Teasing Banter, D0m/Sub Vibes, Face-$itting.
The party’s done, and you’re a mess, sniffling as you stumble through the door, thighs screaming from that shiny, too-tight mini dress you had to wear.
Chan’s got you scooped up in his arms like you’re his personal princess, kicking off your heels with a soft, “Tch, told you those were torture devices.”
He carries you to the bedroom, setting you down on the edge of the bed like you’re made of glass. Before you can whine more about your thighs rubbing raw, he’s on his knees, all business.
“Lemme see, baby,” he says, voice low, and you’re dying inside, legs parting despite the embarrassment. You’re expecting him to check the damage, but the way he rolls up the hem of your sparkly dress—slow, deliberate—feels like he’s unwrapping a damn present.
His gaze drops to your inner thighs, red and irritated from all that dancing and no thigh gap to save you. “F*ck, love,” he groans, almost to himself. “Should’ve worn those longer boyshorts.”
“Longer boyshorts aren’t a thing, Christopher!” you snap, cheeks burning as you flop back.
He snorts, shaking his head like you’ve lost it, muttering something about you being ridiculous as he stands. “Stay put. Cold towel, cream, coming right up.”
You’re still grumbling, peeling off the dress ‘cause screw it—you’re married, and Chan’s seen you in every state of disarray. By the time he’s back with a damp towel and a tube of antiseptic cream, you’re in just your underwear, sprawled on the bed, whining about how that dress was a traitor. He kneels again, all gentle and focused, pressing the cool towel to your sore thighs.
You wince, but his hands are magic, massaging the cream in with slow, careful strokes. “Shh, I got you,” he murmurs, thumbs circling your skin, easing the sting. “Tired, yeah?”
You mumble something incoherent, half-dead from the night, but then his fingers—those damn fingers—graze lower, brushing the seam of your boyshorts right over your core.
You jolt, gasping, “What the—?!”
He’s got this smug little smirk, poking lightly at the damp spot you know is betraying you. “Well, damn, what’s this?” he teases, voice all gravel.
“Chan, that’s just—uh—cervical mucus!” you blurt, mortified, but he’s already leaning closer, eyes darkening.
“Oh, really?” he drawls, nose practically brushing your thigh now, and you swear you see him inhale, all smug. “Smells like you’re turned on to me.”
“You’re gross,” you shoot back, shaking your head, but your laugh gives you away.
“Says the one who’s tasted my come and loved it,” he fires back, grinning like the devil.
You groan, knowing arguing with him is like wrestling a brick wall—and losing.
“Admit it,” he says, voice dropping lower. “You got all worked up from me rubbing these gorgeous thighs, didn’t you?”
“I’m tired, okay—” you start, but he cuts you off with that look, the one that says he’s about to ruin you in the best way.
“Did you?” he presses, and you’re too flustered to lie.
"…Yeah,” you mumble, barely audible.
“Good girl.” He’s on the bed in a flash, shirt half-unbuttoned, pants ditched, all lean muscle and that stupidly hot smirk as he pulls you up to straddle him.
You squeak, trying not to crush him, but he’s having none of it. His hands grip your waist, tugging you down until you’re hovering over his chest.
“C’mere,” he says, voice all rough honey, and before you can protest, he’s guiding you up, positioning you right over his face.
“Chan, no—” you start, thighs trembling, but he’s not hearing it.
“Sit. Down.” His tone’s firm, playful but commanding, and when you hesitate, he pulls you closer, your drenched panties brushing his nose.
A shiver shoots through you, electric, as he groans, “F*ck, you’re soaked.” His tongue flicks out, dragging a slow, deliberate stripe up your heat through the fabric.
“You gonna ride my face like this?” he murmurs, fingers hooking under your boyshorts’s waistband, “Off. Wanna taste you properly, baby."