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b4ng · 2 months ago

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Truth or Strip

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

PART ONE

Tags: Slowburn smut, best friends to lovers, teasing, playful tension, emotional filth, alcohol, heavy teasing, strip games, oral (f + m receiving), 69, mutual masturbation, fingering, cock worship, dirty talk, creampie, overstimulation, switchy energy, possessiveness

Word Count: 6.6k

Summary: You and Chan have been best friends since middle school. No blurred lines, no awkward crushes—just pure, chaotic, platonic energy. That is, until a drunk night turns into a strip game, and suddenly, there’s too much skin and not enough self-control.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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Your living room was a mess of snack bags, empty cans, and strewn jackets—somehow, you and Chan had survived the party without losing a limb or a phone, which felt like a miracle considering how trashed everyone else had gotten.

You’d made it home mostly in one piece, shoes off by the door, laughter still bubbling out of you both as you collapsed onto the floor in front of the couch, limbs tangled in a heap of jackets and throw pillows.

Chan was still chuckling when he flopped onto his back beside you, his face flushed from the vodka, dark curls messy from dancing like an idiot two hours earlier.

“You’re gonna have the worst hangover in the morning,” you mumbled, swiping at his cheek with your sleeve to wipe away some glitter. “Who the hell even put this on you?”

“I think it was that girl in the pink dress,” he said with a grin. “She told me I had ‘main character energy.’”

You snorted. “You? More like comic relief.”

He clutched his chest like you’d wounded him. “Rude. You know I’m the main event.”

You laughed until your stomach hurt. It felt good—easy. This was always the best part of a night out. Not the chaos or the noise, but the quiet hours after, when it was just you and Chan. You’d been doing this since high school: crashing at each other’s places, splitting hangovers, waking up tangled in blankets on the couch like siblings. Nothing new.

Except tonight, something felt different. Not in a big way. Just a flicker. A tension in the air. Maybe it was the leftover adrenaline, or the way his shirt had ridden up just slightly to show the V of his hip when he stretched his arms above his head, yawning.

“Alright,” you said, sitting up and tossing a pillow at him. “We’re not gonna fall asleep any time soon. Let’s play something.”

He blinked at you. “Like what? We’re not sixteen anymore.”

“Truth or dare?”

“Lame,” he groaned, but he was grinning.

You shrugged. “Got a better idea?”

“Hmm.” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes gleaming. “Truth or strip?”

You paused, blinking at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little bit,” he said, sitting up straighter. “Come on. Truth or dare is boring. But truth or strip? That’s some high-stakes sh*t.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just wanna see me naked.”

He barked a laugh. “Please, I’ve seen you in worse. Remember Vegas?”

“Fair point.” You bit your lip. “Alright, fine. But you’re playing by the same rules.”

“Obviously,” he said, holding out his pinky. “Swear?”

You linked your pinky with his. His skin was warm—too warm—and for some reason, you felt your stomach do a stupid little twist. Don’t read into it. You were just tipsy and sleep-deprived.

“Alright,” you said, settling in cross-legged on the floor, facing him. “You start.”

He grinned like the devil. “Truth or strip?”

Your smirk was smug. “Truth.”

He pretended to be deep in thought. “Okay. Have you ever faked an orgasm?”

Your jaw dropped. “We’re starting there?”

“Game’s the game, sweetheart.”

You reached for your drink, trying to hide your grin. “Fine. Yes.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Wait—really?”

“Multiple times.”

“With who?”

“Not your turn to ask more than one,” you said, sticking out your tongue.

He laughed, clearly intrigued. “Okay, okay. Your turn.”

You cocked your head. “Truth or strip?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Truth.”

“What’s the weirdest porn category you’ve ever clicked?”

He choked. “Dude.”

You grinned. “Answer the question, Christopher.”

He groaned, rubbing his face. “Fine. One time I ended up on a step-sibling thing by accident. I panicked and closed it, but like… I stayed for the acting.”

You lost it, laughing so hard you fell back onto the couch cushions.

“You stayed for the acting?!”

“It was a dramatic plot!” he defended. “There was betrayal! Emotional arcs!”

“Oh my God,” you wheezed. “You’re so full of sh*t.”

His face was bright red, but he was laughing too. This was good. Safe. Still funny.

But you both knew the game couldn’t stay innocent forever.

“Alright,” he said, grinning wickedly now. “Truth or strip?”

You paused. Not because you were scared—but because something in his gaze had shifted just a little. Still playful, but there was heat there now. Or maybe you were imagining it.

“…Strip,” you said softly.

His brows lifted, impressed. “Bold.”

You slipped off your hoodie, leaving yourself in a little black crop top. Nothing scandalous. Still friendly. Still harmless.

But you noticed his eyes flick down and linger just a second too long.

And just like that—the air got a little thicker.

You were already warmer than you should’ve been.

Not just from the vodka, or from the buzz of lingering laughter between you and Chan—but from the subtle shift in the air. The way your hoodie sat discarded beside you, leaving you in a crop top and high-rise shorts while his eyes danced anywhere but directly at you. Except when they did.

“Alright,” he said, voice low and lazy, tapping his finger against a half-empty can. “Truth or strip?”

You caught the glint in his eye. Not teasing anymore. Or at least, not just teasing.

“…Strip.”

You weren’t drunk enough to not feel it. The nerves. The hesitation. You’d been friends for years. You’d fallen asleep beside him a hundred times. Shared beds. Shared hangovers. Shared so much.

But never this.

Your hands were steady, even though your heart wasn’t. You reached for the hem of your crop top slowly, half expecting him to interrupt. To laugh. To call your bluff.

He didn’t.

And maybe that was the worst part.

You peeled it over your head in one fluid motion and let it drop to the floor.

Silence.

No bra. Just bare skin and freckles and the weight of his gaze when it finally—finally—dragged up to meet yours.

You crossed your arms instinctively, even though you weren’t cold.

“Say something,” you muttered, not looking at him.

“Jesus,” he breathed.

You peeked at him, and—yeah. That was not a casual face. That was not a best-friend-safe-zone face. That was a holy shit, my best friend is topless face.

He cleared his throat, eyes jumping anywhere but your chest. “I—sorry. I just… wasn’t expecting you to actually…”

“You said strip,” you said, trying to act like you weren’t burning alive.

“I did, yeah. I just thought you’d maybe… like, take off a sock.”

You let out a breathless laugh, wrapping your arms tighter across your chest. “You’re the one who suggested this game, idiot.”

“Right,” he muttered, running a hand through his curls. “Right. That’s on me.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

His cheeks were flushed. His jaw was tight. His eyes flicked to your arms, then away again.

He was trying not to look. Trying so hard.

And for some reason, that only made it worse.

“I can put it back on,” you said, voice softer now.

His eyes shot to yours. “No. No—it’s… it’s fine.”

You both froze.

Just… sitting there. On your living room floor. Shirtless. Buzzed. And suddenly so far from where the night started.

You let out a nervous breath and tried to laugh it off. “Okay, new rule. No stripping unless we’re okay with getting weird.”

He nodded quickly. “Yeah. Totally. That’s fair.”

You stayed like that for a beat too long.

And then you said, quietly: “Truth or strip?”

His head jerked toward you like he forgot you were still playing. “…Truth.”

You studied him for a second. Not smiling anymore.

“Have you ever been turned on by something you didn’t expect?”

His breath hitched.

A full second passed before he said, “That’s a loaded question.”

You tilted your head. “That’s a yes.”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “We’re not gonna be friends after this game.”

“Why? ’Cause you’re scared I’ll win?”

“Because I’m starting to feel like this might actually f**k us up.”

The words hung in the air like smoke.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“Do you want to stop?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Chan looked at you like he wanted to say yes. But instead, his voice came out rough:

“No. I just think we should be careful what we ask next.”

And God, something about that—that—was hotter than any strip or dare.

You both sat in silence for a long moment, your pulse loud in your ears. There was music playing faintly from your bedroom—something slow and bass-heavy—but it felt far away. Like the world had gotten quieter since you took off your shirt.

You could still feel Chan’s gaze flicker over you and then away, like his eyes couldn’t decide whether to look or run for their lives.

You were still covering yourself with your arms, elbows resting on your knees. Trying to pretend it wasn’t weird. That your nipples weren’t tight from the air. That you weren’t hyper-aware of how small this room suddenly felt.

“I’m just saying,” you said eventually, breaking the silence, “if you get to ask if I’ve ever been choked, I get to ask something borderline illegal too.”

Chan huffed a laugh, visibly relaxing. “Alright, hit me.”

You tilted your head, letting your eyes rake over him slowly.

“…Strip.”

His brows lifted. “No truth?”

“Nope.”

He looked at you for a beat—then reached for the hem of his tank top. His fingers curled under it, and for some reason, that movement alone made your stomach clench.

He pulled it off in one smooth motion, revealing the lines and curves you’d seen a million times at the beach, in the gym, shirtless in your kitchen—but somehow this time it was different. The air in the room shifted like it knew.

You tried not to stare. You failed.

You’d forgotten how solid he was. Broad shoulders, defined chest, those little indentations near his hips that only appeared when he was fully relaxed. Which, ironically, he didn’t look now.

Chan tossed the tank top aside. You followed the motion. Watched it flutter to the floor and suddenly realized—between the two of you, there wasn’t much left to take off.

You were braless in just your shorts. He was shirtless in sweats.

Dangerous territory.

You both sat there for another beat, and then Chan leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower.

“…Wanna make it more interesting?”

Your heart jumped.

“How?” you asked, even though you already knew this was the moment the game turned fatal.

He smirked, but it was softer now. Like he was testing your reaction.

“What if we add… dares?”

You blinked. “Dares?”

“Yeah. Like… if you don’t want to answer a question or strip, you can take a dare.”

“That’s just—Chan, that’s just truth or dare with extra steps.”

“Yeah,” he grinned, “but sexy.”

You raised a brow. “Define sexy.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I dare you to do something dumb. Or risky. Or…”

His voice trailed off, and his eyes dropped to your mouth for just a split second. You felt it like a match striking.

“…or?”

He shrugged, playing innocent. “Who knows. That’s the fun of it.”

Your heart thudded harder. This felt like a crossroads. Like a moment you could still laugh off or steer away from. But instead, your voice came out quieter, steadier:

“…Okay. Let’s do it.”

His eyes flicked back up to yours. And just like that, you were in even deeper.

He nodded. “Alright. Truth, strip, or dare?”

You licked your lips. Thought about it. Then: “Dare.”

The way his smile curled slowly across his lips was unholy.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked straight at you.

“I dare you…” he paused, letting the silence stretch, “to take your arms down.”

You froze.

You weren’t even cold. But you’d kept them there the entire time, like a half-hearted attempt at modesty. Like a shield.

And now he was daring you to drop it.

Not touch him. Not take anything else off. Just… let him see you.

Your arms stayed in place for a beat longer. You bit the inside of your cheek.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

“I know.”

Slowly—so slowly—you uncrossed your arms and let them fall to your sides.

His eyes dropped like gravity pulled them there.

And when they did—when he finally looked, really looked—he didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease.

He just stared.

You could see the exact moment his breath caught. The slight flare of his nostrils. The clench in his jaw. The ripple of something restrained deep in his chest.

He looked at you like you were a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.

You shifted, suddenly restless under the weight of it. “Okay. Now you.”

He dragged his gaze back up slowly, his voice a little hoarser now. “Truth, strip, or dare?”

“Truth.”

He raised a brow. “Playing it safe?”

“Playing it smart,” you said.

“Fine,” he murmured. “Have you ever wanted to kiss me?”

You blinked.

Then laughed. “What happened to sexy dares?”

“Answer the question.”

You hesitated.

Wanted to kiss him? No. Never. You’d never thought about it. Never let yourself.

But right now, with him shirtless and flushed and watching you like he wasn’t sure what the hell he’d just asked—it didn’t feel so absurd.

“…No,” you said finally. “Not until maybe two minutes ago.”

Chan’s mouth parted just slightly. Like you’d slapped him and kissed him all at once.

“Your turn,” you said, heart thudding now. “Truth, strip, or dare?”

He didn’t look away.

“…Dare.”

You felt it. That wicked spark at the back of your throat.

“Touch me.”

His brows lifted.

“Where?” he asked.

You smiled, slow and dangerous. “Dealer’s choice.”

You could hear your heart.

Not figuratively. Not romantically. Literally. It was thudding in your ears like a war drum—deep, steady, traitorous.

Chan didn’t move right away. Just watched you, as if checking one last time to make sure this was okay. That he wasn’t hallucinating the dare that just came out of your mouth.

And then—he shifted.

He leaned in slowly, like any sudden movement might shatter the moment, and reached out with the hand that always used to ruffle your hair or flick your forehead or pass you a drink like it was nothing.

But this time, his fingers didn’t feel like nothing.

They brushed your bare shoulder, the pads of them soft and impossibly careful. He dragged them up—along your collarbone, then higher—skimming the slope of your neck in one long, reverent line that left your skin goosebumped and buzzing.

You tilted your head without meaning to.

And that’s when his hand slid up the side of your face, his thumb catching beneath your jaw as he guided your head to the side—gently, but with the kind of confidence that made your pulse slam.

You breathed out, shaky.

His fingers disappeared into your hair at the back of your head, and then—God.

He tugged.

A small, firm pull.

Not painful. Not even rough. Just assertive. Controlled. Possessive in a way that made your thighs clench and your thoughts scatter like marbles.

“Chan,” you whispered. Barely.

But he didn’t say anything. Just looked at you—really looked. His face close. His breath warm. His grip steady.

Your chest rose and fell faster than it should have.

You didn’t realize how long you’d been staring until his fingers relaxed and slid away, trailing down your neck like he was reluctant to stop.

You sucked in a breath like you’d been holding it forever.

Silence.

Until you muttered, almost accusing, “You’re good at that.”

Chan blinked, looking a little shaken himself. “Wasn’t trying to be.”

You stared at him.

He stared right back.

And then, just when it felt like the tension might tip into something you couldn’t undo, he exhaled hard, sat back on his heels, and said:

“…Okay. My turn.”

You blinked, trying to reboot your brain. “Your what?”

“Truth, strip, or dare,” he said, voice rough, “I pick strip.”

You stared at him. “You don’t even wanna hear the options first?”

He shook his head, jaw tense. “I need to lose something.”

And with that, his hands slid to his hips, and you realized—with a full-body jolt—that he only had one layer left too.

His fingers hooked into the waistband of his sweats, and for the first time tonight, you were the one staring like a deer caught in headlights.

He pulled them down slowly—gray cotton dragging over tanned skin—and when he tossed them aside, what was left was…

Obvious.

Not exaggerated. Not cartoonish. But undeniably, definitively, a problem.

You blinked at the bulge pressing against his dark briefs, very real and very impossible to unsee.

Neither of you spoke.

Chan shifted slightly, like the pressure was getting to him, and you watched the twitch in his thigh, the tight clench of his abs, the subtle flex in his fingers like he didn’t know what to do with them anymore.

“…That a side effect of vodka?” you asked, trying to make your voice light, even as your brain short-circuited.

Chan snorted. “That’s a side effect of having your tits out for the past ten minutes while telling me to touch you.”

You blinked.

Your mouth opened, then closed again.

“You’re not… embarrassed?”

He shook his head. “I think we passed embarrassed somewhere back when you dared me to touch you like that.”

“…Fair.”

Another beat passed.

Then his eyes cut to you, warm and half-lidded.

“Truth, strip, or dare?” Chan asked again, but this time his voice was different.

Lower. Darker.

Less of a question and more of a challenge.

You should’ve been drunker.

You weren’t sober by any means, but in this moment—sitting on your bed in nothing but shorts while your best friend sat shirtless, flushed, hard, and watching you like a fucking meal—you felt painfully aware of every choice you’d made to get here.

You met his gaze. “Strip me.”

He blinked. “What?”

Your lips twitched. “You heard me.”

He hesitated—just long enough to make your stomach flip—and then leaned forward, his hand moving slowly toward the waistband of your shorts.

You held still. Let him.

His knuckles brushed your hip.

Then, with quiet fingers, he tugged the hem down. You lifted your hips instinctively, and the fabric dragged over your thighs, past your knees, to the floor—leaving you in just your lace thong, nothing else, the cool air brushing every inch of bare skin and making you shiver.

Chan sat back, eyes stuck on you like he was trying to memorize the whole scene in case it disappeared.

“You’re—” He swallowed, hard. “Shit.”

You gave a breathless little laugh. “That all you’ve got?”

He looked up, eyes flickering over your face, and for a moment, it felt like he wasn’t your best friend anymore. Like something had shifted permanently.

And then—of course—he tilted his head, and said:

“…Dare.”

Your pulse jumped. “What?”

He smirked. “You said I could strip you. So I did. But it’s still my turn.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he cut you off, already moving forward.

“I dare you…” His voice was molten now, every word sliding under your skin, “…to get on my lap.”

Your heart practically stopped.

Not “sit next to me.” Not “touch me.” Climb into his fucking lap.

“You want me to sit on you?” you asked, voice smaller than you intended.

He raised a brow. “I said lap, not cock. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

You blinked at him. Jaw slack.

But he just leaned back on his palms, legs slightly parted, abs tightening as he waited.

Waiting for you to make the move.

Your skin was already on fire. Every part of you felt exposed, not just physically—but mentally, emotionally, like this wasn’t just a dare anymore. This was something else.

Still… a dare was a dare.

So you crawled over slowly—like each movement might detonate something—and settled yourself on his thighs, careful not to touch too much.

But even that little bit of contact—your knees bracketing his hips, your chest dangerously close to his, your barely-covered core pressed against the heat straining under his briefs—made both of you tense.

He inhaled, slow and deep.

You swallowed.

“Still just a game, right?” you whispered.

Chan’s eyes flicked to your lips. “We’re still playing.”

But he didn’t smile this time.

Didn’t laugh.

He just sat there with you on his lap, staring like he was seconds from forgetting his own rules.

Your breath hitched. “Your turn.”

“Truth, strip, or dare?” he murmured.

Your voice came out soft. “Dare.”

He stared at you for a beat. Then, quiet:

“…I dare you to tell me what you’re thinking right now.”

You froze.

The tension between you buzzed like live wire.

Your thighs clenched slightly. You could feel him under you, hot and heavy and undeniably affected. And yet, somehow, he still wanted the truth before the touch.

You licked your lips. Breathed in.

“…I’m thinking,” you said slowly, “that if you move your hands even once, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

He blinked.

Then, ever so slightly, his fingers twitched behind him.

“Careful,” Chan muttered, voice strained. “You keep talking and moving like that, and this game’s gonna end real fast.”

You gave him a sweet little blink, all innocence. “I’m just sitting.”

“You’re grinding.”

“Am I?” You tilted your head. “Weird. Didn’t notice.”

Chan exhaled sharp through his nose, clearly fighting for composure. His hands were still braced behind him, his biceps flexed, and the muscle in his jaw ticked once—hard.

“Behave,” he warned low, but it wasn’t convincing. Not with the way his eyes refused to leave your chest. You could feel them there, like a second kind of heat, burning over the curve of your breasts. Your nipples had been hard since the second he touched your neck, but now? Under his gaze, they felt damn near untouchable.

“You’re staring,” you said, biting back a smirk.

He didn’t deny it.

Didn’t even blink.

“Hard not to,” he muttered. “They’re just… right there.”

You arched your spine slightly, just enough for your tits to bounce once, subtle and unintentional on purpose.

Chan swallowed.

His eyes darkened.

“I warned you,” he said, but it was a growl now. Less of a threat and more of a promise.

Still—you didn’t back down.

“Okay, then,” you said casually, “my turn.”

He blinked, a beat late. “Huh?”

“I get to ask now, remember?” You smiled sweetly. “Truth, strip, or dare?”

He scoffed. “You’re literally naked. I’m hard as fuck. I think it’s safe to say there’s no more stripping left.”

“Then pick something else.”

He hesitated. For a long moment, he looked like he was weighing every possibility.

Finally: “Truth.”

You leaned in—close enough for your bare chest to brush his as you whispered:

“Coward.”

He laughed—tight and hoarse—but you didn’t let him recover.

“Wrong answer,” you said. “Try again. Truth’s not allowed anymore.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You just made that rule up.”

“I’m not the one rock hard in my own boxers begging for mercy. Pick again.”

Chan stared at you. His entire face was flushed now—not embarrassed, but aroused. Frustrated. Barely holding it together.

“…Fine,” he said, voice rough. “Dare.”

You smiled slow. Dangerous. And then dropped it like a lit match:

“I dare you to put your mouth on me.”

Everything in him went still.

You felt it—the way his thighs tensed beneath you, the way his eyes flicked up to yours like he couldn’t quite believe you said that.

But you didn’t flinch.

You leaned in until your forehead brushed his, until your lips hovered so close he could taste the breath between them.

“I didn’t say where,” you whispered. “Or how long. Just your mouth. Somewhere. Anywhere.”

His eyes flicked to your lips.

Then your neck.

Then lower—much lower.

He exhaled, long and trembling, and his voice came out so deep it sounded like gravel.

“…You’re evil.”

You smirked.

“Still playing, though.”

⸻

Chan still hadn’t moved.

Not even an inch.

But his jaw was clenched, the muscle tight under his skin, and his eyes were flickering over your face like he needed permission to breathe.

“You’re really gonna make me do this?” he muttered.

You grinned. “It’s a dare.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose—then leaned in.

Slow.

Measured.

Like you were something sacred he was about to defile.

The first place his mouth landed was your neck.

Just under your jawline. Warm, plush lips grazing the thrum of your pulse, and lingering. Not a quick kiss. Not even close.

It wasn’t even a kiss—it was a taste. The kind of mouth-on-skin contact that made your whole body hum and your thighs press harder around him without realizing it.

Your breath hitched. He felt it. Smirked.

And then moved lower.

The next kiss landed in the center of your chest, just above the curve of your breast. Hot. Open. His tongue swiped lightly over your skin like he was testing it.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured against you.

“No, I’m not.”

“Liar.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not when he tilted his head—lips still on you—and dragged his mouth downward.

And then he stopped.

Right at the swell of your left breast, so close his breath fanned over your nipple, and froze.

His lips parted.

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t take.

Didn’t dare.

You felt his breath hitch, his throat bob as he swallowed.

“You said anywhere,” he said, voice hoarse. “Didn’t say I had to choose.”

Your heart felt like it was gonna punch through your ribs.

You didn’t move either.

“Then what?” you whispered.

His hand slid up your thigh. Not rushing. Just claiming.

Then he leaned up, lips brushing your ear.

“I want you to tell me,” he whispered. “Say where.”

Your stomach flipped violently.

His mouth was still close enough to feel, his hand still not touching where you wanted it, and now—he was flipping the script. Holding himself back, just to make you ask for it.

Your dare.

His rules.

You felt his nose nudge your temple, his breath fanning your cheek.

“Say it, baby,” he murmured. “You want my mouth? Tell me where to put it.”

You swallowed thickly.

Your hips flexed just slightly against his lap, and he groaned under you, soft and strangled.

“I hate you,” you whispered.

He smiled into your skin. “No, you don’t.”

Your fingers curled against his shoulders, your whole body tensed in the electric silence between you.

And then—

The tension snapped in your chest like a livewire.

You didn’t say a word.

Didn’t warn him.

Your hand just moved—fast, instinctive—sliding up into his hair, gripping the back of his head, and pulling.

His breath stuttered out of him.

You didn’t stop.

You guided him down, slow but firm, until his lips met the bare swell of your breast—and then you pressed harder.

Right there.

Right on your nipple.

His reaction?

Fucking feral.

A low, helpless sound tore out of his throat the second his mouth made contact. His hands flew up, grabbing your hips like restraint was no longer an option. And then—oh god—

He groaned.

Long and broken.

It rumbled against your chest like thunder, and his lips parted immediately, open-mouth kissing over the soft skin, dragging the flat of his tongue just under your nipple, breath shaking.

“Fuck,” he muttered, muffled against you. “Fucking hell, you—”

You arched into him, your thighs squeezing tighter around his lap as the sensation pulsed through you like a jolt.

His mouth was hot.

And his tongue—

God, his tongue teased your nipple like he’d been dying to taste it all night.

“You said anywhere,” you gasped, tilting your head back. “So I picked for you.”

Chan’s breath hitched. His lips moved to your other breast, not even hesitating now, sucking your nipple into his mouth with a low moan like he couldn’t stop himself even if he tried.

Your hand stayed in his hair, fisted tight. Your hips rocked once against him—just once—but it was enough.

He felt it.

Felt everything.

His hips jolted up under you, and you swore under your breath at the heat and thickness pressing against your center through the thin lace of your underwear.

He was rock hard.

So hard you could feel the outline of him now.

Still clothed—but barely.

Chan pulled back slightly, eyes glassy, lips swollen, chest heaving.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasped.

You smiled, breathless.

“You’re still playing, aren’t you?”

He blinked slowly, a dangerous kind of haze settling over his face.

Chan’s eyes were wild now.

Dark and shining, pupils blown wide. His hands slid slow up your thighs, stopping at the crease between hip and waist, right where your lace clung tight.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he said roughly.

You didn’t deny it.

Didn’t need to.

You were sitting on his lap with your tits in his face—dripping into his boxers—trembling and bare and drunk on the kind of heat that didn’t come from alcohol.

Chan licked his bottom lip slowly.

And then—smirked.

“Truth, strip, or dare?” he asked again.

You opened your mouth to answer—but he didn’t let you.

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw as he whispered:

“Never mind. I’m picking for you.”

Your heart slammed once, hard.

Then his hands gripped your thighs tighter, spreading them just slightly over his lap.

He pulled back to meet your eyes.

And dropped it—low and lethal, right between your legs:

“I dare you…”

A pause.

Then a smile so cocky and devastating it made you clench.

“…to sit on my face.”

Silence.

Your lungs stopped working. You blinked, dizzy, absolutely reeling.

He saw it.

His grin widened.

“You heard me,” he said, voice like sin. “Come here, take these pretty thighs—” he ran both hands up them, slow and reverent, “—and sit. Right over my mouth. Let me taste everything you’ve been trying to pretend isn’t happening.”

You swallowed, hard.

Your breath stuttered.

And he kept going.

“I want your legs shaking around my head, baby girl,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours. “I wanna feel you lose it on my tongue. Right. Fucking. Here.”

Then—soft, almost cruel:

“What’s the matter? Scared of your best friend’s mouth?”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

You just looked at him, wide-eyed and flushed, like the dare alone had knocked the wind out of you.

Chan wasn’t smiling anymore.

Not really.

There was still a little curve to his lips—but it wasn’t cocky now.

It was hungry.

Serious.

Almost desperate.

“Too much?” he asked softly, eyes flickering between yours.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again.

You were barely in your lace thong. Your breasts were still flushed from his mouth, your thighs slick and twitching from where they sat astride his lap—and now?

He wanted you over his face?

You weren’t supposed to think about Chan that way. Not ever. Not until tonight. Not until his tongue was on your chest and his voice was rasping filth that had your spine curling like a livewire.

You swallowed hard, trying to blink the fog from your head.

“Chan…”

“Say no,” he breathed. “Tell me no. I’ll stop.”

But then—he moved.

His hands slid down, gripping your ass, pulling you in at the same time that his hips grinded up—slow and thick and hard, dragging his length right against the soaked heat of your thong.

“Fuck—” you gasped, eyes flying open, your hands clenching against his chest.

His mouth fell open too, like he hadn’t even meant to do it.

Like his body moved without permission.

Then he did it again.

Grinding up.

Pressing you down.

Letting the friction between you grow deliberately unbearable.

You could feel him now. Feel the curve and weight of him, thick and straining beneath you, sliding through the drenched fabric like he already knew how wet you were.

Your hips jolted before you could stop them.

Chan groaned—low and ragged—fingers tightening.

“Babe…” he warned, voice shaking. “I’m not—”

Another roll of his hips. Babe

“I’m not playing anymore.”

Neither were you.

“Fuck it,” you whispered.

And then you shifted, rising slowly—legs shaking—only to grab the edge of the couch and lift yourself just enough to move forward.

Over his chest.

Then his collarbone.

Then—God help you—his face.

Chan’s breath hitched.

His head tilted back against the couch, eyes never leaving you as your knees slid up to either side of his head, your thighs trembling, fingers still digging into the cushions.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked.

You paused just inches above his mouth, heart hammering, pulse in your ears, lace clinging to the heat between your legs.

And then?

He reached up.

Grabbed your thighs.

And yanked you down.

The moment your thighs framed his face, Chan made a sound—deep and wrecked—and then he didn’t waste a single second.

There was no hesitation.

No teasing.

Just the sharp snap of fabric tearing and your startled gasp as his fingers ripped through the middle of your soaked thong like it was paper.

“What the fuck—!”

“Couldn’t wait,” he growled, voice hoarse, hungry. “Needed you.”

And then—he buried his face in you.

You choked on a cry, both hands flying to his hair as his mouth sealed over your bare, aching cunt, tongue dragging from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one long, filthy stroke.

Your thighs jerked.

Your spine arched.

And Chan—moaned.

Loud and desperate.

Like he was tasting fucking paradise.

He pulled you down harder, forcing your thighs to lock around his head as he licked you again, faster this time—his mouth moving with a rhythm that had your whole body shaking, his tongue working over your clit like he knew exactly what would break you.

“You’re so sweet,” he mumbled against you, voice muffled, drunk. “Fuck, you taste so—”

Another moan, this one so guttural it vibrated through you.

And then he just devoured.

Sucked your clit between his lips, tongue circling, teasing, driving you out of your mind. He kept going, relentless, like he was starving, hands roaming up your waist, squeezing your ass, holding you down when your thighs tried to run.

“Chan—fuck—I can’t—” you gasped, eyes rolling.

“You can,” he groaned. “You’re gonna.”

His eyes flicked up, locking with yours from between your thighs, wild and ravenous.

“Sit on my face and fucking come for me.”

You were close.

So fucking close.

Chan’s tongue was merciless, his grip bruising, and the slick sounds of him devouring you filled the room, matched only by your moans and gasps and the deep, desperate groans he let out every time your thighs clenched around his head.

You felt the heat snap up your spine.

You felt your legs start to shake.

You were seconds—seconds—from falling apart on his tongue—

And then you flipped.

In one breathless motion, you spun your body over his, never once lifting from his face. Your knees planted on the couch cushions, straddling him in reverse now—and facing his cock.

Chan moaned violently into you.

You heard it.

Felt it.

His hips jolted, thrusting up like he couldn’t help it, and suddenly your best friend’s hard, flushed length was right in front of your face—thick, leaking, twitching with the same need he was pouring into your cunt.

You grinned.

“Fuck,” you panted, glancing down between your legs, “you like this?”

Chan didn’t answer—his mouth was too busy buried in you, tongue dragging through your folds again with a new kind of urgency.

So you reached down and wrapped your hand around him.

He bucked.

A loud, muffled grunt punched into your pussy from below.

You giggled, breathless, and stroked him slow, your fist gliding over hot, slick skin, spreading the pre-cum at his tip.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered, licking your lips. “What the fuck, Channie…”

Then—you bent down.

And slid your mouth over his cock.

He fucking shouted.

The noise was muffled by your cunt, but it rattled through his chest.

His hips snapped up into your mouth so suddenly you almost choked—but you took it, sucking him deeper, tongue swirling, moaning around him while he screamed into your pussy.

His mouth was messy now—his tongue wild, his lips soaking you, sucking, lapping, chasing your orgasm like it was his only mission in life.

And all the while?

You kept sucking.

Pumping.

Ruining him.

Your mouth worked him with purpose, with rhythm, swallowing every desperate sound he made until his cock throbbed hard on your tongue.

You didn’t even care anymore.

You were lost.

Your thighs were clenching, your moans echoing into his skin, and Chan’s hands were digging into your hips, holding you down while he devoured you like he’d die without it.

And just before you tipped over the edge—

You both groaned at the same time.

Raw.

Ragged.

Feral.

His mouth was everywhere.

Your thighs had no strength left in them, your moans spilling out louder, broken, as Chan’s tongue moved in tight, fast circles, drawing orgasm after orgasm closer until your hips were trembling and your chest was heaving and—

“Chan—I’m gonna—”

He sucked your clit deep between his lips and groaned.

That sound—that sound—vibrated through you like an earthquake, tipping you straight off the edge.

You came hard.

Harder than you ever had in your life, your whole body clenching as pleasure ripped through your core and burst like fireworks behind your eyes. You ground against his face, breath caught, voice lost, shaking apart while your best friend held you there and licked you through it like he couldn’t stop.

Like he wouldn’t stop until you gave him every last drop.

Your thighs were still twitching when you started stroking him faster, hand slick and wet, mouth messy and open as you sucked him deep again—and Chan’s moan turned into a growl.

His hips bucked once.

Twice.

Then his hand flew to your ass, gripping tight as his cock pulsed in your mouth—and he came with a loud, shattered cry muffled into your pussy, spilling down your throat in thick, hot waves while his body convulsed beneath you.

You swallowed it all, trembling, moaning softly as his hips slowly stilled.

And then?

Silence.

You collapsed, barely able to breathe, sliding down off his face and rolling to the side, both of you gasping—sweaty, dazed, fucked-out.

He didn’t say anything.

Just turned toward you.

Grabbed you by the waist.

And pulled you into him—tight.

You melted, pressing your face into his neck, feeling his heart pound against your chest as the sweat on your skin cooled.

Neither of you spoke.

Not one word.

Because anything either of you said would change everything.

So you just stayed like that.

Tangled.

Sticky.

Wrecked.

And completely, utterly lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: BEFORE YOU KILL ME!! There will be a part 2 but we gotta be more interactive if you want me to keep feeding y’all lol. 100 notes and ill drop part 2 asap!

So encourage this horny writer and leave that like!! ❤️❤️

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