to the edge of the bed and stands, pulling you with him; his softening cock just enough to keep the washcloth wedged between the two of you so nothing can drip. He walks with you to the bathroom and turns on the shower, never loosening his grip on you, while he holds a hand under the water to test the temperature. Once he deems it acceptable, he steps in, angling so the water hits his back first before gently placing you to stand next to him.

He pulls the cloth from between your legs and rinses it thoroughly before squeezing a generous amount of body wash into the square of material. He soaps you up from head to toe as you stand there, a little wobbly, but definitely relaxed and pain free. Once your senses return, you maneuver to stand under the warm spray to rinse yourself of everything while he concentrates on cleaning himself, before turning off the faucets and stepping out. He darts out of the room, dripping, to grab one of the other clean towels from the bed and begins drying you gently before taking care of himself.

He guides you over to the bed and places the clean towel down for you to sit on, while he moves the soiled ones to the laundry basket and grabs some underwear to hand you. Before you can protest that you at least need a pad, he hurries to the bathroom and grabs one; unwrapping it and placing in perfectly into the gusset of your panties.

“I have a sister and a mom, y’know, this isn't my first rodeo.” he explains at the sight of your curious expression.

He helps you into your underwear and one of his shirts before guiding you back into the bed. He crawls in beside you and pulls you close as you sigh in contentment.

“If I’d have known…” you begin before he cuts you off mid thought.

“You’ll listen to me from now on, won’t you?” he teases, hugging you tightly against him.

“Did you really mean what you said?” you ask carefully.

“About what?”

“About….tasting me?” you can’t even believe that question came out of your mouth, but you gotta know, if for nothing else but morbid curiosity.

“Yes, I did.” he says emphatically before turning you to look at him. “I want all of you, but I’ll never push you into anything or ask you for more than you’re willing to give okay? Just...just know the offer stands if and when you’re okay with it.

You turn back and glance at the digital calendar clock on your nightstand, seeing it’s currently a full moon and you can’t hold back.

“So do you only get this bloodlust around a full moon or?” you nearly bite a hole in your lip trying to suppress a righteous gigglefit.

He grins wolfishly before breaking into a ridiculously awful imitation of a howl that instigates your giggles full tilt. “No, baby girl. I’m always feral for you.”

[wolfiesroom]

This was beautifully written!! And period sex is bomb, just saying.

[wolfiesroom]

𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻 & 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: 𝗘𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽. 𝗗𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗳𝗹𝘂𝗳𝗳. 𝗛𝘂𝗿𝘁/𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁.

𝚆𝙲: 𝟭.𝟰𝗞

𝙲𝚆: 𝗡𝗼𝗻𝗲.

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈/𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚁'𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚂: 𝗢𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲. 𝗡𝗼𝘄, 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻’𝘀 𝗴𝗮𝘇𝗲, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗻. 𝗧𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗴𝗶𝗳𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 — 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘀𝗼𝗳𝘁𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻. / 𝗜 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱, 𝗗𝗲𝗹/@therealwaifu03. 𝗜 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿, 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆. 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂. ❥ ❥ ❥

You come home with the little shopping bag clutched in your hands, the faint scent of vanilla and roses clinging to you. Your heart is pounding—not from walking, not from the thought of Chan seeing the gift you picked, but from nerves that twist in your stomach like little knots. Tonight is his birthday, and you wanted it to be perfect. You wanted to show him just how much he means to you. You wanted him to see you—really see you—in a way that feels special.

But now, standing in the hallway, bag resting against your hip, you feel a familiar wave of doubt. Your fingers curl around the handles. You glance at yourself in the mirror and your chest tightens. You look… good. Beautiful, maybe. But the old fears crawl back anyway.

Because of him. Your ex.

You remember the countless nights spent in that relationship, trying to look appealing, trying to get a glance, a compliment, a flicker of desire. You remember the way he’d sit across from you, eyes glued to his phone, barely noticing the effort you made. You remember putting on outfits you thought were “special,” trying to catch his attention, only to get a distracted, halfhearted “you look fine” or no comment at all. You remember nights where you curled into bed, hair messy, cheeks flushed from trying to look nice, only to be met with indifference. Indifference that burned deeper than any insult could.

You remember the words he never said—the ones you longed to hear— and how that silence made you feel like you didn’t matter. Like your existence wasn’t enough. And now, here you are, trying again, heart open and hopeful, and the shadows of that memory make your palms sweat.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the bag beside you. Your fingers play with the tissue paper, twisting it nervously. What if Chan doesn’t like it? What if you look silly? What if all the effort, all the love you poured into tonight, isn’t enough?

You hear the door click, and your chest jumps. He’s home. His presence fills the apartment like sunlight spilling into a room, warm and effortless. He drops his keys in the bowl near the door and hums, a sound that always makes your chest unclench slightly.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice warm and familiar. He pauses, catching the slight tension in your posture. “What’s…wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, but the word tastes hollow, like paper on your tongue.

He doesn’t push, not yet. He walks over slowly, eyes soft and searching and the warmth from them seeps through, anchoring you.

“You’ve got that look,” he murmurs. “Like something’s bothering you. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

Your throat tightens. “I…I just…I wanted tonight to be special. I wanted you to—” Your voice falters. You glance at the bag, cheeks heating. “I wanted to do something for you, and I got…this. But now I feel…I don’t know…nervous, maybe…”

Chan tilts his head, concern deepening in his eyes. He kneels in front of you, resting his hands over yours. “Hey,” he murmurs, gentle. “Look at me.”

You do, hesitant, and the softness in his gaze makes your chest ache. He smiles—the kind of smile that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, okay? Not with gifts, not with outfits, not with anything. You are enough. You’ve always been enough.”

You swallow hard. “But…what if I—what if you don’t like it?”

He shakes his head, voice steady, warm. “It’s not about what I like. It’s about you wanting to do something because you care. That thought, that effort—it’s already more than enough.”

He brushes a thumb over your cheek, catching a tear before it falls. “I know someone made you feel invisible before. That someone made you doubt yourself, made you feel like you weren’t worth noticing. But I see you. Every little thing about you. And I love you for all of it. Nothing you do could change that.”

You bite your lip, heart pounding. “I…I just didn’t want to feel ignored like before. I didn’t want to…” Your voice breaks. “I didn’t want to feel like I wasn’t enough.”

Chan’s gaze softens even more. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “I would never, ever make you feel that way,” he says quietly. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The way you care, the way you love, the way you even just exist—it’s… everything to me. I don’t need anything else. But if it makes you happy to do this, to give a little piece of yourself for me…then I’m already the luckiest person alive.”

You let out a shaky breath, letting yourself finally lean into his embrace. He holds you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t, arms firm and grounding. “Tonight doesn’t have to be anything more than us, okay?” he whispers. “You don’t have to feel pressure. You don’t have to perform. I just want you here. To feel your warmth. To see your smile. To hear your laugh. That’s all I need.”

And yet, the bag at your feet, the fabric inside, reminds you of the effort you’ve put in. Your hands tremble as you finally reach for it, pulling the tissue-paper-wrapped garment out and holding it up, uncertain.

Chan watches quietly, curiosity in his gaze. “Do you…want me to see?” he asks softly, almost hesitant.

You nod, cheeks flushed. The memory of your ex, of all the nights you tried to feel attractive for someone who never saw you, flickers in your mind. You head to the bathroom and your heartbeat hammers in your chest as you slip the garment on, feeling both exposed and hopeful.

When you step out, Chan’s eyes widen just slightly—not in shock, but in quiet awe. His lips part for a moment, and then he smiles, the same soft, tender smile that always melts the tension in your chest.

“You…wow,” he breathes, voice low and warm. He steps closer, hands hovering near yours but not touching, giving you space to breathe. “You look…incredible.”

You flush, nerves still prickling, memories of feeling invisible creeping in. “You really mean that?”

Chan tilts his head, eyes soft and steady. “I mean every word,” he says, voice thick with sincerity. “You don’t have to do anything to make me notice you. You are enough. But seeing you like this…seeing you wanting to share this with me…it’s…I can’t even put it into words. I feel so honored.”

You can feel the warmth spreading through your chest, the remnants of old insecurities slowly dissolving. His gaze, tender and appreciative, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. There’s no indifference, no distracted glance, no halfhearted compliment. Just him—fully present, fully captivated, fully in love with you.

He finally reaches out, taking your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “I know you’ve been hurt before,” he says gently, “but I promise — you’re safe with me. I will never make you feel unseen. You’re mine, and I see you…everything about you. And I want you to feel it too, all the time.”

You press your forehead to his chest, letting yourself melt into the moment. His heartbeat is steady, grounding. His arms are warm and strong, and for the first time in a long while, you feel truly, deeply wanted. Seen. Loved.

“And,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your hair from your face, “if you want tonight to be about this—about feeling special, feeling sexy, feeling loved—then that’s exactly what it will be. No pressure. No expectations. Just us, together.”

Your chest feels light, heart still hammering but in a different, better way. You let out a small laugh, soft and free, as the tension slips out of your shoulders. “I…I wanted to make your birthday special for you,” you whisper.

Chan smiles, tugging you a little closer. “You already did,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Just by being you. That’s always more than enough. Always.”

He leans back just slightly, still holding you, eyes dark with admiration, warmth, and something tenderly playful. “But…if you want to surprise me a little more,” he says softly, a teasing glint in his gaze, “I’m not complaining.”

You laugh again, soft and carefree this time, finally letting the nerves dissolve. The shopping bag sits forgotten at the side because it doesn’t matter. What matters is him. You. The quiet intimacy of being loved so fully, so unapologetically. The knowledge that here, in this moment, your past no longer has any power.

Because here, with him, you are seen. You are wanted. You are enough.

And that’s all you’ve ever needed.

[wolfiesroom]

𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙼𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙴𝚃 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻 & 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: 𝗵𝘂𝗿𝘁/𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁, 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽

𝚆𝙲: 𝟳.𝟯𝗸

𝙲𝚆: 𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜! 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝘅𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁. 𝗗𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘆 𝗗𝗼𝗺 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻. 𝗗𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸. 𝗣𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲. 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗸. 𝗣𝗲𝘁𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀. 𝗣𝗜𝗩 𝘀𝗲𝘅. 𝗨𝗻𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗲𝘅. 𝗣𝘂𝘀𝘀𝘆 𝘀𝗹𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆.

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈: 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘁.

The moment you enter your shared apartment with Chris, he can tell something is off. 

To be quite honest, he could tell something was off the moment you woke up this morning and seemed to have forgotten your morning kiss and morning goodbye. But, instead of dwelling on it, Chris just chalked it up to you being extra tired. 

You’d been working extra hard the last several months on a really important project at work. You’d been putting in more hours on the weekends than you usually do and you’d been on the receiving end of several hard conversations with your editor. But you persevered and kept a generally positive attitude about the whole thing, not taking too much critique to heart. “It’s all apart of the growing process, Chris,” is something you’d always say when he felt like your boss was being a little too hard on you. 

But now he’s thinking about this morning as he watches you slough off your jacket and place it in the hall closet. Your shoulders seem to hang a little lower than they did yesterday. Your head isn’t as upright as it usually is as you slide your shoes into the shoe cubby. Your energy doesn’t sparkle the way it usually does when you get home from work, excited to see him. 

“Baby?” He speaks from the couch, legs crossed underneath him with his computer on his lap. 

“Hm?” You murmur, not even taking the bait he’s so desperately throwing your way. 

Yeah, something is definitely off. You shuffle your way into the kitchen, heading towards the sink as you step up on your tiptoes to get a glass from the top shelf of the cabinet.

Chris watches you as you go through the motions, filling your glass with a bit of water. Even the way you move looks off to him as you stand there, taking small, tentative sips. 

Chris places his computer next to himself on the couch before he rises and walks into the kitchen. He stands a few feet from you, tilting his head in your direction. He doesn’t speak right away, honestly afraid he might spook you. 

You finally finish your water and gently set the glass into the sink before you look up at him and everything Chris needs to know is written on your face. 

Your eyes look swollen like you’d been crying on your way home from work. The tip of your nose is reddened like you kept dabbing a tissue to it. And your lips look almost too dry for comfort. 

“Baby girl.” He whispers, taking a few small steps towards you. He hasn’t reached out yet, but he’s dying to. He’s dying to touch you. To comfort you. To wrap you up in him.

“Y-yeah?” Your voice is so quiet, Chris almost has a hard time hearing you. And its in that moment that Chris realizes you haven’t actually stopped crying as he watches a few tears break free and slide down your cheeks. 

Chris’ brows furrow together, in honest confusion, but also concern. He’s never quite seen you this despondent and he’s genuinely worried about you. 

“What’s the matter, baby girl?” He finally connects his hands to your waist, but it does it slowly. His fingertips lightly brush the waistband of your jeans as he leans in and presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead.

You take a few moments, placing one hand on Chris’ chest and taking the other to wipe away the tears from your cheeks. You honestly didn’t want to come home crying. You had hoped that the drive home would’ve given you enough time to get the tears out so you didn’t have to explain what was going on. Because you knew that if you were still crying when you got home, that they wouldn’t stop when Chris inevitably asked you what was wrong. 

“It’s nothin’, Chris.” You try to blow off the conversation, convinced that talking about it really won’t help anything. You had called your dad on the way home from work, crying to him about the absolutely awful day you had. There wasn’t anything your dad couldn’t fix, but this time, he struggled to even give you suggestions after you told him what had happened. 

“Baby, it’s not nothing. Talk to me.” He offers, his hands squeezing you reassuringly. Its not like you to not open up to Chris and this indicator alone tells him something really bad had to have happened at work. You wouldn’t be this worked up and hesitant to talk about it if it something this bad didn’t happen. 

You look down briefly, weighing the options of telling Chris the news or trying to make some story up on the spot. You figure trying to concoct some sort of tale about work that could justify your tears isn’t quite the right route to take. So, honesty it is. 

“I was fired, Chris.” You mutter, your hand on Chris’ chest turns into a fist as you ball some of his shirt under your fingertips. 

Chris had to have heard you wrong. There’s no way he heard correctly. You’d been working at this job for 6 years, having come right out of college to a junior editor position with all of your accolades and accomplishments to speak for your success. Your editor was beyond elated to hire you, excited to see what you could bring to the team. And year after year, you excelled under her tutelage. 

“Baby…what?” Chris asks, positive there is no way you’re actually fired from a job you’d had for the better part of 6 years. You hadn’t even ever gotten so much as a formal write up in all that time. 

You blink up at him, the tears now falling faster as Chris brings your body into his warmth. He cradles the back of your head with one of his hands as the other splays over your lower back. He rests his head atop yours, his chin poking into the top of your scalp. 

You take in a few shuddering breaths, the tears not relenting despite you willing them to stop. You were tired of crying, you’d been crying the moment you stepped out of your editor’s office. You weren’t sure how you could still cry more as it felt like you had out-cried yourself. Apparently not. 

The day hadn’t started off so bad. You had gotten to the office 15 minutes early, even though you had woken up feeling like something was off but you couldn’t put your finger on what exactly it was. You went to your office and unloaded your bag, taking out your laptop to begin transferring the large project you’d finally finished the night before onto the company’s server. 

You sat down at your desk, smiling at the picture of you and Chris at the pumpkin patch last year. Chris was making the goofiest face while he held up a pumpkin next to his head. You sat next to him in the photo, grinning so big you were certain at the time your face was going to fall off, not only at his antics but at the frigid October air. 

Powering up your laptop, you jiggled the mouse of your work computer to check your emails while the project loaded up. As you were going through emails, responding briefly to a few, you noticed an appointment put on your calendar that wasn’t there the day before. 

Your editor had sent it. You apparently had a meeting with her today, which struck you as odd because your editor always took Fridays off work. Confusion sparked in your chest, unsure of why your editor of all people would come into work on her day off. 

Trying to tamp down your now blooming anxiety, you figured it had to do with the large project that was due today for the firm and continued to connect your laptop to your work computer so you could transfer important project files. 

The day flew by with nothing of significance happening. You stopped by your friend’s office and chatted with her about next week’s pumpkin patch adventure you both went to every year with your respective partners. You caught up with the janitor, who’s daughter had just had her first dance recital. Her daughter had apparently rocked her performance. You even made sure to stop by the receptionist and ask her about her husband who’d just been released from the hospital after a successful knee surgery. 

It wasn’t until 4:00pm that your anxiety creeped back up your neck, realizing that your editor had made your meeting at 4:15pm. You sat in your office for those 15 minutes preparing yourself for anything and everything, but when you got to her office, you were surprised to see the head of HR sitting next to her. 

Uncertainty was written all over your face despite your best efforts to reassure yourself to the contrary. Nothing bad could possibly happen. You’d had a conversation with your editor just last week and everything was going swimmingly with your project. Your editor was more than pleased with the results and encouraged you to finish up any last minute bits, reminding you of the looming due date. 

“Y/N,” your editor spoke, motioning towards the chair sat in front of her desk, “Take a seat.” 

Your eyes flitted from your editor to the HR director before you slid your hands down the back of your skirt before taking a seat. You were afraid to even speak in the moment, doubt taking root in your chest about what was going to happen. The anything and everything you attempted to prepare yourself for unfortunately didn’t involve being fired. 

“I’m sorry we had to ask you in here last minute, Y/N.” Your editor looks a bit sullen, you suddenly realize as you sit in the chair across from her with your hands in your lap. 

“That’s okay, Mrs. Kingston.” You tried your best to smile, to show you aren't nervous. But you know the face you made had to have come across more as a grimace as your editor’s face faltered a bit before pulling back into a neutral expression. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.” 

You nod, unable to really speak anything in the moment. You’re still confused and worried and you don’t want the run the risk of sounding unprofessional in your response. So keeping quiet seems like the safest bet. 

“I’ll cut to the chase, Y/N. We run annual reports on all our biggest projects. We run these reports throughout the planning and construction phases to make sure our junior editors are staying on task and performing to the expectations of the company.” She explained, but you knew all of this information. You’d been here 6 years and none of this was news to you. Every year prior, you’d pass these reports with flying colors and you’d never been afflicted with such puzzlement at your report reviews like this one. Nothing your editor was currently telling you was information you didn’t already know. 

Instead of responding the way you wanted to, however, you simply nod. You weren’t going to let anything unbecoming slip from your lips, fearing that if you did, it would certainly make whatever was going on just that much worse. 

“Well your reports came back, Y/N. And, I’m honestly disappointed.” 

Your gut essentially drops out of your body at her words. Disappointed? You had to have heard her incorrectly. There is no way; she had just told you last week that she was impressed with your work ethic and results thus far. What possibly could’ve changed in the span of a few days?

“Pardon me?” You finally speak up, your voice sounding a little breathier than you had intended to. Your anxiety was currently getting the best of you despite your efforts to breath through your nose and exhale through your mouth. 

Your editor took a large inhale of air and expelled it through her nose, “Y/N, I am so sorry, but we are going to have to let you go.”

Okay, now you’re positive this has to be some sort of prank. There is no way your editor just told you they’re letting you go. They’re firing you? No. No, absolutely no way she just said that. 

You shake your head, the disbelief seeping out of you in waves. Its then the HR director speaks up, “Y/N, we have reason to believe that you committed plagiarism on this project. Our report showed us a 58% plagiarized result and you know we have a zero tolerance policy.” 

You blink wildly at them both. You know without a doubt this has to be some sort of mistake. Never once in your entire career, college included, would you ever think to plagiarize. It simply wasn’t in your character. It especially isn’t something you’d even consider doing as you yourself had to endure someone copying your work in college. Why would you then turn around to do it yourself in a professional setting? This made no sense. 

“I-I am so sorry, but this must be a mistake,” You’re certain it is. Positive that they’ve either got you mixed up with someone else in the firm or that something was ran through their program incorrectly, “There is no way, Mrs. Kingston. I would never plagiarize my work. You must know this.” 

Your editor begins to look like a stranger to you, suddenly taking on an edge to her that you’ve never seen in all your 6 years working at the company. The HR director readjusts in his seat, sitting taller and appearing scarier the longer he looks at you. 

“Y/N, I understand your confusion. But you must know that we don’t tolerate this at our firm. I thought you knew better.” Your editor is insane. That has to be what’s going on here. Because you would rather break a bone than to even ever consider plagiarizing your work. You took far too much pride in your results to ever stoop as low as to steal someone else’s. 

“I didn’t plagiarize anything, Mrs. Kingston. We-we just had a conversation last week, you were impressed with my work and told me to wrap up any last minute additions. You-you told me to submit this. Why? Why would you tell me to submit something that you’re telling me is plagiarized?” You know you sound pathetic at this point. You know you’ve already lost your job, that there is no amount of convincing you can do to change your editor’s decision. You know she’s made up her mind, otherwise she wouldn’t have invited the HR Director to this meeting. 

“Y/N, I am so sorry. I simply don’t know what else to tell you. We have to let you go. We will give you the rest of the day to pack up your office.” 

So its final. You’ve just lost your job. The job you’d spent the last 6 years working yourself to the bone for, dedicating time you didn’t have, sacrificing time with your family and with Chris. And now, none of the last 6 years seem to matter anymore. 

“So-so you don’t believe me?” You ask incredulously and you can’t help it. You really try not to sound upset, you know it isn’t a good look. But you can’t help the anger that suddenly begins to flow from you. You know you didn’t plagiarize, so why on earth are they accusing you of doing so? 

“Y/N, I know this isn’t what you want. And I understand your frustration, but its precedent. We don’t tolerate it and we can’t make exceptions for anyone. If we do, then we have to start making them for everyone else and we can’t afford that. You know this.” 

“I can’t believe this.” You mumble, completely and utterly caught off guard. Never in your wildest nightmares did you think today would end up with you turning in one of the largest projects of your career to then being fired for allegedly copying someone else’s work.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” Your editor has the all the audacity. Telling you she’s sorry after just accusing you of something you’d never, ever do. 

“I’ll go pack my things.” You stand up, resolute that you won’t cry in front of her and the HR director. No, you’ll save that until you leave this office to pack up your own. 

You’re still in disbelief as you stand in front of Chris. He’s face bleeds worry on your behalf. He knows you’re not doing well despite your attempts to convince him otherwise. 

“Oh baby girl.” He laments as he pulls you back into another embrace. You can’t find it in you anymore to continue keeping it together and you wrap your arms around Chris’ waist, placing your head against his chest. 

“I didn’t do it, Chris. I-I swear.” You sob into his chest, wetting the fabric of his shirt with your tears. You want more than anything for him to believe you. You’re convinced if he doesn’t, that it will shatter your resolve even more than today already has been today. 

Chris pulls back from you, his arms still wrapped around your middle and he looks down at you. He moves to cradle your face in his hands and presses another soft, warm kiss to your forehead, “Baby girl. I know you wouldn’t ever dream of doing such a thing. You’re too bright to do that.” 

And the overwhelming weight you’d been carrying since you left your now former office comes crashing down around you. You turn into a blubbering mess at his words, burying your head into his chest, into the comfort he’s offering you. 

And he holds you. He holds you up because your certain if he was to remove his arms from you, you’d fall completely apart and down onto the floor. His strong arms embrace you, as if he’s trying his best to protect you from anymore harm. And he is. He’d walk through hell if it meant you’d escape unscathed. 

He slowly begins to sway from side to side, a trick Chris always knew worked to help ground and calm you. And you let him. You let him wrap himself around you, somehow working his magic and taking the edge off of the day. 

“Chris?” You breathe into his chest between audible sobs. You need him. And you know he’s here. There is no place he’d rather be than right here with you. But you need his help. You want to forget today ever happened. You want to forget that you got fired, that you were embarrassed and humiliated by someone you looked up to. 

Chris pulls back just a fraction at your questioning tone, his brows slightly drawn together as if he’s encouraging you to ask your question. And he is. He needs to know what he can do for you, how he can help take this pain away for you. 

“Make me forget. Please.” You utter the words out, knowing that out of anyone on this planet, Chris is the one person to make you actually forget all the bad in the world, of the day. 

He looks at you now, his brows smoothing out at your request. His face changes from one of concern to control, taking over for you in the moment so you don’t have to do so much as think. 

“You want to forget, baby girl?” He asks, making sure he heard you right. And he knows he has, he knows what you mean. You need him. You need him to touch you, to make you really feel something besides pain. 

You bob your head, the sadness etched across your features. And all Chris wants to do is obliterate it from your face. And he thinks he has an idea that might work, but he has to make absolutely sure that you’re onboard because he refuses to add anymore grief to this already shit day. 

“You need me to make you forget, yeah?”

All you can do is nod again, the words caught deep in your throat. And Chris understands. He understands right now you can’t use your words, that he needs to understand your nonverbal cues here. And he does. He knows you better than you know yourself and in this moment, you’re thankful. You’re grateful Chris doesn’t force the words out of you this time. Just this once, Chris really does get it. 

Chris moves one of his hands to the side of your neck and then slides it to the base of your skull, right at the nape of your neck. The control you see Chris step into takes over and he takes a moment before he ever so carefully takes locks of your hair into his fist and pulls back just slightly, arching your head away from him and exposing your neck.

The pull of his fist against your skull grounds you, reminds you who is really in control. Chris is. He’s got you. Your eyes flutter at the prickling sensation of the tug of your hair in his fist. It makes your breath catch in your throat as you lean into the grip he has on you. 

Chris moves his head towards you, running his nose up the column of your throat as he gently tugs your head back. You can feel the ghost of his lips against your skin, the pillowy softness causing something hot to burn in your belly. 

“Is this what you need, baby girl?” He softly demands, his teeth now nibbling on the sensitive skin of your neck. The sensation sends goosebumps across your skin. You love it when he’s like this. When he takes control so you can let go. 

“Yes, Chris. Please.” 

And that’s all Chris needs to hear is your affirmation that what he’s doing is the path you’d like him to lead you down. Because Chris wouldn’t ever do something you’re not comfortable with. 

“I’ve got you, baby girl.” He declares, his kisses against your skin become more urgent, stronger against your flesh. The sudden sharp bite of his teeth on your throat make you take a sudden gasp of air, both of your hands flying up to grip into the shirt he’s wearing. You’re certain if you don’t hold on to him, you might just float away. 

Chris continues his languid assault, pressing fevered kisses to your jaw before he leans in a bit further, his lips creeping over the shell of your ear before he speaks. 

“Put your arms around my neck, baby girl.” He instructs. And you do as your told, releasing your fists from his shirt to wrap tightly around his neck. Chris leans forward a bit as his hands slide down your back and over your ass to the backs of your thighs. He’s going to lift you, so you give a small hop to give him the momentum to hoist you up and into his arms. And he does, so you swing both of your legs around his waist and bury your head into the crook of his neck. 

Chris steadily spins and heads in the direction of your bedroom. You can feel the pressure of his fingertips against your thighs and it almost burns. You’re thankful for the feeling, as the physical sensation causes that heat in your belly to blossom. 

Chris edges open the bedroom door with his elbow, he enters and kicks it closed with his foot as he walks you back towards the bed. He slowly but surely lays you out beneath him so you’re on your back looking up at his big, chocolatey-brown eyes. There is so much intensity in them that you almost have to look away, but you don’t. You can’t. You won’t. 

Chris tips his head forward and presses his lips to yours, nudging your bottom lip with his tongue. You meet his kiss with equal fervor, placing your hands on either side of his face. You open up for him to allow his tongue to dance alongside yours. 

“M-make this day go’way, Chris.” You whisper against his lips, convinced that if you speak it out loud, Chris will make it happen. And he will. He’ll make damned sure he does. He’d do anything for you and that includes rewriting the day for you. 

“Lemme in, baby girl.” He responds as his body lies heavy against yours, his hips nestled between your thighs. The heat of his body invades your system, short circuiting any kind of common sense. The intense desire for him is almost unbearable. 

Chris shifts his hands up the underside of your shirt, the feeling of his fingertips against your skin a sudden but welcome sensation. You take a deep breath in and move to lift your arms. Chris takes notice and follows your cues like he’d follow the roadways on a map. He lifts your shirt over your head to be met with the swells of your covered breasts. 

“You are so beautiful, baby girl. S’fucking brilliant.” He rambles. He does this when he gets lost in you. And you allow it. You crave it. You yearn for his dominance. You need it like you need air in your lungs. 

Chris’ hand eases its way underneath your back to quickly unhook the clasp of your bra. The look he’s giving you is reverent, like if he takes his eyes off of you for one second, you might just disappear into thin air. And Chris won’t take his eyes off of you. He tips his head forward and rakes his lips against the side of your neck before stopping at your ear, “Daddy’ll make it not hurt anymore, baby girl.” 

The switch has flipped in Chris’ brain now. And you know it by the way he refers to himself. He’s fully in control now and there is nothing you can give but your utter pliant submission in return. There isn’t anything you’d rather give to him right now anyways. 

“Daddy, please…” Your voice trails off, your back slowly arching off of the bed as his lips connect with the spot right behind your ear. Your hands move to wrap around his neck and tangle in his hair as he continues his assault, taking his time moving slowly down your body. 

His lips make landmarks everywhere against your skin as your body bristles against his ministrations. You feel his hands on your hips, his fingertips curling into the waistband of your jeans. 

“Daddy’s got you, baby girl. I’m right here.” He murmurs, his fingers moving to the button of your jeans and slotting it undone. He grips both sides of your jeans and shuffles them down and over your hips, taking your panties right along with them. 

“Fuck, baby girl.” His voice is thick with barely there restraint as he tosses your jeans onto the floor. You’re so wet for him, you can feel the slickness between your thighs as he moves back on his haunches to peel of his own shirt. 

And its in moments like these, you still to this day find yourself amazed at Chris. He looks as though he was carved by Michelangelo himself out of the finest marble and it rips your breath from you every time. How you managed to be so lucky is still a mystery to you, but you’re nevertheless just as thankful as the day you met him as you are now. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you lay waiting beneath him. And he won’t leave you wanting. Chris would never leave you to go without. He would rather sacrifice anything to make sure you had everything. 

Chris shimmies himself out of his sweats, his thick cock springing free from his pants and slapping against your pubic mound. The sensation sends a ripple of arousal to rush out of you as you try to press your thighs together to find some sort of relief. But Chris is back to being nestled between your thighs, his heavy cock lying against you. 

Chris moves his hand down to cover your pussy and before you realize it, he lifts his hand and slaps your pussy. Hard. You let out an audible cry, the feeling sending a sharp, lightening-like strike sting throughout your body. 

“Whose pussy is this?” Chris demands, slowly massaging away the sting of his hand. You know what Chris is asking. You know he’s possessive. And you love him like this. You love it when he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world. And to him, its because you actually are. 

“It’s yours, Daddy.” You cry on a moan, your hands fisting into the sheets on either side of you as he reels his back again and lays out another harsh slap. The sensation jolts you again as your back bows towards him, your grip in the sheets growing impossibly stronger. 

“That’s right, it’s mine,” He leans into you now, dipping his head back to your throat briefly as his other hand moves up your torso. His fingers dance across the skin of your abdomen, sending goosebumps to blossom across your skin. His other hand travels up and over the curve of your breast, giving your nipple the slightest caress before that same hand wraps around your throat, “Daddy is going to make you forget today ever even happened, baby girl. I’ll give it to you, but I need something from you.” 

“Anything.” You purr, your body is burning up under his touch and you’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to stand his teasing. He’s got you right where he wants you and you know that because you willingly put yourself there. But there is no place you’d rather be. 

“I wanna hear that pretty voice while I fuck you stupid, baby girl.” His voice ripples through you, the command isn’t a suggestion. It’s a stipulation and you have no desire to not give him what he wants. 

“Yes, Daddy.” Your words slur together, the haze of subspace taking over your body, the excitement of what’s to come filling every inch of your skin. 

“That’s m’girl.” Chris maneuvers his fingers against your aching pussy and all you want is for Chris to touch you where you need him most. But you know with that comes the teasing. And you can barely stand it, but you endure it because teases you so fucking well. 

His hand squeezes ever so slightly against your carotid artery, cutting off precious blood flow to your brain. Doing this only heightens the buzz underneath your skin and the floating feeling Chris is providing you. As if you might drift away, Chris’ touch anchors you back down to earth as his fingers begin their soft circular motions against your pulsing clit. 

You croak out a strangled moan, your hands flying to grip the wrist of the hand that is slotted against your neck. You feel like if you don’t touch Chris in some way, that you’ll evaporate into thin air. 

“Fuck, baby girl. You’re so goddamn wet. Look at the mess you’re making.” Chris pulls his fingers from you to show you the glistening shine on his fingertips, “Open,” He instructs, asking you to open up your mouth for him. And you do, “You see how fuckin’ good you taste?” 

You nod, swirling your tongue against his index finger before you pop off, “Yes, Daddy.” You know he wanted to hear you and hear you he shall. 

A devious smile spreads across Chris’ face as he removes his hand from your throat. He slowly lifts each of your legs and places them on his shoulders. You can feel the head of his cock teasing your entrance, but you want nothing more than to feel his lips against your clit. 

“Daddy.” You plead and you pray to whatever deities exist that Chris understands what you need. But you needn’t worry, Chris knows exactly what and where you need him. And he’s not going to deny you. 

“Does my baby girl want to be devoured?” He shifts his weight back to his heels briefly before he situates himself on his stomach, both his hands bracket around each of your thighs as his fingertips dig almost painfully into your flesh. 

“God yes. Please?” 

“Anything for you, my precious girl.” And with that, Chris presses the flat of his tongue against your clit. The sudden wet warmth of his mouth sends you into a frenzy and Chris knows. God, he knows. He loves the way you respond to him. He can’t get enough of the way your body writhes at his touch. 

Chris shifts his body a bit to get better leverage and slides not one, but two fingers into your throbbing cunt. The sensation startles you, but in the best way possible. His tongue is working lazy circles around your clit as he pumps his fingers slowly in and out of you. 

Your hands shoot into his scalp as your fingers intertwine with the strands of his hair, gripping tightly. And you begin to undulate your hips in time with the swirl of his tongue and the trust of his hand. 

“Fu-fuck.” You cry out, your grip getting impossibly tighter against Chris. And he loves it. He loves to feel the searing burn from you pulling on his hair, taking what you need from him. 

He continues to drive his fingers in and out of you at a deliberate pace and its when he swiftly curls his fingers into the spongy spot inside you that you shout out a whimpering moan. Chris knows where to touch you. He knows how to touch you. He knows exactly what to do to get you to fall completely apart in his arms. 

Chris pulls his head back from the assault he’s delivering against your clit, “You’re fucking soaked, baby girl. You gon’come for me, yeah?” And you know you’re close. You can feel the tightening in your core as his fingers press deeper against your g-spot. 

“Chris, oh m’god.” Tears begin to stream down your face as you can’t hold it in much longer. The sensation in your gut is becoming almost unbearable. 

“I wan’this pussy to squirt all over me, baby girl. I want you to come for me, yeah?” He urges you on, encouraging you to your orgasm. And the moment he places his lips and tongue against your clit again, you utterly shatter. You completely break apart. 

Your body seizes up, every muscle in your body locking up against Chris’ fingers and tongue as you gush across the bed and onto his face. You know Chris can barely keep himself contained when you squirt, as it sends him into a delirious haze.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby girl.” Chris slows his fingers down as he slides them out of you, the sensation leaving you feeling far too empty for your liking. The grip he has on your other thigh loosens as he leans back up to tower over you on his knees. 

Chris stands on his knees, looking over your completely wrecked body. But he isn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. He runs his hands from the tops of your needs down your thighs, to your hips. His cock stands at attention, precum leaking from the tip and begging to be touched. 

You look up at him through hooded lids, your lashes damp with tears still lining your waterline. You want him inside you. You need him inside you this instant or you’re certain you’ll combust. You’re wound so incredibly tight for him and all you want is to be full of him.

Chris strokes himself leisurely from base to tip a few times, the sight alone makes your mouth water. If it was any other day, all you’d want to do is suck him off. To choke on him as he repeatedly thrusts inside your mouth and uses your throat. 

Chris seems to be able to tell what you’re thinking as a smirk dawns his features, “I wan’inside this pussy, baby girl.” He runs his hand gently over your sex, the overwhelming overstimulation sending a wave of goosebumps over your skin again. 

“You gon’let me inside?” He asks, almost on a plea. You know his resolve is starting to crack. It always does. And you love it when it does. Because he becomes this feral, filthy beast when he does.

“Please, Daddy.” You respond, reaching up for one of his hands to intertwine your fingers together. Chan places both his and your hands above your head, pressing down against the mattress with firm enough pressure to show he’s still in control. But just barely. 

Chris grips his cock mid-shaft and begins to tease the head of his cock through your folds. Wetness still sticks to you and he picks it up as teases his cock at your entrance. 

“How bad d’you want it?” Chris drawls, his voice laced with desire and need. He needs to hear you now, wants to hear you beg for it. Wants to know just how bad you need his cock inside you, to fill you up. 

“I want it so bad, Daddy. Please,” your begging always winds him up tighter than a spring and this time is no different. He’s determined to make you forget the terrible day you had and he’ll stop at nothing to make sure you do forget, “Give it t’me.” You mumble, your words slurred with ecstasy and want. 

“God, baby girl. I wan’give it to you s’bad.” Chris babbles as he takes the head of his cock and lines it up with your soaking entrance. You spread your legs open even wider for him as he slots his hips between you and slowly begins to push himself inside you. 

The overwhelming sensation of Chris’ cock entering you sends you into an unfettered hysteria. The feeling of being full of him, of being stretched so full of him is everything you you needed and everything you know you wanted. He’s determined to make you forget this day and by the end, you will. 

Chris buries himself to the hilt, his breathing ragged against the skin of your neck as he tucks his chin in the slot between your shoulder and collarbone. He rests his forehead there, his breath warm. 

“Fuck, baby girl, you feel s’good.” He babbles again, his one hand intertwined with yours as the other presses into the divot of your hip bone. He gives you a few moments of calm respite to allow you to adjust to his size before he begins to slowly move himself in and out of you. 

All you can manage to do at this point is cry out, moans and pleas slipping from your lips like a whore in church repenting for her sins. And you might as well be, but only for Chris. 

Chris begins an to plunge himself in and out of you at an increased pace, the feeling of his skin against yours making heat shoot through your veins. 

“This pussy was made f’me. This is mine.” Chris growls, low and guttural in his throat as he picks up the pace, untangling his hand from yours to notch it around your throat. You love it when Chris does this, claims you completely. You trust him implicitly, knowing he would never do anything to put you in harms way. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t dance awfully close to that line, knowing it heightens your pleasure tenfold when he does. 

“Fuck, this pussy is fuckin’ slick, baby girl. So fuckin’ wet f’me.” He blathers on and on, the room filing with the sounds of his skin slapping against yours. You know when his rambling amps up, he’s getting close but you can feel the coiling, burning sensation building again at the base of your spine. You know another orgasm is growing inside you. 

“Daddy!” You grip his biceps, grounding yourself to him so you don’t feel as out of control as you do right now. 

“You gon’come again, baby girl?” 

All you can manage to do is nod frantically, your pupils blown wide and your mouth agape, taking gasping breaths to steady your racing heartbeat. 

“That’s m’good girl. Squirt all over this cock, baby girl. Do it f’me.” Chris encourages you and gives you the permission you so desperately seek. All it takes for you to disintegrate completely under him is the slight pulsing of his fingers around your throat, the sensation of blood flooding your brain. 

Chris angles his hips so the head of his cock is slamming into your g-spot and he licks the back of his thumb, removing his hand from your hip to circle his thumb against your clit. 

“You’re gon’come for me. Right fuckin’ now.” He demands. And you come completely apart. Your body begins to shudder uncontrollably, against your will, as he fucks you through one of the strongest orgasms you’ve had in a while. As the head of his cock hits just the right spot inside you, warm liquid gushes from you and onto Chris’ cock and soaks through the comforter. 

“Fuck, baby girl. That’s it, yes, god you’re such a good girl f’me. Look at this pussy quivering against my cock.” Chan’s getting wordier and wordier, which only tells you his orgasm is close behind. He keeps fucking you through your orgasm, as it seems to go on longer than usual. Your nails dig crescents into the skin of his biceps, but he doesn’t mind the bite of pain. He almost welcomes it. 

Your chest heaves in and out, overstimulation threatening to take over as Chris removes his thumb from your clit. He slides his hand away from your throat as blood rushes back to your brain, your hands still clenched onto his arms, “Fill me up, Daddy.” 

“Fuck, baby girl. I’m gon’fill you up. Breed this little pussy. You wan’that, yeah?” Chris’s thrusts are becoming erratic, his words frenzied the closer he gets to his own orgasm. 

You nod again, your hands sliding to his shoulders and up his neck as you cradle his face in your hands, “Fill me up, Daddy.” 

Chris can’t hold back much longer as he leans in and presses his lips to yours, both of your tongues tangling together before he breaks away, and you can see it written across his face. Your eyes plead with him, you want it so bad.

“I’m gon’come, baby girl. Gonna breed you so fuckin’ good.” And with a few final snaps of his hips, Chris buries his head into the crook of your neck and does what he’s been saying he’s going to do. He gives you what you want and comes. Hard. 

He lets out a strained and raspy groan, his muscles tensing in waves against your body. He heaves several breaths in and out of his nose, the warmth of his breath spreading across your neck and shoulder. 

You still have his face gripped between your hands as he slowly comes to a stop inside you. He leans up just a bit to capture your lips against his. Then you’re both forehead to forehead, breaths intermingling. 

“Thank you.” You whisper. Its all you can manage to say because Chris had to be some sort of magician. The ache of the day didn’t seem as unbearable anymore. The pain of being fired didn’t bite the same way it did an hour ago. 

“Of course, baby girl. I’ll always give you what you need.” He presses his lips to your forehead, warmth and comfort swell within your chest at his words. You knew he would always be there, an unwavering support system to be at your disposal whenever you needed him. And even when you didn’t need him, he’d always be there. 

[wolfiesroom]

𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻 & 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: 𝗦𝗺𝘂𝘁. 𝗘𝗻𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀.

𝚆𝙲: 𝟯.𝟭𝗸

𝙲𝚆: 𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜! 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝘅𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁. 𝗗𝗼𝗺!𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻. 𝗔𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗦𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗔𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗷𝗼𝗯. 𝗣𝗲𝘁 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀 (𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆). 𝗣𝗜𝗩 𝘀𝗲𝘅. 𝗨𝗻𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗲𝘅. 𝗖𝗵𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴/𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝘆. 𝗛𝗮𝗶𝗿 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗬/𝗡 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘁. 𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴.

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈/𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚁'𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚂: 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁. 𝗦𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗺 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗱. / 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝗺𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗲 @channiesdelululand 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗲. 𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝗴𝗲𝗺 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆. 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗲'𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂. ❥

You’ve been here before. It almost feels ingrained in this point and you’re not entirely sure how to break it. 

But he does.  And he will.

In full technicolor. 

“Say that again.” He presses. 

Your eyes flit up to meet his, your rage beginning to scratch out your insides. 

“I fucking hate you.”

You’re laying the bait and trap. 

Let’s see if he takes it. 

Oh, he does. 

“You’re a fuckin’ liar.”

“I am not.”

“And a fuckin’ brat, at that.” He snorts, a smirk creeping along his features. 

He knows you better than you know yourself. 

“Fuck you, Chris.” 

“Excuse me, princess?” 

“Did I fucking stutter?” 

You know you’re pushing it. But you don’t care. That scratching rage? Yeah, its broken open on the floor now. 

Before your eyes can blink, he moves quick. 

He’s got his hand wrapped around your throat, pressing you up against the kitchen island. 

“You’re on some shit tonight, aren't you?” His breath fans across your face as he leans in. 

You blink like a deer caught in the headlights. Because you are. 

“Not full of you, if that’s what you mean.” 

You're challenging him to break you of this.

His chest presses against yours as he breathes in slowly, letting it out on a equally as slow exhale. 

Maybe you are trying to placate him, but maybe you aren’t.

But how you manage to ensnare him is beyond you.

You see it in his eyes. 

They’re almost a black brown, his rage meeting yours head on. 

“Cheeky, aren’t we now that I’ve got you pressed up against the counter like this, huh?”

You have nothing to say because fuck, he knows you. 

“Nothing to say?” His fury bleeds all over yours. 

And you don’t. 

For once. 

“Fuckin’ speak to me when I talk to you.” His fury saturates the room, snuffs out any of your rage. 

“I hate you so much.” You whisper, but with no real truth behind the words.

The grip he has around your throat tightens. 

Oh, that made him mad. 

“Testing my ever loving patience with you, princess.” He sneers at you. 

And you’re certain that this is when it breaks. Because you hate the way his face transforms into genuine hate. 

But not of you. 

Never of you. He could never hate you.

What he does hate? How you behave when you're trying to pretend.

“Chris.” You murmur, your hands flying to his chest. 

You fist his shirt. 

You fucked up. 

“Don’t,” He demands through gritted teeth, “I’ve had about enough of this from you. I don’t fuckin’ deserve it.”

But he doesn’t move back. He doesn’t let go of you. 

His other hand moves to your waist, his fingertips pressing so harshly against your skin you’re convinced you’ll see bruises in the morning. 

And you will. 

Because he’s going to make sure of it.

“Fuckin’ stop testing me, princess.” 

He’s giving you an out like a life preserver thrown over the bow of a ship.

“I—…” You start but before you can finish your sentence, he’s crashing his lips into yours. 

You meet him back with equal fervor, trying to repent through your linked lips. 

He senses it and the hand he has on your waist seems to tighten even more than before. 

He’s been drunk on you from day one. 

He took the bait. 

Now he’s going to see this through. 

And break you of this if its the last thing he does. 

He pulls back suddenly, leaving you gasping for breath. 

“Stop doin’ this to me, princess. Stop icin’ me out.” 

Your chest heaves with oxygen against his own, your fists on his shirt remain resilient. 

Your eyes meet his and his pupils are blown wide with what? 

Oh. 

“C-chris?” You stutter, unsure if what you’re seeing is a mirage or reality. 

Oh it’s real. 

His breaths are ragged, the hand he has around your throat seems to pulse between squeezing you and not and it makes your head float. 

“You gonna stop doin’ this? You gonna stop breaking my heart every fuckin’ time?” 

Snap. 

Your brows shoot up, honest and genuine shock paint your features. 

He’s never said it like this before and now it’s his turn. 

He’s going to break you down to your smallest parts and then he’s going to build you back up again. 

And all you can do is be pliant. 

Be his the way he wants. 

Not the way you want. 

You can’t help the breathy moan that ripples from your throat. 

Your body is on fire, an inferno bubbling low in your belly. 

“Answer me, princess.” 

He runs his nose up the side of your cheek and breathes into your ear. 

Then he groans, a deep resounding sound from within his chest. 

Crack. 

The walls you’ve built to keep him out, to keep him at an arm’s length at all times are slowly becoming rubble under his hands. 

“Chris…” 

Its all you can manage right now. 

And he knows that, but he’s not going to let you walk away from this. 

No. He isn’t going to let you get away easy this time. 

He tuts, “Ah-ah, princess. Do better. I fuckin’ deserve better, don’t I?” 

And god, he does. He really does. 

But you’re so embarrassed. 

Rip the bandaid off. Just do it. 

“I—I, I’m sorry, Chris.” You whimper, still holding on to his shirt for dear life. 

He’s heard these words before. 

After many fights. 

It won’t do this time. 

But something will. 

“Prove it.” 

And he really looks at you. 

“H-how?” 

He pauses for a second, a beat before he speaks, “On your knees, princess.”

And before you even register the words, his hand on your throat is guiding you down to the floor. 

You can feel the handles of the drawers behind you digging into your back. 

He’s looking down at you now as his head lilts to the side, the hand previously around your neck slides up your cheek before it moves to your hair. 

And he pets you. Reverently. 

You’re his favorite, most prized possession.

And this time, he’s going to take care of this before he takes care of you. 

For the final time. 

“Princess,” He coos, continuing to pet your hair, “You have such a smart fuckin’ mouth…” 

His voice trails off, almost to a whisper before his hand moves to cup your cheek. 

He runs his thumb over your lower lip as he essentially pries your mouth open with it. 

“You really wanna make it up to me, princess?”

All you can manage is a nod, your tongue currently pressed against your lower jaw and the backs of your teeth by his thumb. 

A soft curve meets his lips, a small dimple popping on the left side. 

He’s always so soft for you, even when you’re hard to him. 

“Princess, open up.” He shoves his thumb farther back into your mouth, pressing down harder on your tongue. 

And you do as you stick out your tongue for him. 

He always loves it when you present yourself so nicely. 

“Your mouth is so fuckin’ warm, princess.” 

You can feel his thumb deep in your mouth, drool has already started to slide down your chin. 

He likes things messy. 

He pulls his thumb back to smear the spit around your lips before his other hand moves to the waistband of his sweats. 

“Make it up to me, princess. Show me just how sorry you are and maybe I’ll forgive you, yeah?” 

Hook, line and sinker. 

But not without a cost. 

“You know how much I’ve wanted this fuckin’ mouth? Hm?” He hooks his other thumb in his waistband and its only then do you notice his erection. 

You gulp. 

Its time to put up, or shut up.

He’s so big. So thick, you’re certain he’s going to choke you. 

And you’re salivating. 

With his free thumb, he pulls down his waistband past his cock when it suddenly springs free from his boxers, almost slapping you in the mouth. 

He runs his hand up and down his shaft once, twice, testing the waters with how you’ll receive him. 

You’ll do it with gratitude. 

“Don’t lie to me, princess,” He groans, “I know you’ve been wanting this forever.” 

And once again, he’s rendered you speechless and all you can muster is a wanton nod.

Because its true. Its the only thing that’s been on your mind for the last 6 months. 

Your mouth is still open, tongue presented flat over your bottom lip. 

You’re a quivering mess for him. You can feel the slick wetness that is coating your inner thighs beneath your skirt. 

“Go on then.” He encourages as he removes his thumb from your mouth to move his hand to the back of your head. 

He applies firm pressure to the back of your head to force you forward toward him. 

Your tongue meets the underside of his cock and the first thing you notice is how it feels like satin…or silk. You can’t decide which. 

But its so fucking smooth and soft. 

Chris’ hand grips a clump of your hair in his fist as he breathes through his teeth. 

“Take it all, princess. Show me how sorry you are. Show me how right I was, yeah?” 

And then you do, wrapping both of your lips around his length as both of your hands move to the fronts of his thighs for support. 

His hips aggressively thrust forward and his cock slams the back of your throat. 

Almost immediately, a garbled gag erupts from between your lips only to be thwarted in the back of your throat by his cock. 

He’s not going to be gentle with you. 

And that’s more than you could ask for. 

“Fuck, princess,” Chris moans, fist full of your hair, “Your mouth is incredible.” 

He’s holding your mouth hostage against him, your nose pressed to his public bone. 

You suddenly try to jerk back, unable to breathe. 

“Breathe through your nose, princess,” He hisses, “Through your nose.”

And instead of spiraling because you can’t get any oxygen into your system, you begin to breathe through your nose. Taking in large inhales of air. 

“There you go, there you go.” He murmurs as he throws his head back and allows you slide back down his shaft, the head of his cock sliding out from between your lips. 

Strings of spit connect you both. 

You haul in as much breath as you can. 

“Again.” 

Chris shoves his cock back into your mouth. 

This is how he’s going to break you. 

This is how you earn your forgiveness. 

He begins with a brutal rhythm, gargled gagging sounds fill the space between you both as you take him down your throat. 

His fist remains steadfast in your hair, directing you back and forth as you let him use you. 

In this moment, you are the vessel by which Chris derives his pleasure.

And you couldn’t be more honored. 

Your palms are pressed flat against his strong thighs, allowing him to move with you and not against you. 

He will always have a soft spot for you, especially when one of your soft spots for him is your mouth. 

“F-fuck, baby. Fuck!” Chris growls, his grip impossibly tight. 

It sends tingles down your spine and straight through to your clit.

You’re aching for him. 

“Fuckin’ eyes on me, princess.” He commands. 

And you obey. 

Your eyes shoot open to connect with his and pleasure bursts across his face as he aggressively presses your head down against him again. 

“God fuckin’ damn, this mouth. This is how this mouth should be used, princess. Fuckin’ your throat raw, yeah?” He rambles. 

You have no kind of barometer to measure Chris’s response, but you imagine he’s getting close as his thighs begin to tremble. 

He gets wordier. Babbles more. Mumbles sweet, nasty nothings to you as he pounds in and out of your throat. 

“This mouth is mine,” He smirks, pulling his lip between his teeth, “This body is mine. You are mine.”

Your hips are on fire, being crouched in the position you are. 

But you don’t mind. You earned this. You wanted this. 

“Fuck! I’m gon’ come, princess,” He inhales through his teeth, stopping the aggressive thrusting abruptly, “But not in this mouth. I wan’ come in that pretty pussy.” 

You pop off his cock, drool and spit having dribbled and traveled down your chin and onto the kitchen floor. 

“Stand up.” He pulls you up by your hair, both of his hands flying to the sides of each of your hips as he spins you around before he flips up your skirt. 

“Princess.” He snarls, seeing your black lace thong snug between your ass cheeks. 

He hooks a finger under the fabric, lifts and pulls it to the side. 

He moans and you’re certain its the single sexiest sound you’ve ever heart. 

“Look at that.” He whispers, “So fucking wet f’me. You’re fuckin’ drenched, baby.” 

He runs a 2 fingers down between your ass cheeks before he stops at your opening. 

Your head falls forward to fall against the cool counter as you let out a strangled cry. 

Feeling Chris like this is something you’ve wanted for so long and now he’s finally broken the hate between you two. 

He’s forced you to cross the line. 

Before you can register it, Chris slides two fingers into your dripping cunt. 

“Chris!” You’re going to crash the fuck out. 

His fingers are long and his skin is smooth inside you as he explores you. 

Suddenly, he removes his fingers and reels his hand back before he slams a open palm against your ass.

Hard. 

You yelp, not ready for the slap as your body jolts forward into the kitchen counter. 

“I own this pussy, you understand me, princess?” He asks, but its more of a declaration and less of a question. 

Yet you answer him anyways. 

“Its always been yours, Chris.” 

Tears of overstimulation begin to drip from your lashes, your cheek pressed firmly into the counter, palms flat on either side of your head. 

“That’s fuckin’ right.” 

Chris has his fist around his cock behind you, thrusting into it though he doesn’t need to to keep himself hard. The sight of your pussy does that for him just fine. 

You feel Chris shuffle a few inches towards you, his hips flush against your ass and the head of his cock presses against the underside of your pussy. 

Your back faces Chris’s chest and he runs a hand up your back to the nape of your neck, then he fists your hair and yanks you back up against him. 

“I’m takin’ what’s already mine, princess.” He purrs into your ear, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight to your core. 

The sudden sensation of him pushing into you sets your skin ablaze. 

Its fire and inferno personified. 

You’re burning under his touch. 

Once he’s got himself seated to the hilt within you, he grips both of your hips, fingers pressing into a bruising touch on either side of your hips. 

He leans over you, his chest pressed tightly against your back, “Now, fuckin’ say you’re sorry.” 

He punctuates each word aggressive thrusts, driving into you over and over, driving you crazier than you thought humanly possible. 

“Fuck! Chris, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” You babble, tears already back in full force, lining your waterline and streaming down your face. 

Your hands grip for purchase against the smooth countertop, but you’re left with nothing as you grab onto a carelessly left dish towel. 

“And why are you fuckin’ sorry?” 

“For hating you!” 

“No. Wrong answer, princess.” His fingertips are digging into your flesh so tightly, you feel like they’re going to pierce your skin if he goes any harder. 

“For pretending to hate you.” You try again, knowing this is what he wants to hear. 

“That’ll do, princess. Who owns this pussy?” He begins to drag his cock through the walls of your cunt at an excruciatingly slow pace now, trying to draw as much pleasure from your body as he can. 

“You do!” You scream on a particularly brutal thrust, hand clutching the dish towel. 

You can start to feel an almost unbearable amount of heat building in your core and you know you’re close. 

All you need is just a little extra…push. 

As if Chan can sense it, he moves one of his hands from your hip to curve around it to play with your clit. 

That’s the push you need. 

And suddenly your body is cracking open against the kitchen counter, dish towel discarded as you scream your way through your orgasm. 

“CHRIS!” 

And he doesn’t stop. 

He doesn’t relent. 

“You got another one, princess?” He grunts, his sweat dripping from his brow onto the curve of your ass. 

“Chris…Chris…no…no, I can’t.” 

“You can,” He leans down, pressing his forehead to your back, “And you will.” 

And if by some act of super human power, he amps up his thrusts. 

“No more of this hate bullshit, princess. You’re mine now.” 

You feel his lips connect with the curve of your neck as he whispers into your ear, breath fanning across your cheek. 

His hips begin to snap in and out of you at an erratic rhythm and if your past is any indicator, he’s close too. 

“One fuckin’ more, princess. C’mon, baby. One fuckin’ more.” 

His hand flies back to your clit, rubbing succinct circular motions. 

Your thighs begin to tremble like the ground is going to open up beneath you. 

And you’re willing it not to which just makes your legs shake that much harder. 

“Chris, oh my fucking god, I’m gonna cum!” You squeal, hands formed into fists now. 

And with the last snap of his hips against you and thumb against the bundle of nerves between your legs, a gush of liquid gushes out of you and splatters to the floor.

“Fuckin’ squirting for me, princess. Fuck.” Chan hisses. 

His pace is constant, but erratic. Fluid. 

“I’m gon’ come, princess. Gonna mark you from the inside.” 

Both of his hands are on your hips as he moves you up and down his cock before his grip suddenly tightens around you impossibly tight.

A groan rips from his chest as you feel him fill you up. 

Silence fills the room, where ragged breaths and wanton moans used to be. 

But the silence doesn’t hurt anymore. 

Not like it used to. 

Because now, now you and Chris are like this. 

And this is the beginning of something you’ve been searching for your entire life. 

“I could never hate you, Chris.” Your words leave your lips before you can stop them. 

“I could never, ever hate you either, princess.” 

[wolfiesroom]

𝙻𝙸𝚃𝚃𝙻𝙴 𝙱𝙻𝙰𝙲𝙺 𝙳𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻 & 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: 𝗘𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽. 𝗗𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗳𝗹𝘂𝗳𝗳. 𝗛𝘂𝗿𝘁/𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁.

𝚆𝙲: 𝟭.𝟰𝗞

𝙲𝚆: 𝗡𝗼𝗻𝗲.

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈/𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚁'𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚂: 𝗢𝗻𝗰𝗲, 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝗯𝗹𝗲. 𝗡𝗼𝘄, 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻’𝘀 𝗴𝗮𝘇𝗲, 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗻 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗻. 𝗧𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗶𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗴𝗶𝗳𝘁𝘀 𝗼𝗿 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 — 𝗶𝘁’𝘀 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘀𝗼𝗳𝘁𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗮𝗶𝗻. / 𝗜 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗺𝘆 𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱, 𝗗𝗲𝗹/@therealwaifu03. 𝗜 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝗳𝗼𝗿, 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆. 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂. ❥ ❥ ❥

You come home with the little shopping bag clutched in your hands, the faint scent of vanilla and roses clinging to you. Your heart is pounding—not from walking, not from the thought of Chan seeing the gift you picked, but from nerves that twist in your stomach like little knots. Tonight is his birthday, and you wanted it to be perfect. You wanted to show him just how much he means to you. You wanted him to see you—really see you—in a way that feels special.

But now, standing in the hallway, bag resting against your hip, you feel a familiar wave of doubt. Your fingers curl around the handles. You glance at yourself in the mirror and your chest tightens. You look… good. Beautiful, maybe. But the old fears crawl back anyway.

Because of him. Your ex.

You remember the countless nights spent in that relationship, trying to look appealing, trying to get a glance, a compliment, a flicker of desire. You remember the way he’d sit across from you, eyes glued to his phone, barely noticing the effort you made. You remember putting on outfits you thought were “special,” trying to catch his attention, only to get a distracted, halfhearted “you look fine” or no comment at all. You remember nights where you curled into bed, hair messy, cheeks flushed from trying to look nice, only to be met with indifference. Indifference that burned deeper than any insult could.

You remember the words he never said—the ones you longed to hear— and how that silence made you feel like you didn’t matter. Like your existence wasn’t enough. And now, here you are, trying again, heart open and hopeful, and the shadows of that memory make your palms sweat.

You sit on the edge of the bed, the bag beside you. Your fingers play with the tissue paper, twisting it nervously. What if Chan doesn’t like it? What if you look silly? What if all the effort, all the love you poured into tonight, isn’t enough?

You hear the door click, and your chest jumps. He’s home. His presence fills the apartment like sunlight spilling into a room, warm and effortless. He drops his keys in the bowl near the door and hums, a sound that always makes your chest unclench slightly.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice warm and familiar. He pauses, catching the slight tension in your posture. “What’s…wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, but the word tastes hollow, like paper on your tongue.

He doesn’t push, not yet. He walks over slowly, eyes soft and searching and the warmth from them seeps through, anchoring you.

“You’ve got that look,” he murmurs. “Like something’s bothering you. You don’t have to hide it from me.”

Your throat tightens. “I…I just…I wanted tonight to be special. I wanted you to—” Your voice falters. You glance at the bag, cheeks heating. “I wanted to do something for you, and I got…this. But now I feel…I don’t know…nervous, maybe…”

Chan tilts his head, concern deepening in his eyes. He kneels in front of you, resting his hands over yours. “Hey,” he murmurs, gentle. “Look at me.”

You do, hesitant, and the softness in his gaze makes your chest ache. He smiles—the kind of smile that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world. “You don’t have to prove anything to me, okay? Not with gifts, not with outfits, not with anything. You are enough. You’ve always been enough.”

You swallow hard. “But…what if I—what if you don’t like it?”

He shakes his head, voice steady, warm. “It’s not about what I like. It’s about you wanting to do something because you care. That thought, that effort—it’s already more than enough.”

He brushes a thumb over your cheek, catching a tear before it falls. “I know someone made you feel invisible before. That someone made you doubt yourself, made you feel like you weren’t worth noticing. But I see you. Every little thing about you. And I love you for all of it. Nothing you do could change that.”

You bite your lip, heart pounding. “I…I just didn’t want to feel ignored like before. I didn’t want to…” Your voice breaks. “I didn’t want to feel like I wasn’t enough.”

Chan’s gaze softens even more. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “I would never, ever make you feel that way,” he says quietly. “You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. The way you care, the way you love, the way you even just exist—it’s… everything to me. I don’t need anything else. But if it makes you happy to do this, to give a little piece of yourself for me…then I’m already the luckiest person alive.”

You let out a shaky breath, letting yourself finally lean into his embrace. He holds you like he’s afraid you might vanish if he doesn’t, arms firm and grounding. “Tonight doesn’t have to be anything more than us, okay?” he whispers. “You don’t have to feel pressure. You don’t have to perform. I just want you here. To feel your warmth. To see your smile. To hear your laugh. That’s all I need.”

And yet, the bag at your feet, the fabric inside, reminds you of the effort you’ve put in. Your hands tremble as you finally reach for it, pulling the tissue-paper-wrapped garment out and holding it up, uncertain.

Chan watches quietly, curiosity in his gaze. “Do you…want me to see?” he asks softly, almost hesitant.

You nod, cheeks flushed. The memory of your ex, of all the nights you tried to feel attractive for someone who never saw you, flickers in your mind. You head to the bathroom and your heartbeat hammers in your chest as you slip the garment on, feeling both exposed and hopeful.

When you step out, Chan’s eyes widen just slightly—not in shock, but in quiet awe. His lips part for a moment, and then he smiles, the same soft, tender smile that always melts the tension in your chest.

“You…wow,” he breathes, voice low and warm. He steps closer, hands hovering near yours but not touching, giving you space to breathe. “You look…incredible.”

You flush, nerves still prickling, memories of feeling invisible creeping in. “You really mean that?”

Chan tilts his head, eyes soft and steady. “I mean every word,” he says, voice thick with sincerity. “You don’t have to do anything to make me notice you. You are enough. But seeing you like this…seeing you wanting to share this with me…it’s…I can’t even put it into words. I feel so honored.”

You can feel the warmth spreading through your chest, the remnants of old insecurities slowly dissolving. His gaze, tender and appreciative, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. There’s no indifference, no distracted glance, no halfhearted compliment. Just him—fully present, fully captivated, fully in love with you.

He finally reaches out, taking your hands in his, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “I know you’ve been hurt before,” he says gently, “but I promise — you’re safe with me. I will never make you feel unseen. You’re mine, and I see you…everything about you. And I want you to feel it too, all the time.”

You press your forehead to his chest, letting yourself melt into the moment. His heartbeat is steady, grounding. His arms are warm and strong, and for the first time in a long while, you feel truly, deeply wanted. Seen. Loved.

“And,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your hair from your face, “if you want tonight to be about this—about feeling special, feeling sexy, feeling loved—then that’s exactly what it will be. No pressure. No expectations. Just us, together.”

Your chest feels light, heart still hammering but in a different, better way. You let out a small laugh, soft and free, as the tension slips out of your shoulders. “I…I wanted to make your birthday special for you,” you whisper.

Chan smiles, tugging you a little closer. “You already did,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “Just by being you. That’s always more than enough. Always.”

He leans back just slightly, still holding you, eyes dark with admiration, warmth, and something tenderly playful. “But…if you want to surprise me a little more,” he says softly, a teasing glint in his gaze, “I’m not complaining.”

You laugh again, soft and carefree this time, finally letting the nerves dissolve. The shopping bag sits forgotten at the side because it doesn’t matter. What matters is him. You. The quiet intimacy of being loved so fully, so unapologetically. The knowledge that here, in this moment, your past no longer has any power.

Because here, with him, you are seen. You are wanted. You are enough.

And that’s all you’ve ever needed.

[wolfiesroom]

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚂𝙷𝙸𝙽 𝚆𝙸𝚃𝙷 𝙲𝙷𝚁𝙸𝚂 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻 & 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: 𝗘𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽. 𝗦𝗼𝗳𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀. 𝗗𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗳𝗹𝘂𝗳𝗳.

𝙲𝚆: 𝗡𝗼𝗻𝗲.

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈: 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝗢𝗡𝗘. 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗳𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗳𝘂𝗹 𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗚𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻 𝗜𝗺𝗽𝗮𝗰𝘁 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀. 𝗟𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗶𝗳 𝗜 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟮!

→ He gets way too competitive when you’re in co-op, even if it’s just a daily commission. You make one tiny mistake and he’ll dramatically sigh like it’s the end of the world.

→ He loves teasing you: “Are you even trying, or are you just here for my good looks?” while your character falls off a cliff for the third time.

→ Gets super excited when he pulls a new character and insists you come see,  like it’s a celebrity reveal. “Look at this! Isn’t she gorgeous?!”

→ Has a “strategic” way of playing — which really just means he hogs all the best characters and leaves you with the one he calls “your starter for a reason.”

→ When you’re low on health, he dramatically yells from across the room: “NOOOO! Don’t die! I can’t carry you again!” and then quietly heals you when you glare at him.

→ He secretly loves watching you figure out puzzles and boss fights, muttering “Wow… you’re actually good at this” under his breath while pretending he’s the teacher.

→ Has a habit of giving your characters silly nicknames: “Sir Fallen Maple” or “Princess Cat Face.” You can’t tell if he’s joking or serious.

→ If he loses, he’s gracefully ungraceful — pouting, dragging his keyboard or controller dramatically across the desk, only to come back two minutes later and beg for a rematch.

→ He will absolutely trash talk himself on purpose to make you laugh: “I’m the worst DPS in Teyvat, honestly.” Meanwhile, he’s still winning every fight.

→Loves snuggling behind you while you play, resting his chin on your shoulder and commenting on your gameplay: “You should use the elemental burst… trust me, I know.”

→ Has a tendency to laugh hysterically at glitches or funny moments — then insists you screenshot it immediately for memory’s sake.

→ When you finally get a hard-to-obtain character or weapon, he will celebrate like you won a championship, making a big deal out of it.

→ He jokingly threatens to ban you from playing if you hog the best loot — but then secretly shares everything with you anyway.

→ If you fall asleep mid-game (because he’s dragging you into a late-night grind), he’ll just quietly take screenshots of your character standing there, smiling softly, and then carry you to bed after logging off.

[wolfiesroom]

𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝙽𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙻𝚂 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻 & 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: 𝗙𝗹𝘂𝗳𝗳. 𝗘𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽.

𝚆𝙲: 𝟮𝟵𝟭

𝙲𝚆: 𝗡𝗼𝗻𝗲.

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈: 𝗪𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝘀𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗼𝗻 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹, 𝗵𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝘂𝗽. 𝗛𝗲 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀, “𝗦𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁 𝗱𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗺𝘀, 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲,” 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝘁 𝗿𝘂𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝗸𝘀.

It starts the way it always does. You’re curled up in bed with your phone balanced on your pillow and he’s sitting in his studio chair surrounded by the soft glow of his monitors. 

The two of you aren’t really even talking anymore. You did, at first—about random things, stupid things, the kind of nothing that fills the silence like a warm blanket.

But now, its quiet. You can hear the faint clicking of his mouse, the hum of his computer, and the low rhythm of his breathing when he leans back in his chair to really look at you. 

“You still there, baby?” He murmurs, voice low and rough from hours of talking. 

You hum, barely awake, a soft little sound that makes him genuinely smile. But, you don’t answer this time. 

There is only the sound of your breathing, slow and steady. The rise and fall of your chest barely visible in the low light of your shared bedroom. 

He glances at the screen and sees that you’re still on the call, still there—ever present, you’re just asleep now. 

Chan leans back again, rubbing the corner of his eye when his voice drops to a barely there whisper, “Sweet dreams, love.” 

He doesn’t hang up. 

He never does. 

The calls stays open while he works—your quiet breathing keeping him company, steady and real through to the early morning hours. Sometimes he even forgets to play music because the sound of you is enough for him. 

And when he finally calls it a night, somewhere around 3 a.m., he looks at you through the glow of the screen and smiles to himself. 

“Good morning, baby girl.” He whispers, like a secret you’ll never know you heard. 

[wolfiesroom]

𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻 & 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: 𝗦𝗺𝘂𝘁. 𝗘𝗻𝗲𝗺𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀.

𝚆𝙲: 𝟯.𝟭𝗸

𝙲𝚆: 𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜! 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝘅𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁. 𝗗𝗼𝗺!𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻. 𝗔𝘀𝘀 𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗦𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗔𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗷𝗼𝗯. 𝗣𝗲𝘁 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀 (𝗽𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆). 𝗣𝗜𝗩 𝘀𝗲𝘅. 𝗨𝗻𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗲𝘅. 𝗖𝗵𝗼𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴/𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗣𝗹𝗮𝘆. 𝗛𝗮𝗶𝗿 𝗽𝘂𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗬/𝗡 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝘁. 𝗛𝗮𝗽𝗽𝘆 𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴.

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈/𝙰𝚄𝚃𝙷𝙾𝚁'𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙴𝚂: 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘆 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁. 𝗦𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗴𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝗺 𝗯𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗱. / 𝗜 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝗺𝘆 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗲 @channiesdelululand 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗲. 𝗬𝗼𝘂'𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝗴𝗲𝗺 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆. 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻𝗲'𝘀 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘆𝗼𝘂. ❥

You’ve been here before. It almost feels ingrained in this point and you’re not entirely sure how to break it. 

But he does.  And he will.

In full technicolor. 

“Say that again.” He presses. 

Your eyes flit up to meet his, your rage beginning to scratch out your insides. 

“I fucking hate you.”

You’re laying the bait and trap. 

Let’s see if he takes it. 

Oh, he does. 

“You’re a fuckin’ liar.”

“I am not.”

“And a fuckin’ brat, at that.” He snorts, a smirk creeping along his features. 

He knows you better than you know yourself. 

“Fuck you, Chris.” 

“Excuse me, princess?” 

“Did I fucking stutter?” 

You know you’re pushing it. But you don’t care. That scratching rage? Yeah, its broken open on the floor now. 

Before your eyes can blink, he moves quick. 

He’s got his hand wrapped around your throat, pressing you up against the kitchen island. 

“You’re on some shit tonight, aren't you?” His breath fans across your face as he leans in. 

You blink like a deer caught in the headlights. Because you are. 

“Not full of you, if that’s what you mean.” 

You're challenging him to break you of this.

His chest presses against yours as he breathes in slowly, letting it out on a equally as slow exhale. 

Maybe you are trying to placate him, but maybe you aren’t.

But how you manage to ensnare him is beyond you.

You see it in his eyes. 

They’re almost a black brown, his rage meeting yours head on. 

“Cheeky, aren’t we now that I’ve got you pressed up against the counter like this, huh?”

You have nothing to say because fuck, he knows you. 

“Nothing to say?” His fury bleeds all over yours. 

And you don’t. 

For once. 

“Fuckin’ speak to me when I talk to you.” His fury saturates the room, snuffs out any of your rage. 

“I hate you so much.” You whisper, but with no real truth behind the words.

The grip he has around your throat tightens. 

Oh, that made him mad. 

“Testing my ever loving patience with you, princess.” He sneers at you. 

And you’re certain that this is when it breaks. Because you hate the way his face transforms into genuine hate. 

But not of you. 

Never of you. He could never hate you.

What he does hate? How you behave when you're trying to pretend.

“Chris.” You murmur, your hands flying to his chest. 

You fist his shirt. 

You fucked up. 

“Don’t,” He demands through gritted teeth, “I’ve had about enough of this from you. I don’t fuckin’ deserve it.”

But he doesn’t move back. He doesn’t let go of you. 

His other hand moves to your waist, his fingertips pressing so harshly against your skin you’re convinced you’ll see bruises in the morning. 

And you will. 

Because he’s going to make sure of it.

“Fuckin’ stop testing me, princess.” 

He’s giving you an out like a life preserver thrown over the bow of a ship.

“I—…” You start but before you can finish your sentence, he’s crashing his lips into yours. 

You meet him back with equal fervor, trying to repent through your linked lips. 

He senses it and the hand he has on your waist seems to tighten even more than before. 

He’s been drunk on you from day one. 

He took the bait. 

Now he’s going to see this through. 

And break you of this if its the last thing he does. 

He pulls back suddenly, leaving you gasping for breath. 

“Stop doin’ this to me, princess. Stop icin’ me out.” 

Your chest heaves with oxygen against his own, your fists on his shirt remain resilient. 

Your eyes meet his and his pupils are blown wide with what? 

Oh. 

“C-chris?” You stutter, unsure if what you’re seeing is a mirage or reality. 

Oh it’s real. 

His breaths are ragged, the hand he has around your throat seems to pulse between squeezing you and not and it makes your head float. 

“You gonna stop doin’ this? You gonna stop breaking my heart every fuckin’ time?” 

Snap. 

Your brows shoot up, honest and genuine shock paint your features. 

He’s never said it like this before and now it’s his turn. 

He’s going to break you down to your smallest parts and then he’s going to build you back up again. 

And all you can do is be pliant. 

Be his the way he wants. 

Not the way you want. 

You can’t help the breathy moan that ripples from your throat. 

Your body is on fire, an inferno bubbling low in your belly. 

“Answer me, princess.” 

He runs his nose up the side of your cheek and breathes into your ear. 

Then he groans, a deep resounding sound from within his chest. 

Crack. 

The walls you’ve built to keep him out, to keep him at an arm’s length at all times are slowly becoming rubble under his hands. 

“Chris…” 

Its all you can manage right now. 

And he knows that, but he’s not going to let you walk away from this. 

No. He isn’t going to let you get away easy this time. 

He tuts, “Ah-ah, princess. Do better. I fuckin’ deserve better, don’t I?” 

And god, he does. He really does. 

But you’re so embarrassed. 

Rip the bandaid off. Just do it. 

“I—I, I’m sorry, Chris.” You whimper, still holding on to his shirt for dear life. 

He’s heard these words before. 

After many fights. 

It won’t do this time. 

But something will. 

“Prove it.” 

And he really looks at you. 

“H-how?” 

He pauses for a second, a beat before he speaks, “On your knees, princess.”

And before you even register the words, his hand on your throat is guiding you down to the floor. 

You can feel the handles of the drawers behind you digging into your back. 

He’s looking down at you now as his head lilts to the side, the hand previously around your neck slides up your cheek before it moves to your hair. 

And he pets you. Reverently. 

You’re his favorite, most prized possession.

And this time, he’s going to take care of this before he takes care of you. 

For the final time. 

“Princess,” He coos, continuing to pet your hair, “You have such a smart fuckin’ mouth…” 

His voice trails off, almost to a whisper before his hand moves to cup your cheek. 

He runs his thumb over your lower lip as he essentially pries your mouth open with it. 

“You really wanna make it up to me, princess?”

All you can manage is a nod, your tongue currently pressed against your lower jaw and the backs of your teeth by his thumb. 

A soft curve meets his lips, a small dimple popping on the left side. 

He’s always so soft for you, even when you’re hard to him. 

“Princess, open up.” He shoves his thumb farther back into your mouth, pressing down harder on your tongue. 

And you do as you stick out your tongue for him. 

He always loves it when you present yourself so nicely. 

“Your mouth is so fuckin’ warm, princess.” 

You can feel his thumb deep in your mouth, drool has already started to slide down your chin. 

He likes things messy. 

He pulls his thumb back to smear the spit around your lips before his other hand moves to the waistband of his sweats. 

“Make it up to me, princess. Show me just how sorry you are and maybe I’ll forgive you, yeah?” 

Hook, line and sinker. 

But not without a cost. 

“You know how much I’ve wanted this fuckin’ mouth? Hm?” He hooks his other thumb in his waistband and its only then do you notice his erection. 

You gulp. 

Its time to put up, or shut up.

He’s so big. So thick, you’re certain he’s going to choke you. 

And you’re salivating. 

With his free thumb, he pulls down his waistband past his cock when it suddenly springs free from his boxers, almost slapping you in the mouth. 

He runs his hand up and down his shaft once, twice, testing the waters with how you’ll receive him. 

You’ll do it with gratitude. 

“Don’t lie to me, princess,” He groans, “I know you’ve been wanting this forever.” 

And once again, he’s rendered you speechless and all you can muster is a wanton nod.

Because its true. Its the only thing that’s been on your mind for the last 6 months. 

Your mouth is still open, tongue presented flat over your bottom lip. 

You’re a quivering mess for him. You can feel the slick wetness that is coating your inner thighs beneath your skirt. 

“Go on then.” He encourages as he removes his thumb from your mouth to move his hand to the back of your head. 

He applies firm pressure to the back of your head to force you forward toward him. 

Your tongue meets the underside of his cock and the first thing you notice is how it feels like satin…or silk. You can’t decide which. 

But its so fucking smooth and soft. 

Chris’ hand grips a clump of your hair in his fist as he breathes through his teeth. 

“Take it all, princess. Show me how sorry you are. Show me how right I was, yeah?” 

And then you do, wrapping both of your lips around his length as both of your hands move to the fronts of his thighs for support. 

His hips aggressively thrust forward and his cock slams the back of your throat. 

Almost immediately, a garbled gag erupts from between your lips only to be thwarted in the back of your throat by his cock. 

He’s not going to be gentle with you. 

And that’s more than you could ask for. 

“Fuck, princess,” Chris moans, fist full of your hair, “Your mouth is incredible.” 

He’s holding your mouth hostage against him, your nose pressed to his public bone. 

You suddenly try to jerk back, unable to breathe. 

“Breathe through your nose, princess,” He hisses, “Through your nose.”

And instead of spiraling because you can’t get any oxygen into your system, you begin to breathe through your nose. Taking in large inhales of air. 

“There you go, there you go.” He murmurs as he throws his head back and allows you slide back down his shaft, the head of his cock sliding out from between your lips. 

Strings of spit connect you both. 

You haul in as much breath as you can. 

“Again.” 

Chris shoves his cock back into your mouth. 

This is how he’s going to break you. 

This is how you earn your forgiveness. 

He begins with a brutal rhythm, gargled gagging sounds fill the space between you both as you take him down your throat. 

His fist remains steadfast in your hair, directing you back and forth as you let him use you. 

In this moment, you are the vessel by which Chris derives his pleasure.

And you couldn’t be more honored. 

Your palms are pressed flat against his strong thighs, allowing him to move with you and not against you. 

He will always have a soft spot for you, especially when one of your soft spots for him is your mouth. 

“F-fuck, baby. Fuck!” Chris growls, his grip impossibly tight. 

It sends tingles down your spine and straight through to your clit.

You’re aching for him. 

“Fuckin’ eyes on me, princess.” He commands. 

And you obey. 

Your eyes shoot open to connect with his and pleasure bursts across his face as he aggressively presses your head down against him again. 

“God fuckin’ damn, this mouth. This is how this mouth should be used, princess. Fuckin’ your throat raw, yeah?” He rambles. 

You have no kind of barometer to measure Chris’s response, but you imagine he’s getting close as his thighs begin to tremble. 

He gets wordier. Babbles more. Mumbles sweet, nasty nothings to you as he pounds in and out of your throat. 

“This mouth is mine,” He smirks, pulling his lip between his teeth, “This body is mine. You are mine.”

Your hips are on fire, being crouched in the position you are. 

But you don’t mind. You earned this. You wanted this. 

“Fuck! I’m gon’ come, princess,” He inhales through his teeth, stopping the aggressive thrusting abruptly, “But not in this mouth. I wan’ come in that pretty pussy.” 

You pop off his cock, drool and spit having dribbled and traveled down your chin and onto the kitchen floor. 

“Stand up.” He pulls you up by your hair, both of his hands flying to the sides of each of your hips as he spins you around before he flips up your skirt. 

“Princess.” He snarls, seeing your black lace thong snug between your ass cheeks. 

He hooks a finger under the fabric, lifts and pulls it to the side. 

He moans and you’re certain its the single sexiest sound you’ve ever heart. 

“Look at that.” He whispers, “So fucking wet f’me. You’re fuckin’ drenched, baby.” 

He runs a 2 fingers down between your ass cheeks before he stops at your opening. 

Your head falls forward to fall against the cool counter as you let out a strangled cry. 

Feeling Chris like this is something you’ve wanted for so long and now he’s finally broken the hate between you two. 

He’s forced you to cross the line. 

Before you can register it, Chris slides two fingers into your dripping cunt. 

“Chris!” You’re going to crash the fuck out. 

His fingers are long and his skin is smooth inside you as he explores you. 

Suddenly, he removes his fingers and reels his hand back before he slams a open palm against your ass.

Hard. 

You yelp, not ready for the slap as your body jolts forward into the kitchen counter. 

“I own this pussy, you understand me, princess?” He asks, but its more of a declaration and less of a question. 

Yet you answer him anyways. 

“Its always been yours, Chris.” 

Tears of overstimulation begin to drip from your lashes, your cheek pressed firmly into the counter, palms flat on either side of your head. 

“That’s fuckin’ right.” 

Chris has his fist around his cock behind you, thrusting into it though he doesn’t need to to keep himself hard. The sight of your pussy does that for him just fine. 

You feel Chris shuffle a few inches towards you, his hips flush against your ass and the head of his cock presses against the underside of your pussy. 

Your back faces Chris’s chest and he runs a hand up your back to the nape of your neck, then he fists your hair and yanks you back up against him. 

“I’m takin’ what’s already mine, princess.” He purrs into your ear, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight to your core. 

The sudden sensation of him pushing into you sets your skin ablaze. 

Its fire and inferno personified. 

You’re burning under his touch. 

Once he’s got himself seated to the hilt within you, he grips both of your hips, fingers pressing into a bruising touch on either side of your hips. 

He leans over you, his chest pressed tightly against your back, “Now, fuckin’ say you’re sorry.” 

He punctuates each word aggressive thrusts, driving into you over and over, driving you crazier than you thought humanly possible. 

“Fuck! Chris, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” You babble, tears already back in full force, lining your waterline and streaming down your face. 

Your hands grip for purchase against the smooth countertop, but you’re left with nothing as you grab onto a carelessly left dish towel. 

“And why are you fuckin’ sorry?” 

“For hating you!” 

“No. Wrong answer, princess.” His fingertips are digging into your flesh so tightly, you feel like they’re going to pierce your skin if he goes any harder. 

“For pretending to hate you.” You try again, knowing this is what he wants to hear. 

“That’ll do, princess. Who owns this pussy?” He begins to drag his cock through the walls of your cunt at an excruciatingly slow pace now, trying to draw as much pleasure from your body as he can. 

“You do!” You scream on a particularly brutal thrust, hand clutching the dish towel. 

You can start to feel an almost unbearable amount of heat building in your core and you know you’re close. 

All you need is just a little extra…push. 

As if Chan can sense it, he moves one of his hands from your hip to curve around it to play with your clit. 

That’s the push you need. 

And suddenly your body is cracking open against the kitchen counter, dish towel discarded as you scream your way through your orgasm. 

“CHRIS!” 

And he doesn’t stop. 

He doesn’t relent. 

“You got another one, princess?” He grunts, his sweat dripping from his brow onto the curve of your ass. 

“Chris…Chris…no…no, I can’t.” 

“You can,” He leans down, pressing his forehead to your back, “And you will.” 

And if by some act of super human power, he amps up his thrusts. 

“No more of this hate bullshit, princess. You’re mine now.” 

You feel his lips connect with the curve of your neck as he whispers into your ear, breath fanning across your cheek. 

His hips begin to snap in and out of you at an erratic rhythm and if your past is any indicator, he’s close too. 

“One fuckin’ more, princess. C’mon, baby. One fuckin’ more.” 

His hand flies back to your clit, rubbing succinct circular motions. 

Your thighs begin to tremble like the ground is going to open up beneath you. 

And you’re willing it not to which just makes your legs shake that much harder. 

“Chris, oh my fucking god, I’m gonna cum!” You squeal, hands formed into fists now. 

And with the last snap of his hips against you and thumb against the bundle of nerves between your legs, a gush of liquid gushes out of you and splatters to the floor.

“Fuckin’ squirting for me, princess. Fuck.” Chan hisses. 

His pace is constant, but erratic. Fluid. 

“I’m gon’ come, princess. Gonna mark you from the inside.” 

Both of his hands are on your hips as he moves you up and down his cock before his grip suddenly tightens around you impossibly tight.

A groan rips from his chest as you feel him fill you up. 

Silence fills the room, where ragged breaths and wanton moans used to be. 

But the silence doesn’t hurt anymore. 

Not like it used to. 

Because now, now you and Chris are like this. 

And this is the beginning of something you’ve been searching for your entire life. 

“I could never hate you, Chris.” Your words leave your lips before you can stop them. 

“I could never, ever hate you either, princess.” 

[wolfiesroom]

𝚆𝙾𝙻𝙵𝙸𝚂𝙷 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻 & 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: 𝗙𝗹𝘂𝗳𝗳. 𝗘𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽. 𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗼𝗿/𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗱𝘆. 𝗗𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘆!𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀

𝚆𝙲: 𝟮.𝟭𝗸

𝙲𝚆: 𝗗𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘆!𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀. 𝗚𝗶𝗿𝗹𝗗𝗮𝗱!𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀. 𝗣𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗰𝘆 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀. 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗮𝗯𝘆 𝗮𝘀 "𝗽𝘂𝗺𝗽𝗸𝗶𝗻". 𝗧𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝗼 𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝘀𝘄𝗲𝗲𝘁, 𝗜 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗱𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗹𝗲 𝗶𝘁.

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈: 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗮𝗿𝗿𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗼𝘄𝗻 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗴𝗻𝗮𝗻𝗰𝘆 𝗰𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀, 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝗹𝘄𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 (𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺).

“Y/n?” 

My attention bounced from the phone in my hands over to the nurse straddling the doorway directly between the main waiting area and exam rooms. She clutched a clipboard close to her chest as her eyes leveled with my own, a soft smile blooming across her face in greeting.

“Chris, babe, c’mon. That’s us.” 

My fingertips grazed his bicep, having quickly traveled down to his forearm to deliver a placid squeeze. 

Chris’ eyes sought mine as an shallow hum resounded from his chest; the palm of his hand asserted the gentlest of guiding pressures against my lower back as we both made our way to the waiting nurse. 

“Alright, Y/n. I’ll have you hop up here,” The nurse gestured with a nod in the direction of the the exam chair. “How’s your first trimester been so far?” 

I padded towards said chair, positioning my body so my behind was pressed flush against the chair’s edge. I planted a palm on either side of my hips and hoisted myself up the rest of the way, “Ah, well, y’know…its been an experience, I’ll say that much.” 

A seasoned hum bristled from the nurse, who had already started to prepare the sonographer’s machine. The quiet click, click, clack of the mechanical keyboard filled the room as she navigated through several menus before locating the correct patient file. 

“This is your first, right?” Her head moved to make eye contact, however her body maintained it’s station as her hands continued to fly across the keys. 

The nurse paused, her focus dialed into me as I acknowledged with an affirmative hum. 

Her head returned to it’s previous position as she flipped through several more menus, logging updated numbers for my vitals, “Well, I’d say calling it an experience is quite accurate! You both excited to find out the gender?”

Noticing Chris had become distracted on his phone, presumably answering something important, I gently nudged his elbow with my foot to capture his attention. 

His eyes flitted upwards, darting between the nurse and myself as a sheepish smile painted his features. Chris readjusted in the chair directly adjacent to the exam chair, sliding his phone into his back pocket before responding, “I have been counting down the days. Between myself, Y/n and my bandmates, its an even split.” 

Having completed the prep work for the sonographer, the nurse swiveled on her heels as she faced the both of us, “Well, good thing you there is a 50/50 chance someone is right. Though, I’ve gotta know, what are mom and dad hoping for?” 

Sharing the same braincell and without missing a beat, Chris and I responded in tandem, “Girl.” 

———

“Alright, Y/n, I’m going to take a view measurements and make sure everything is growing the way its supposed to and that everything is in its correct place. So I may get quiet for a moment, but after I’m done, the we will do the exciting part, yeah?” The sonographer clarified as she pulled a pair of latex gloves from an overhead cubby near the machine’s monitor. 

Drawing in a gulp of air, I signaled my understanding with a brief nod of my head, “Take all the time you need! Baby’s health is way more important, of course.” 

She flashed me a brief smile before she spun her chair back into position to face the sonogram’s display, promptly sliding her finger over the probe’s ON/OFF switch to the on position. As she held the probe in one hand, she grabbed hold of the conduction gel and tilted it upside down before giving it a few solid shakes to shift the settled gel to the open end. 

“This might be cold, I’m sorry!” 

Her fingers gingerly squeezed the bottle as it dispersed in a little blob near my belly button. She oriented the bottle upright and returned it back to the slot in the sonogram machine, she then touched the probe to my tummy. The probe passed over my skin from belly button to slightly below the top of my underwear before the clicks of the keyboard indicated the input of data. 

Approximately 10 minutes passed, the whirring of the machine kicking up a notch anytime the sonographer captured a particular angle to get a better measurement, before she turned to face Chan and I.

“Well, good news is Baby Bahng is growing right along schedule and looks absolutely perfect. Length is around the 75th percentile for gestation, but I’m not too entirely worried about that as getting super accurate measurements when they’re still this little is a bit harder, especially length. Are there any questions you have about this part?” 

“Chris?” I broke eye contact with her to make my own with his, whose eyes were transfixed on the sonogram display during the duration of the sonographer’s exam, “If he doesn’t, I don’t.” 

“As long as my little pumpkin is happy and healthy, I don’t have any questions.” His eyes connected with the sonographer’s as they upturned in pure pride. 

She met his response with a perfunctory nod, “Alright. Let’s see if we’ve got a girl or a boy, shall we?” 

“Absolutely.” Chris’s reaffixed his gaze to the monitor, his words near imperceptible, but laced with such with anticipation awaiting the sonographer’s findings. 

I sensed the sudden warmth of Chris’ palm, pressed firmly right above my kneecap, as his fingers compressed into the sides of my leg in a secure grasp. I untucked the hand nearest Chris, my fingertips finding the security of his free hand. Without so much as a twitch, our hands interlaced and fingers slotted together. 

“Alright, let me zoom in just a bit here…” She paused, leaning towards the monitor to get a better view before clicking the mouse to magnify a bit closer, “Yep. Thought so. Congratulations to the both of you! You will be welcoming Baby Girl Bahng…in give or take about 6 months. Let me get some pictures printed for you both.” 

She lifted the probe from my growing bump, wiping and sanitizing clean the probe’s transducer before slotting it back into it’s holder. While she took a moment to toss her gloves in the bin directly under the sonogram desk, she handed me a cloth to wipe up any remaining gel she missed during clean up. Her chair softly creaked as she swiftly returned to her chair and begin printing sonogram photos for Chris and I. 

Upon hearing the words Baby Girl Bahng, Chris and I made eye contact. And so much was said without saying anything at all. 

“A girl…” I breathed, the grip with Chris’ hand only strengthening. 

“A girl.” He spoke so resolutely, and rightfully so. But it was in more ways than just having been told so. From the moment I had told him I was pregnant, he emanated this entirely new type of confidence in virtually everything from the ebb and flow of my emotions to the rather normal or insanely bizarre nature of my cravings. And never, not once, did he question his ability in becoming a father. 

But in this moment, it was like that confidence only amplified upon itself—wholly unwavering in any capacity whatsoever after hearing the news that we were  going to be having a girl. It was in moments like these I was reminded that falling in love with him was quite possibly one of the easiest things I’d ever done. 

———

“Lemme get the door for you, baby.” Chris’ feet shuffled towards the car door, his hand gripped the underside of the handle as he pulled upwards so he could usher me inside. 

As I situated myself in the passenger seat, I wrestled the seatbelt from behind my shoulder and adjusted the lap portion under my bump. Chris’ door opened and he begun to settle into the driver’s side just as I clicked the belt into place. 

“I already know the answer to this question, but I’m going to ask it anyways,” Chris slotted the key into the ignition as he placed his hand on the gear shift, throwing it into reverse before resuming his query, “How does a strawberry cheesecake concrete sound right about now?” 

“Oh my fucking god,” I groaned, the sudden mention of the sweet treat I’d been craving almost daily suddenly evoked the undeniable necessity for said the item. Immediately, “That sounds absolutely fucking delicious, baby. Can we snag some salt and vinegar chips, too?” 

Chris guffawed at the request, already knowing that any answer other than yes would be the wrong one, “Of course, baby girl, we can definitely do that. Y’know, I was talking with Jihyo the other day. The topic of your cravings came up.” 

“Oh? Tell me more.” 

“Well, the ice cream and chips weren’t anything out of the ordinary to her at all. Those are rather timid in comparison,” Chris shifted his focus to me briefly, flashing one of his perspicacious glances in my direction, “It was the…weird and absurd ones that she honestly got a kick out of.” 

“Oh god, Chris. What did you tell her?” I whinged, bringing the palm of my head to my forehead in preemptive embarrassment. 

“Remember that time you sent me out at like 2am because you demanded salt and vinegar chips?”

“Oh Jesus Christ, yes I do.” 

That wasn’t the only thing I demanded, though. 

“Yeah, but then you demanded marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers because you absolutely required those items to make ‘salty s’mores’ and if you didn’t get those items, you were going to—and I quote—‘expire’.” Chris couldn’t help the goofy smile that surged across his face. 

“Listen. Those were absolutely delicious and I’ll die on that hill.” I crossed my arms over one another as I feigned some kind of weak attempt at indignation. 

“Hey! I never said they weren’t. I tried one, remember? I thought they were tasty.” 

“I forgot I made you try them, now that you mention it.” I let out a soft chuckle, “What else? I know that wasn’t the only one you mentioned.” 

Another boisterous giggle filled the car, “Well, I definitely mentioned the very specific ice chips you like from your favorite restaurant and the spicy buldak ramen you’ve been eating almost every day. But I think the kimchi with any kind of sour candy you can manage to get your hands on or the recent habit of putting ketchup on quite literally anything is what managed to really baffle her.” 

“You did not tell her about the kimchi and sour candy.” I winced, throwing my head back against the headrest. 

“Oh hell yes I did. How could I leave that one out?” Chris’ voice dripped with a amusement, finding my reaction to be almost as funny as the craving itself. 

“I cannot believe you,” I shook my head. “Hold on, what did you tell her I was putting ketchup on because I know how ridiculously you can exaggerate.” 

“I left the obvious ones out, of course. That just seemed pointless. But, I told her about the scrambled eggs and macaroni and cheese,” Chris paused, his eyes taking in the lilt of my brows as he pulled into the parking lot of our favorite ice cream parlor. “But I might have mentioned you also like it on kimchi, dipping egg rolls in it…that fried rice Minho makes…I did mention tacos and sometimes, but not always, the buldak ramen. I think that was it.” 

The expression that overtook my face was nothing short of deadpan, “I’m going to end you, Christopher.”  

Once the car was in park, Chris erupted in laughter, “You’ll do no such thing. You love me.” 

I rolled my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose between my pointer and index fingers, “Sleep with one eye open tonight.” 

The laughs quickly progressed from general light-heartedness to Chris’ signature squeaking-laughs, only wavering in intensity as he continued to intake air. 

“Stop laughing at me!” I shrieked, my hand unknowingly making contact with his shoulder. 

“Oh baby girl,” his laughs halted as he took the hand I thumped him with in his, “Jihyo found it absolutely weird, yes, but also completely endearing. As do I. Endearing that is. You’re growing a whole damn human. You have every right in the world to eat the most eccentric food combinations you want and do so as you damn well please. And I will procure those concoctions whenever you ask.” 

Once again, despite feeling a wee bit ridiculed for my rather odd pregnancy cravings and the subsequent winding up I received for it, Chris always had this proclivity for knowing just what to say when he could sense even an inkling that I might become upset. This sense only seemed to intensify since becoming pregnant. Add yet another reason why choosing to love him was the most effortless commitment I could’ve made. 

“C’mon. Lets get inside and order you that ice cream, yeah?”  

[wolfiesroom]

𝙼𝙰𝙺𝙴 𝙼𝙴 𝙵𝙾𝚁𝙶𝙴𝚃 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚝

𝙿𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶: 𝗯𝗮𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗻 & 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝙶𝙴𝙽𝚁𝙴: 𝗵𝘂𝗿𝘁/𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁, 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗱 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽

𝚆𝙲: 𝟳.𝟯𝗸

𝙲𝚆: 𝗠𝗗𝗡𝗜! 𝗘𝘅𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝘅𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗻𝘁. 𝗗𝗮𝗱𝗱𝘆 𝗗𝗼𝗺 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻. 𝗗𝗶𝗿𝘁𝘆 𝘁𝗮𝗹𝗸. 𝗣𝗿𝗮𝗶𝘀𝗲. 𝗕𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗞𝗶𝗻𝗸. 𝗣𝗲𝘁𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲𝘀. 𝗣𝗜𝗩 𝘀𝗲𝘅. 𝗨𝗻𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘀𝗲𝘅. 𝗣𝘂𝘀𝘀𝘆 𝘀𝗹𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘀 𝗳𝗶𝗹𝘁𝗵𝘆.

𝚂𝚄𝙼𝙼𝙰𝚁𝚈: 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗮𝗻𝗮𝗴𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘄𝗼𝗿𝘀𝘁 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗖𝗵𝗿𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗲𝗹𝗽 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘁.

The moment you enter your shared apartment with Chris, he can tell something is off. 

To be quite honest, he could tell something was off the moment you woke up this morning and seemed to have forgotten your morning kiss and morning goodbye. But, instead of dwelling on it, Chris just chalked it up to you being extra tired. 

You’d been working extra hard the last several months on a really important project at work. You’d been putting in more hours on the weekends than you usually do and you’d been on the receiving end of several hard conversations with your editor. But you persevered and kept a generally positive attitude about the whole thing, not taking too much critique to heart. “It’s all apart of the growing process, Chris,” is something you’d always say when he felt like your boss was being a little too hard on you. 

But now he’s thinking about this morning as he watches you slough off your jacket and place it in the hall closet. Your shoulders seem to hang a little lower than they did yesterday. Your head isn’t as upright as it usually is as you slide your shoes into the shoe cubby. Your energy doesn’t sparkle the way it usually does when you get home from work, excited to see him. 

“Baby?” He speaks from the couch, legs crossed underneath him with his computer on his lap. 

“Hm?” You murmur, not even taking the bait he’s so desperately throwing your way. 

Yeah, something is definitely off. You shuffle your way into the kitchen, heading towards the sink as you step up on your tiptoes to get a glass from the top shelf of the cabinet.

Chris watches you as you go through the motions, filling your glass with a bit of water. Even the way you move looks off to him as you stand there, taking small, tentative sips. 

Chris places his computer next to himself on the couch before he rises and walks into the kitchen. He stands a few feet from you, tilting his head in your direction. He doesn’t speak right away, honestly afraid he might spook you. 

You finally finish your water and gently set the glass into the sink before you look up at him and everything Chris needs to know is written on your face. 

Your eyes look swollen like you’d been crying on your way home from work. The tip of your nose is reddened like you kept dabbing a tissue to it. And your lips look almost too dry for comfort. 

“Baby girl.” He whispers, taking a few small steps towards you. He hasn’t reached out yet, but he’s dying to. He’s dying to touch you. To comfort you. To wrap you up in him.

“Y-yeah?” Your voice is so quiet, Chris almost has a hard time hearing you. And its in that moment that Chris realizes you haven’t actually stopped crying as he watches a few tears break free and slide down your cheeks. 

Chris’ brows furrow together, in honest confusion, but also concern. He’s never quite seen you this despondent and he’s genuinely worried about you. 

“What’s the matter, baby girl?” He finally connects his hands to your waist, but it does it slowly. His fingertips lightly brush the waistband of your jeans as he leans in and presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead.

You take a few moments, placing one hand on Chris’ chest and taking the other to wipe away the tears from your cheeks. You honestly didn’t want to come home crying. You had hoped that the drive home would’ve given you enough time to get the tears out so you didn’t have to explain what was going on. Because you knew that if you were still crying when you got home, that they wouldn’t stop when Chris inevitably asked you what was wrong. 

“It’s nothin’, Chris.” You try to blow off the conversation, convinced that talking about it really won’t help anything. You had called your dad on the way home from work, crying to him about the absolutely awful day you had. There wasn’t anything your dad couldn’t fix, but this time, he struggled to even give you suggestions after you told him what had happened. 

“Baby, it’s not nothing. Talk to me.” He offers, his hands squeezing you reassuringly. Its not like you to not open up to Chris and this indicator alone tells him something really bad had to have happened at work. You wouldn’t be this worked up and hesitant to talk about it if it something this bad didn’t happen. 

You look down briefly, weighing the options of telling Chris the news or trying to make some story up on the spot. You figure trying to concoct some sort of tale about work that could justify your tears isn’t quite the right route to take. So, honesty it is. 

“I was fired, Chris.” You mutter, your hand on Chris’ chest turns into a fist as you ball some of his shirt under your fingertips. 

Chris had to have heard you wrong. There’s no way he heard correctly. You’d been working at this job for 6 years, having come right out of college to a junior editor position with all of your accolades and accomplishments to speak for your success. Your editor was beyond elated to hire you, excited to see what you could bring to the team. And year after year, you excelled under her tutelage. 

“Baby…what?” Chris asks, positive there is no way you’re actually fired from a job you’d had for the better part of 6 years. You hadn’t even ever gotten so much as a formal write up in all that time. 

You blink up at him, the tears now falling faster as Chris brings your body into his warmth. He cradles the back of your head with one of his hands as the other splays over your lower back. He rests his head atop yours, his chin poking into the top of your scalp. 

You take in a few shuddering breaths, the tears not relenting despite you willing them to stop. You were tired of crying, you’d been crying the moment you stepped out of your editor’s office. You weren’t sure how you could still cry more as it felt like you had out-cried yourself. Apparently not. 

The day hadn’t started off so bad. You had gotten to the office 15 minutes early, even though you had woken up feeling like something was off but you couldn’t put your finger on what exactly it was. You went to your office and unloaded your bag, taking out your laptop to begin transferring the large project you’d finally finished the night before onto the company’s server. 

You sat down at your desk, smiling at the picture of you and Chris at the pumpkin patch last year. Chris was making the goofiest face while he held up a pumpkin next to his head. You sat next to him in the photo, grinning so big you were certain at the time your face was going to fall off, not only at his antics but at the frigid October air. 

Powering up your laptop, you jiggled the mouse of your work computer to check your emails while the project loaded up. As you were going through emails, responding briefly to a few, you noticed an appointment put on your calendar that wasn’t there the day before. 

Your editor had sent it. You apparently had a meeting with her today, which struck you as odd because your editor always took Fridays off work. Confusion sparked in your chest, unsure of why your editor of all people would come into work on her day off. 

Trying to tamp down your now blooming anxiety, you figured it had to do with the large project that was due today for the firm and continued to connect your laptop to your work computer so you could transfer important project files. 

The day flew by with nothing of significance happening. You stopped by your friend’s office and chatted with her about next week’s pumpkin patch adventure you both went to every year with your respective partners. You caught up with the janitor, who’s daughter had just had her first dance recital. Her daughter had apparently rocked her performance. You even made sure to stop by the receptionist and ask her about her husband who’d just been released from the hospital after a successful knee surgery. 

It wasn’t until 4:00pm that your anxiety creeped back up your neck, realizing that your editor had made your meeting at 4:15pm. You sat in your office for those 15 minutes preparing yourself for anything and everything, but when you got to her office, you were surprised to see the head of HR sitting next to her. 

Uncertainty was written all over your face despite your best efforts to reassure yourself to the contrary. Nothing bad could possibly happen. You’d had a conversation with your editor just last week and everything was going swimmingly with your project. Your editor was more than pleased with the results and encouraged you to finish up any last minute bits, reminding you of the looming due date. 

“Y/N,” your editor spoke, motioning towards the chair sat in front of her desk, “Take a seat.” 

Your eyes flitted from your editor to the HR director before you slid your hands down the back of your skirt before taking a seat. You were afraid to even speak in the moment, doubt taking root in your chest about what was going to happen. The anything and everything you attempted to prepare yourself for unfortunately didn’t involve being fired. 

“I’m sorry we had to ask you in here last minute, Y/N.” Your editor looks a bit sullen, you suddenly realize as you sit in the chair across from her with your hands in your lap. 

“That’s okay, Mrs. Kingston.” You tried your best to smile, to show you aren't nervous. But you know the face you made had to have come across more as a grimace as your editor’s face faltered a bit before pulling back into a neutral expression. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.” 

You nod, unable to really speak anything in the moment. You’re still confused and worried and you don’t want the run the risk of sounding unprofessional in your response. So keeping quiet seems like the safest bet. 

“I’ll cut to the chase, Y/N. We run annual reports on all our biggest projects. We run these reports throughout the planning and construction phases to make sure our junior editors are staying on task and performing to the expectations of the company.” She explained, but you knew all of this information. You’d been here 6 years and none of this was news to you. Every year prior, you’d pass these reports with flying colors and you’d never been afflicted with such puzzlement at your report reviews like this one. Nothing your editor was currently telling you was information you didn’t already know. 

Instead of responding the way you wanted to, however, you simply nod. You weren’t going to let anything unbecoming slip from your lips, fearing that if you did, it would certainly make whatever was going on just that much worse. 

“Well your reports came back, Y/N. And, I’m honestly disappointed.” 

Your gut essentially drops out of your body at her words. Disappointed? You had to have heard her incorrectly. There is no way; she had just told you last week that she was impressed with your work ethic and results thus far. What possibly could’ve changed in the span of a few days?

“Pardon me?” You finally speak up, your voice sounding a little breathier than you had intended to. Your anxiety was currently getting the best of you despite your efforts to breath through your nose and exhale through your mouth. 

Your editor took a large inhale of air and expelled it through her nose, “Y/N, I am so sorry, but we are going to have to let you go.”

Okay, now you’re positive this has to be some sort of prank. There is no way your editor just told you they’re letting you go. They’re firing you? No. No, absolutely no way she just said that. 

You shake your head, the disbelief seeping out of you in waves. Its then the HR director speaks up, “Y/N, we have reason to believe that you committed plagiarism on this project. Our report showed us a 58% plagiarized result and you know we have a zero tolerance policy.” 

You blink wildly at them both. You know without a doubt this has to be some sort of mistake. Never once in your entire career, college included, would you ever think to plagiarize. It simply wasn’t in your character. It especially isn’t something you’d even consider doing as you yourself had to endure someone copying your work in college. Why would you then turn around to do it yourself in a professional setting? This made no sense. 

“I-I am so sorry, but this must be a mistake,” You’re certain it is. Positive that they’ve either got you mixed up with someone else in the firm or that something was ran through their program incorrectly, “There is no way, Mrs. Kingston. I would never plagiarize my work. You must know this.” 

Your editor begins to look like a stranger to you, suddenly taking on an edge to her that you’ve never seen in all your 6 years working at the company. The HR director readjusts in his seat, sitting taller and appearing scarier the longer he looks at you. 

“Y/N, I understand your confusion. But you must know that we don’t tolerate this at our firm. I thought you knew better.” Your editor is insane. That has to be what’s going on here. Because you would rather break a bone than to even ever consider plagiarizing your work. You took far too much pride in your results to ever stoop as low as to steal someone else’s. 

“I didn’t plagiarize anything, Mrs. Kingston. We-we just had a conversation last week, you were impressed with my work and told me to wrap up any last minute additions. You-you told me to submit this. Why? Why would you tell me to submit something that you’re telling me is plagiarized?” You know you sound pathetic at this point. You know you’ve already lost your job, that there is no amount of convincing you can do to change your editor’s decision. You know she’s made up her mind, otherwise she wouldn’t have invited the HR Director to this meeting. 

“Y/N, I am so sorry. I simply don’t know what else to tell you. We have to let you go. We will give you the rest of the day to pack up your office.” 

So its final. You’ve just lost your job. The job you’d spent the last 6 years working yourself to the bone for, dedicating time you didn’t have, sacrificing time with your family and with Chris. And now, none of the last 6 years seem to matter anymore. 

“So-so you don’t believe me?” You ask incredulously and you can’t help it. You really try not to sound upset, you know it isn’t a good look. But you can’t help the anger that suddenly begins to flow from you. You know you didn’t plagiarize, so why on earth are they accusing you of doing so? 

“Y/N, I know this isn’t what you want. And I understand your frustration, but its precedent. We don’t tolerate it and we can’t make exceptions for anyone. If we do, then we have to start making them for everyone else and we can’t afford that. You know this.” 

“I can’t believe this.” You mumble, completely and utterly caught off guard. Never in your wildest nightmares did you think today would end up with you turning in one of the largest projects of your career to then being fired for allegedly copying someone else’s work.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N.” Your editor has the all the audacity. Telling you she’s sorry after just accusing you of something you’d never, ever do. 

“I’ll go pack my things.” You stand up, resolute that you won’t cry in front of her and the HR director. No, you’ll save that until you leave this office to pack up your own. 

You’re still in disbelief as you stand in front of Chris. He’s face bleeds worry on your behalf. He knows you’re not doing well despite your attempts to convince him otherwise. 

“Oh baby girl.” He laments as he pulls you back into another embrace. You can’t find it in you anymore to continue keeping it together and you wrap your arms around Chris’ waist, placing your head against his chest. 

“I didn’t do it, Chris. I-I swear.” You sob into his chest, wetting the fabric of his shirt with your tears. You want more than anything for him to believe you. You’re convinced if he doesn’t, that it will shatter your resolve even more than today already has been today. 

Chris pulls back from you, his arms still wrapped around your middle and he looks down at you. He moves to cradle your face in his hands and presses another soft, warm kiss to your forehead, “Baby girl. I know you wouldn’t ever dream of doing such a thing. You’re too bright to do that.” 

And the overwhelming weight you’d been carrying since you left your now former office comes crashing down around you. You turn into a blubbering mess at his words, burying your head into his chest, into the comfort he’s offering you. 

And he holds you. He holds you up because your certain if he was to remove his arms from you, you’d fall completely apart and down onto the floor. His strong arms embrace you, as if he’s trying his best to protect you from anymore harm. And he is. He’d walk through hell if it meant you’d escape unscathed. 

He slowly begins to sway from side to side, a trick Chris always knew worked to help ground and calm you. And you let him. You let him wrap himself around you, somehow working his magic and taking the edge off of the day. 

“Chris?” You breathe into his chest between audible sobs. You need him. And you know he’s here. There is no place he’d rather be than right here with you. But you need his help. You want to forget today ever happened. You want to forget that you got fired, that you were embarrassed and humiliated by someone you looked up to. 

Chris pulls back just a fraction at your questioning tone, his brows slightly drawn together as if he’s encouraging you to ask your question. And he is. He needs to know what he can do for you, how he can help take this pain away for you. 

“Make me forget. Please.” You utter the words out, knowing that out of anyone on this planet, Chris is the one person to make you actually forget all the bad in the world, of the day. 

He looks at you now, his brows smoothing out at your request. His face changes from one of concern to control, taking over for you in the moment so you don’t have to do so much as think. 

“You want to forget, baby girl?” He asks, making sure he heard you right. And he knows he has, he knows what you mean. You need him. You need him to touch you, to make you really feel something besides pain. 

You bob your head, the sadness etched across your features. And all Chris wants to do is obliterate it from your face. And he thinks he has an idea that might work, but he has to make absolutely sure that you’re onboard because he refuses to add anymore grief to this already shit day. 

“You need me to make you forget, yeah?”

All you can do is nod again, the words caught deep in your throat. And Chris understands. He understands right now you can’t use your words, that he needs to understand your nonverbal cues here. And he does. He knows you better than you know yourself and in this moment, you’re thankful. You’re grateful Chris doesn’t force the words out of you this time. Just this once, Chris really does get it. 

Chris moves one of his hands to the side of your neck and then slides it to the base of your skull, right at the nape of your neck. The control you see Chris step into takes over and he takes a moment before he ever so carefully takes locks of your hair into his fist and pulls back just slightly, arching your head away from him and exposing your neck.

The pull of his fist against your skull grounds you, reminds you who is really in control. Chris is. He’s got you. Your eyes flutter at the prickling sensation of the tug of your hair in his fist. It makes your breath catch in your throat as you lean into the grip he has on you. 

Chris moves his head towards you, running his nose up the column of your throat as he gently tugs your head back. You can feel the ghost of his lips against your skin, the pillowy softness causing something hot to burn in your belly. 

“Is this what you need, baby girl?” He softly demands, his teeth now nibbling on the sensitive skin of your neck. The sensation sends goosebumps across your skin. You love it when he’s like this. When he takes control so you can let go. 

“Yes, Chris. Please.” 

And that’s all Chris needs to hear is your affirmation that what he’s doing is the path you’d like him to lead you down. Because Chris wouldn’t ever do something you’re not comfortable with. 

“I’ve got you, baby girl.” He declares, his kisses against your skin become more urgent, stronger against your flesh. The sudden sharp bite of his teeth on your throat make you take a sudden gasp of air, both of your hands flying up to grip into the shirt he’s wearing. You’re certain if you don’t hold on to him, you might just float away. 

Chris continues his languid assault, pressing fevered kisses to your jaw before he leans in a bit further, his lips creeping over the shell of your ear before he speaks. 

“Put your arms around my neck, baby girl.” He instructs. And you do as your told, releasing your fists from his shirt to wrap tightly around his neck. Chris leans forward a bit as his hands slide down your back and over your ass to the backs of your thighs. He’s going to lift you, so you give a small hop to give him the momentum to hoist you up and into his arms. And he does, so you swing both of your legs around his waist and bury your head into the crook of his neck. 

Chris steadily spins and heads in the direction of your bedroom. You can feel the pressure of his fingertips against your thighs and it almost burns. You’re thankful for the feeling, as the physical sensation causes that heat in your belly to blossom. 

Chris edges open the bedroom door with his elbow, he enters and kicks it closed with his foot as he walks you back towards the bed. He slowly but surely lays you out beneath him so you’re on your back looking up at his big, chocolatey-brown eyes. There is so much intensity in them that you almost have to look away, but you don’t. You can’t. You won’t. 

Chris tips his head forward and presses his lips to yours, nudging your bottom lip with his tongue. You meet his kiss with equal fervor, placing your hands on either side of his face. You open up for him to allow his tongue to dance alongside yours. 

“M-make this day go’way, Chris.” You whisper against his lips, convinced that if you speak it out loud, Chris will make it happen. And he will. He’ll make damned sure he does. He’d do anything for you and that includes rewriting the day for you. 

“Lemme in, baby girl.” He responds as his body lies heavy against yours, his hips nestled between your thighs. The heat of his body invades your system, short circuiting any kind of common sense. The intense desire for him is almost unbearable. 

Chris shifts his hands up the underside of your shirt, the feeling of his fingertips against your skin a sudden but welcome sensation. You take a deep breath in and move to lift your arms. Chris takes notice and follows your cues like he’d follow the roadways on a map. He lifts your shirt over your head to be met with the swells of your covered breasts. 

“You are so beautiful, baby girl. S’fucking brilliant.” He rambles. He does this when he gets lost in you. And you allow it. You crave it. You yearn for his dominance. You need it like you need air in your lungs. 

Chris’ hand eases its way underneath your back to quickly unhook the clasp of your bra. The look he’s giving you is reverent, like if he takes his eyes off of you for one second, you might just disappear into thin air. And Chris won’t take his eyes off of you. He tips his head forward and rakes his lips against the side of your neck before stopping at your ear, “Daddy’ll make it not hurt anymore, baby girl.” 

The switch has flipped in Chris’ brain now. And you know it by the way he refers to himself. He’s fully in control now and there is nothing you can give but your utter pliant submission in return. There isn’t anything you’d rather give to him right now anyways. 

“Daddy, please…” Your voice trails off, your back slowly arching off of the bed as his lips connect with the spot right behind your ear. Your hands move to wrap around his neck and tangle in his hair as he continues his assault, taking his time moving slowly down your body. 

His lips make landmarks everywhere against your skin as your body bristles against his ministrations. You feel his hands on your hips, his fingertips curling into the waistband of your jeans. 

“Daddy’s got you, baby girl. I’m right here.” He murmurs, his fingers moving to the button of your jeans and slotting it undone. He grips both sides of your jeans and shuffles them down and over your hips, taking your panties right along with them. 

“Fuck, baby girl.” His voice is thick with barely there restraint as he tosses your jeans onto the floor. You’re so wet for him, you can feel the slickness between your thighs as he moves back on his haunches to peel of his own shirt. 

And its in moments like these, you still to this day find yourself amazed at Chris. He looks as though he was carved by Michelangelo himself out of the finest marble and it rips your breath from you every time. How you managed to be so lucky is still a mystery to you, but you’re nevertheless just as thankful as the day you met him as you are now. 

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as you lay waiting beneath him. And he won’t leave you wanting. Chris would never leave you to go without. He would rather sacrifice anything to make sure you had everything. 

Chris shimmies himself out of his sweats, his thick cock springing free from his pants and slapping against your pubic mound. The sensation sends a ripple of arousal to rush out of you as you try to press your thighs together to find some sort of relief. But Chris is back to being nestled between your thighs, his heavy cock lying against you. 

Chris moves his hand down to cover your pussy and before you realize it, he lifts his hand and slaps your pussy. Hard. You let out an audible cry, the feeling sending a sharp, lightening-like strike sting throughout your body. 

“Whose pussy is this?” Chris demands, slowly massaging away the sting of his hand. You know what Chris is asking. You know he’s possessive. And you love him like this. You love it when he looks at you like you’re the only person in the world. And to him, its because you actually are. 

“It’s yours, Daddy.” You cry on a moan, your hands fisting into the sheets on either side of you as he reels his back again and lays out another harsh slap. The sensation jolts you again as your back bows towards him, your grip in the sheets growing impossibly stronger. 

“That’s right, it’s mine,” He leans into you now, dipping his head back to your throat briefly as his other hand moves up your torso. His fingers dance across the skin of your abdomen, sending goosebumps to blossom across your skin. His other hand travels up and over the curve of your breast, giving your nipple the slightest caress before that same hand wraps around your throat, “Daddy is going to make you forget today ever even happened, baby girl. I’ll give it to you, but I need something from you.” 

“Anything.” You purr, your body is burning up under his touch and you’re not sure how much longer you’ll be able to stand his teasing. He’s got you right where he wants you and you know that because you willingly put yourself there. But there is no place you’d rather be. 

“I wanna hear that pretty voice while I fuck you stupid, baby girl.” His voice ripples through you, the command isn’t a suggestion. It’s a stipulation and you have no desire to not give him what he wants. 

“Yes, Daddy.” Your words slur together, the haze of subspace taking over your body, the excitement of what’s to come filling every inch of your skin. 

“That’s m’girl.” Chris maneuvers his fingers against your aching pussy and all you want is for Chris to touch you where you need him most. But you know with that comes the teasing. And you can barely stand it, but you endure it because teases you so fucking well. 

His hand squeezes ever so slightly against your carotid artery, cutting off precious blood flow to your brain. Doing this only heightens the buzz underneath your skin and the floating feeling Chris is providing you. As if you might drift away, Chris’ touch anchors you back down to earth as his fingers begin their soft circular motions against your pulsing clit. 

You croak out a strangled moan, your hands flying to grip the wrist of the hand that is slotted against your neck. You feel like if you don’t touch Chris in some way, that you’ll evaporate into thin air. 

“Fuck, baby girl. You’re so goddamn wet. Look at the mess you’re making.” Chris pulls his fingers from you to show you the glistening shine on his fingertips, “Open,” He instructs, asking you to open up your mouth for him. And you do, “You see how fuckin’ good you taste?” 

You nod, swirling your tongue against his index finger before you pop off, “Yes, Daddy.” You know he wanted to hear you and hear you he shall. 

A devious smile spreads across Chris’ face as he removes his hand from your throat. He slowly lifts each of your legs and places them on his shoulders. You can feel the head of his cock teasing your entrance, but you want nothing more than to feel his lips against your clit. 

“Daddy.” You plead and you pray to whatever deities exist that Chris understands what you need. But you needn’t worry, Chris knows exactly what and where you need him. And he’s not going to deny you. 

“Does my baby girl want to be devoured?” He shifts his weight back to his heels briefly before he situates himself on his stomach, both his hands bracket around each of your thighs as his fingertips dig almost painfully into your flesh. 

“God yes. Please?” 

“Anything for you, my precious girl.” And with that, Chris presses the flat of his tongue against your clit. The sudden wet warmth of his mouth sends you into a frenzy and Chris knows. God, he knows. He loves the way you respond to him. He can’t get enough of the way your body writhes at his touch. 

Chris shifts his body a bit to get better leverage and slides not one, but two fingers into your throbbing cunt. The sensation startles you, but in the best way possible. His tongue is working lazy circles around your clit as he pumps his fingers slowly in and out of you. 

Your hands shoot into his scalp as your fingers intertwine with the strands of his hair, gripping tightly. And you begin to undulate your hips in time with the swirl of his tongue and the trust of his hand. 

“Fu-fuck.” You cry out, your grip getting impossibly tighter against Chris. And he loves it. He loves to feel the searing burn from you pulling on his hair, taking what you need from him. 

He continues to drive his fingers in and out of you at a deliberate pace and its when he swiftly curls his fingers into the spongy spot inside you that you shout out a whimpering moan. Chris knows where to touch you. He knows how to touch you. He knows exactly what to do to get you to fall completely apart in his arms. 

Chris pulls his head back from the assault he’s delivering against your clit, “You’re fucking soaked, baby girl. You gon’come for me, yeah?” And you know you’re close. You can feel the tightening in your core as his fingers press deeper against your g-spot. 

“Chris, oh m’god.” Tears begin to stream down your face as you can’t hold it in much longer. The sensation in your gut is becoming almost unbearable. 

“I wan’this pussy to squirt all over me, baby girl. I want you to come for me, yeah?” He urges you on, encouraging you to your orgasm. And the moment he places his lips and tongue against your clit again, you utterly shatter. You completely break apart. 

Your body seizes up, every muscle in your body locking up against Chris’ fingers and tongue as you gush across the bed and onto his face. You know Chris can barely keep himself contained when you squirt, as it sends him into a delirious haze.

“Fuckin’ hell, baby girl.” Chris slows his fingers down as he slides them out of you, the sensation leaving you feeling far too empty for your liking. The grip he has on your other thigh loosens as he leans back up to tower over you on his knees. 

Chris stands on his knees, looking over your completely wrecked body. But he isn’t done yet. Not by a long shot. He runs his hands from the tops of your needs down your thighs, to your hips. His cock stands at attention, precum leaking from the tip and begging to be touched. 

You look up at him through hooded lids, your lashes damp with tears still lining your waterline. You want him inside you. You need him inside you this instant or you’re certain you’ll combust. You’re wound so incredibly tight for him and all you want is to be full of him.

Chris strokes himself leisurely from base to tip a few times, the sight alone makes your mouth water. If it was any other day, all you’d want to do is suck him off. To choke on him as he repeatedly thrusts inside your mouth and uses your throat. 

Chris seems to be able to tell what you’re thinking as a smirk dawns his features, “I wan’inside this pussy, baby girl.” He runs his hand gently over your sex, the overwhelming overstimulation sending a wave of goosebumps over your skin again. 

“You gon’let me inside?” He asks, almost on a plea. You know his resolve is starting to crack. It always does. And you love it when it does. Because he becomes this feral, filthy beast when he does.

“Please, Daddy.” You respond, reaching up for one of his hands to intertwine your fingers together. Chan places both his and your hands above your head, pressing down against the mattress with firm enough pressure to show he’s still in control. But just barely. 

Chris grips his cock mid-shaft and begins to tease the head of his cock through your folds. Wetness still sticks to you and he picks it up as teases his cock at your entrance. 

“How bad d’you want it?” Chris drawls, his voice laced with desire and need. He needs to hear you now, wants to hear you beg for it. Wants to know just how bad you need his cock inside you, to fill you up. 

“I want it so bad, Daddy. Please,” your begging always winds him up tighter than a spring and this time is no different. He’s determined to make you forget the terrible day you had and he’ll stop at nothing to make sure you do forget, “Give it t’me.” You mumble, your words slurred with ecstasy and want. 

“God, baby girl. I wan’give it to you s’bad.” Chris babbles as he takes the head of his cock and lines it up with your soaking entrance. You spread your legs open even wider for him as he slots his hips between you and slowly begins to push himself inside you. 

The overwhelming sensation of Chris’ cock entering you sends you into an unfettered hysteria. The feeling of being full of him, of being stretched so full of him is everything you you needed and everything you know you wanted. He’s determined to make you forget this day and by the end, you will. 

Chris buries himself to the hilt, his breathing ragged against the skin of your neck as he tucks his chin in the slot between your shoulder and collarbone. He rests his forehead there, his breath warm. 

“Fuck, baby girl, you feel s’good.” He babbles again, his one hand intertwined with yours as the other presses into the divot of your hip bone. He gives you a few moments of calm respite to allow you to adjust to his size before he begins to slowly move himself in and out of you. 

All you can manage to do at this point is cry out, moans and pleas slipping from your lips like a whore in church repenting for her sins. And you might as well be, but only for Chris. 

Chris begins an to plunge himself in and out of you at an increased pace, the feeling of his skin against yours making heat shoot through your veins. 

“This pussy was made f’me. This is mine.” Chris growls, low and guttural in his throat as he picks up the pace, untangling his hand from yours to notch it around your throat. You love it when Chris does this, claims you completely. You trust him implicitly, knowing he would never do anything to put you in harms way. But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t dance awfully close to that line, knowing it heightens your pleasure tenfold when he does. 

“Fuck, this pussy is fuckin’ slick, baby girl. So fuckin’ wet f’me.” He blathers on and on, the room filing with the sounds of his skin slapping against yours. You know when his rambling amps up, he’s getting close but you can feel the coiling, burning sensation building again at the base of your spine. You know another orgasm is growing inside you. 

“Daddy!” You grip his biceps, grounding yourself to him so you don’t feel as out of control as you do right now. 

“You gon’come again, baby girl?” 

All you can manage to do is nod frantically, your pupils blown wide and your mouth agape, taking gasping breaths to steady your racing heartbeat. 

“That’s m’good girl. Squirt all over this cock, baby girl. Do it f’me.” Chris encourages you and gives you the permission you so desperately seek. All it takes for you to disintegrate completely under him is the slight pulsing of his fingers around your throat, the sensation of blood flooding your brain. 

Chris angles his hips so the head of his cock is slamming into your g-spot and he licks the back of his thumb, removing his hand from your hip to circle his thumb against your clit. 

“You’re gon’come for me. Right fuckin’ now.” He demands. And you come completely apart. Your body begins to shudder uncontrollably, against your will, as he fucks you through one of the strongest orgasms you’ve had in a while. As the head of his cock hits just the right spot inside you, warm liquid gushes from you and onto Chris’ cock and soaks through the comforter. 

“Fuck, baby girl. That’s it, yes, god you’re such a good girl f’me. Look at this pussy quivering against my cock.” Chan’s getting wordier and wordier, which only tells you his orgasm is close behind. He keeps fucking you through your orgasm, as it seems to go on longer than usual. Your nails dig crescents into the skin of his biceps, but he doesn’t mind the bite of pain. He almost welcomes it. 

Your chest heaves in and out, overstimulation threatening to take over as Chris removes his thumb from your clit. He slides his hand away from your throat as blood rushes back to your brain, your hands still clenched onto his arms, “Fill me up, Daddy.” 

“Fuck, baby girl. I’m gon’fill you up. Breed this little pussy. You wan’that, yeah?” Chris’s thrusts are becoming erratic, his words frenzied the closer he gets to his own orgasm. 

You nod again, your hands sliding to his shoulders and up his neck as you cradle his face in your hands, “Fill me up, Daddy.” 

Chris can’t hold back much longer as he leans in and presses his lips to yours, both of your tongues tangling together before he breaks away, and you can see it written across his face. Your eyes plead with him, you want it so bad.

“I’m gon’come, baby girl. Gonna breed you so fuckin’ good.” And with a few final snaps of his hips, Chris buries his head into the crook of your neck and does what he’s been saying he’s going to do. He gives you what you want and comes. Hard. 

He lets out a strained and raspy groan, his muscles tensing in waves against your body. He heaves several breaths in and out of his nose, the warmth of his breath spreading across your neck and shoulder. 

You still have his face gripped between your hands as he slowly comes to a stop inside you. He leans up just a bit to capture your lips against his. Then you’re both forehead to forehead, breaths intermingling. 

“Thank you.” You whisper. Its all you can manage to say because Chris had to be some sort of magician. The ache of the day didn’t seem as unbearable anymore. The pain of being fired didn’t bite the same way it did an hour ago. 

“Of course, baby girl. I’ll always give you what you need.” He presses his lips to your forehead, warmth and comfort swell within your chest at his words. You knew he would always be there, an unwavering support system to be at your disposal whenever you needed him. And even when you didn’t need him, he’d always be there. 

[wolfiesroom]

𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙸𝙶 𝙼𝙰𝙳 → 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗; 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗

So, for those of you whom aren't subscribed to Christopher's Bubble OR whom haven't either heard and/or seen about the most recent Bubble antics recently on other forms of social media, the man decided to live out his K-Drama Fantasies on behalf of Chan Stans and Stay everywhere.

What exactly did he do, you ask? Well, to put it simply (and trust me, this is difficult because Chan is my bias) he broke up with us, tried to accuse us of cheating, but then admitted it was him who had been cheating to then admitting he was playing a simple joke on us and reassured us that he'd never want to do anything to hurt us (bless him, I swear). Who was it? It was Berry. Yes. His dog, Berry. 😒😂

I'm pretty sure non-Chan stans were convinced there was something actually wrong with him due to the number of Tiktoks and Fans posts I personally saw, however, us Chan-biased knew the man was full of shit and was most assuredly pulling some of his usual Chan-coded shenanigans.

𝙽𝙴𝚅𝙴𝚁 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙱𝙸𝙶 𝙼𝙰𝙳

It didn't matter what Chris did, how he said it, or why he did it. The simple fact still remained the same: you could never get mad at him.

→ Chris is the type of man that if asked, he'd likely do some crazy shit for the person he loves. Walk over hot coals? Sure. Dodge a few bullets? Yeah, no problem. Clean your shared living space, wash and fold laundry, put away dishes and cook dinner last minute? Of course.

→ But ask him to do something like, take out the trash? Well, fuck all of that.

→ And, truthfully, its not because he's incapable. He's exceedingly able to do said task. Its just...well...well he gets really hyper-focused on a task, especially a task he wants to do, it kind of--sort of--slips his mind.

→ And sure, the first few times he tells you this and flashes that thought-paralyzing smile, its suddenly not a big deal and you have no problem taking it out yourself.

→ However, the moment it goes from "a few times" to "too many times", you're suddenly finding yourself overcome with a rather new emotion. At least, when it comes to anything related to Chris.

→ You're big mad. Furious even. And its justifiable! Even Chris would agree with you. He's a grown ass man; he knows better.

→ However, the stars align and the universe conspires against you the morning you do ask him to take it out.

→ You're running late. You have an entirely packed work schedule. You slept for literal shit the night before. Your favorite pair of work pants weren't clean. You didn't have your favorite breakfast yogurt and you had to do mandatory overtime to top it all off.

→ So you ask Chris last minute as you're hastily packing up your work bag to take out the trash before you get home from work later that evening.

→ "Yeah, yeah, of course, beautiful! I'll take care of it." He promises and you believe him. Because in that moment, you don't have the time nor bandwidth to remember to question him about the other times he forgot. So, in your haste, you thank him and plant a kiss on his forehead before dashing out the door for work.

→ Well, see, Chris really did intend to do it. And he even wrote it down on a post-it note that he stuck to the monitor of his computer to remind him. But then he got distracted, watching Stay vlogs on Youtube. And then he got inspired by a mashup of Case 143 and God's Menu that a Stay had made, so he had to mess around in his studio.

→ Then suddenly it was 6:30pm. Chris is the literal physical embodiment of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie.

→ Chris hears the door open when you arrive home. And then the subsequent shout of his name. Okay, you're definitely not happy. He's also pretty sure he hears some slamming of somekind, maybe.

→ But it isn't until he hears your little feet stomping down the hall towards his studio door that he cannot help but find you the absolute cutest thing he's ever seen and heard than in this moment.

→ And lets be clear...Chris never invalidates you or dismisses you when you're upset. He just can't help but find it really fucking precious.

→ But you? Well, you're pissed. And you're determined to let his ass know. Because every other time you have been upset with him, he somehow disarms you completely and you immediately forget why you were mad in the first place.

→ Its damn near impossible to be mad at him. I mean, look at him. How can you get mad at that face? You can't, that's why.

→ Anticipating you, Chris is on the other side of his studio door just waiting. And as expected, he hears the all too familiar bang, bang, bang of your fist making contact with the door.

→ You do your best to strengthen your resolve. This time you're gonna give him the people's elbow and really let him have it. He just couldn't keep getting away with this. You know it. He knows it.

→ But that was before he'd opened his door. Well, after your little fists pounded his door, he promptly opened it and looked down at you. His head cocked to the side, one brow lifted as if he has absolutely no clue why you're standing there with your arms crossed, tapping your foot against the hardwood floor while wearing a really pathetic attempt at pure ire.

→ And you were so determined to proverbially throat punch the man, especially after the day you'd had (and to be fair, Chris probably would've let you literally throat punch him if he knew it would make you feel better). But once he opens the door and the scent of his studio and him bum rushes your nostrils, your eyes dart up to his and...and...

→ Well, god fucking damnit.

→ What were you even mad at him for? Why is he looking at you like you're some sort of damsel in distress? Why is he smiling? What's so funny?

→ "CHRISTOPHER!" Is all you can manage, your voice coming out in more of an exasperated whine and definitely not sounding any bit angry.

→ Chris stands there and mirrors you, crossing his arms and leans into the door jam with his head still cocked to the side. One of his dimples is showing and you just know he fucking knows. He knows why you're standing there. And he knows why you're upset. Or, well, you think he knows just based on the way he's looking at you like the cutest little creature he's ever seen.

→ You release your crossed arms, letting out a very audible huff through your nose as you do and you just stare at him. Blinking wildly, trying to find the resolve you knew you had about 60 seconds ago. But where it went, you haven't a fucking clue. Because he's standing there...just looking at you like you are the cutest little creature he's ever seen.

→ "Baby?" He finally responds. His voice is calm, suddenly soothing your rattled nerves. You let out yet another huff, but this time its a little less intense and you drop your shoulders.

→ "I hate you. You know that? I'm mad. I'm mad at...you!" You press your finger gently into his chest as you speak, "But...but I can't fucking remember why now because you're looking at me like that and...and...UGH!"

→ Chris knows you had a rough day. He doesn't even need to ask you to know it. He just feels it radiating off of you. So, he cocks his head to the opposite side as you stand there, trying to be mad about something and looking less and less like the raging bull you thought you did and more like a shrieking squirrel.

→ And Chris lets a beat of silence go between the both of you before he simply places each of his hands on either side of your arms and brings you close to him. You hear a soft sigh breach his lips before he leans in and presses a firm, but gentle kiss to your forehead.

→ Yeah, this fucker disarmed you with the forehead kiss this time. Damnit, damnit, damnit.

→ He leans back up, straightening himself upright before giving your arms a gentle squeeze. And he doesn't say anything. His arms fall back to his sides as he resumes his previous stance against the door jam. He's still smiling at you like you are the cutest little creature he's ever seen.

→ You let out one last sigh. Well, the man did it again. And you can't even be mad. Because I mean, look at him. Try being mad at him. Its impossible.

→ You give a shake of your head before spinning on your heels, heading back down the hall towards the kitchen. But you feel Chris' eyes are still on you. And you look back over your shoulder and yep, there those brown little boba eyes are, locked on you.

→ "I'm mad at you. So don't you dare stare at my ass as I walk away from you." You look forward again, but not before you place a hand on each butt cheek in a feeble attempt to block Chris' gaze.

→ And all you hear are his muffled giggles. His absolutely adorable, precious and cute giggles. Fucking shitbird.