#a dare and a truth

[frontmansdefender]

[akanemnon]

To be fair, she found the letter on the floor of the school hallway...

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MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[leriexoxo]

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!!

next

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

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!! ❤️❤️

[contrarianwitt]

blue does not get enough credit for analyzing gansey and adam’s relationship so quickly. literally the second the boys come for the reading, she notices the tension: adam’s pride, his difference from the other boys, the snag in his sweater, ganseys apparent ownership, the way adam’s eyes flick to gansey at the word brother. all from having very little interactions with them

[lunawolf444]

You know what they say… gas ⛽️ cash 💵 or ahh 🍑

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Heh...Literally nothing personal, kid.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[lunewolf13]

Spilling Tea Part 1:

All the Robins are sitting criss-cross applesauce on a plush carpet, summoned by Dick Grayson.

Dick: Alright everyone, today's bonding activity is truth-dumping. Rules are simple: be honest, it has to be about yourself, no blackmail, and no verbal or physical attacks on anyone here. Any questions?

Jason raises a hand.

Jason, imitating the voice of a ten year old: Can I go to the bathroom?

Dick: You already went. And if I let you go, you'll book it.

Jason: So that's a no?

Dick: That's a no. Now, who wants to go first?

Duke: I borrowed Bruce's cologne for a date and haven't given it back.

Jason: I'm pretty sure we've all done that before.

Steph: I mean, it wasn't for a date but yeah I stole a bottle.

Dick gives his Kind Big Brother smile: Try again.

Duke blatantly ignores the smile: Uh Tim, don't be mad, but I may have torn your new cape this morning. I was suiting up and I got curious, and touched it and tripped and I'm so sorry please don't hack all my electronics.

Tim blinks once. Then twice: My cape? My brand new, reinforced cape?? How hard did you trip???

Duke: Ok "trip" might have been an understatement and I may tried it on and jumped off the T-Rex. I was really curious to see if it'd actually glide like you said it does.

Tim: That still doesn't explain how you tore it.

Duke: Let's move on.

[forestshadow-wolf]

Soap's the kind of person who just does things. And by that I mean he's the kind of online friend that randomly drops personal lore based on the topic that everyone is currently on. Like you say one thing and it's "oh yeah I've done that" and it's said so casually that you know he isn't lying

Which also means that if he's given a dare, even especially if it's said with the expectation that he won't and definitely shouldn't, he will be doing it.

Which is part of the reason that Ghost sticks around him so much, because he will cause pain and destruction.

And it's also the reason Gaz isn't allowed to give dares any more

[game-grumps-captions]

Happy pride month to Arin Hanson and this moment specifically

[raginghomosexual4ever]

Barty: hey, regulus!

Regulus: yeah?

Barty: truth or dare?

Regulus:ughh…. Truth

Barty: how many hours have you slept this week?

Regulus: dare..

James: *chiming in* SLEEP

Regulus: *glaring at his boyfriend* I DONT LIKE THIS GAME

[leriexoxo]

Truth or Strip 2

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

PART TWO

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

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

prev

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

You woke to the quiet sound of birds.

Soft sunlight filtered through your curtains, golden and warm, dancing over the sheets—and over the skin beneath them.

Your skin.

His skin.

Chan’s.

He was behind you, wrapped around you like a second blanket, one arm slung lazily around your waist, his bare chest pressed against your back, his thighs tangled with yours beneath the covers.

You were still nude.

Both of you.

Still sticky with each other. Still aching.

Your breath caught.

Last night slammed back into your head like a freight train—his hands on your thighs, your mouth on his cock, his tongue in you, that moment you both snapped and came like the world was ending—

God.

You hadn’t even made it to bed. He must’ve carried you here after, tucked the sheets around you, pulled you against him and held on like he always did—except this time?

This time was different.

Your body tensed without meaning to.

He felt it.

And suddenly, the arm around your waist tightened—just a little. His nose nudged into your hair. His voice was low, hoarse from sleep.

“…You awake?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Your cheeks were burning, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Couldn’t risk seeing the regret or confusion or—God forbid—pity in his eyes.

His voice came again, quieter this time. Almost cautious.

“I didn’t dream that, did I?”

You swallowed thickly. Shook your head.

“No.”

Silence.

His hand shifted on your stomach, fingertips dragging up slightly—barely touching—but it still lit a trail of goosebumps across your skin.

You exhaled shakily. “We were drunk.”

“We were,” he said.

More silence.

You finally tried to pull away—but he didn’t let you.

“Don’t,” he said, too fast. Too firm. “Just—stay. Please.”

That broke something in you.

You stared at the wall, blinking. “…I can’t even look at you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you saw me naked last night, and then ate me out like a starving animal, and I sucked your dick until you cried, and now we’re cuddling like we didn’t just completely fuck up our friendship.”

Chan went quiet for a second.

Then his chest moved—a huff of a laugh.

You stiffened. “You think it’s funny?”

“No,” he murmured. “I think you’re cute when you panic.”

“Chan.”

“I’m not panicking,” he said, voice softer now. “You are. And that’s okay. I’ll wait.”

You finally turned your head, hesitant.

And there he was.

Propped on one elbow, tousled hair, swollen lips, dark eyes dragging over your face like he was still trying to memorize it.

He didn’t look ashamed.

He didn’t look confused.

He just looked like him.

Except now… his gaze dipped to your bare shoulder, and his throat bobbed.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he whispered. “You. Last night.”

Your heart jumped.

He leaned closer, eyes fixed on you. “Tell me to forget it—and I will. But if you don’t…”

His hand found yours under the covers, fingers lacing slow.

“…I’m not gonna pretend it didn’t happen.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t pull away either.

And that told him everything.

Chan didn’t push.

He just laid there with you for a while, breathing steady against your skin, his arm still tucked around your middle like it belonged there, and you let it. Let him. Let it all hang in the space between you, thick and heavy and impossible to shake off.

Eventually, the room got too warm. Your stomach growled.

And Chan—quiet, gentle—slipped out of bed first.

He found one of your oversized hoodies, tugged it over his bare chest, and tossed a second one onto the mattress without looking directly at you.

You put it on.

No underwear.

Just his scent.

The kitchen was quiet when you padded in, the coffee machine already sputtering, and Chan flipping eggs like this was just any other lazy morning between best friends. Except he was still in just his boxers, and you were very much not wearing pants.

You sat at the counter in silence.

He glanced up once. Met your eyes.

You quickly looked away.

But he didn’t.

He set your plate down, slid into the seat across from you, and said nothing as you both started eating. And when the silence started getting unbearable—too thick, too awkward, too aware—he leaned back in his chair and said:

“…I still remember how your tits looked in the moonlight.”

You choked.

“Chan—!”

“I’m serious.” He grinned lazily, taking a sip of his coffee. “You were so fucking pretty. Sitting there, topless, nipples hard, all flustered and giggly—God, I wanted to bend you over the couch right there and fuck you until you couldn’t say my name anymore.”

Your jaw dropped.

“You—?!”

“And the way you looked at me?” He hummed. “You weren’t drunk. Not by then.”

You couldn’t even argue.

You had sobered up. Somewhere between “take it off” and your top hitting the floor, your heart had sprinted into very lucid, very dangerous territory—and you’d followed willingly. Panting. Curious. Drenched.

“I wanted you so fucking bad,” he said quietly, staring into his mug like it held the memory. “Still do.”

You swallowed. Hard.

He looked up then.

Met your eyes. Voice lower.

“If you hadn’t flipped us over, I would’ve fucked you right into the cushions. Probably filled you up too.”

You went still.

“Chan—”

“I mean it.”

His eyes darkened.

“I was this close to sinking into you bare and staying there. Letting you milk me dry until I couldn’t think straight.”

You felt your thighs press together involuntarily.

He noticed.

And he smirked.

“I’m not sorry,” he murmured. “Only regret is not finishing what we started.”

You clutched your mug tighter, staring into the half-drunk coffee like it might offer a way out. A reset button. A rewind.

But the memories played so vividly—skin on skin, sweat, tongue, heat, moans muffled by mouths and hands and the couch cushions. You could still taste him if you tried hard enough. Still feel him against your lips, on your tongue, heavy and thick and twitching when you swallowed around it.

You couldn’t unsee it.

Couldn’t untaste it.

And maybe worse—you didn’t want to.

“But…” you finally said, voice thinner than it should’ve been, “I’m your best friend.”

You paused.

“That… that wasn’t even supposed to happen.”

It was the weakest excuse in the book, but you had to try. Had to say something before you lost your mind and crawled back into his lap.

Chan didn’t laugh.

Didn’t soften.

He set his coffee down with a quiet click and just stared at you. His voice was even when he finally spoke, but it was laced with something dark. Something feral.

“I’m not gonna be normal about this.”

Your stomach flipped.

He stood slowly, bracing his hands on the edge of the kitchen counter across from you, leaning in just enough that you felt it—his presence, the heat coming off of him in waves.

“I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I’m fine,” he said, eyes dragging over you like you were already naked again. “Not when I’ve had your tits in my mouth. Not when I’ve had your mouth on my cock, so warm and fucking perfect, and I couldn’t stop thinking about how you couldn’t even wrap both hands around me.”

You stopped breathing.

“I’m not gonna be normal until I’m inside you,” he said, and his voice dropped—low, dangerous, final. “Until I’ve got my cock buried so deep in you that you forget how it felt to be just friends.”

You trembled.

Something snapped behind your ribs.

No warning.

No defense.

You remembered how right it felt, how absolutely filthy it was, how he didn’t treat you like some fragile, sacred thing but like something he needed to consume.

And now—right now—it was the forbidden wrongness that made you ache.

He was your best friend. He shouldn’t say shit like that. You shouldn’t want it.

But you did.

God, you did.

The moment he said it—“I’m not gonna be normal until I’m inside you”—something inside you shattered. You crossed the line again without thinking.

“Then do it,” you whispered, already breathless. “Fuck being normal.”

Chan didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

You stood.

Took two steps.

And when your hand landed on his chest, he caught your wrist. Pulled you closer. Held you there, noses brushing, his breath hot on your lips.

“You sure?” he murmured. “Because if I do, I’m not pulling out. Never.”

Your thighs clenched so tight it hurt.

You bit your lip.

“I’m not gonna be normal about this either.”

And that was all he needed.

You didn’t even think.

Your body moved before your brain caught up—your hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him in, pressing your mouth to his with a kind of desperation that made the breath leave your lungs.

He didn’t waste a second.

Chan kissed you back like he’d been holding it in for years. Like he needed it to live. His mouth devoured yours—hungry, messy, tongue pushing past your lips, swallowing every soft whimper you made like he couldn’t get enough.

The kiss turned feral.

You clawed at his hair, pulling tight just to hear the growl he gave in response. He grabbed your hips and yanked you closer, caging you between the counter and his body, grinding up against you like he wanted to break through your clothes with sheer friction.

His hands slid beneath the hem of your hoodie—slow, greedy palms dragging up the backs of your thighs, over your bare ass, between your legs.

He groaned.

“Fuck,” he rasped, voice shredded and dark. “You’re dripping.”

You were.

He slipped two fingers along your soaked folds and you gasped into his mouth, nearly choking on the sound as your knees buckled.

“Still so wet for me,” he muttered, biting your bottom lip. “From last night? Or just from the thought of me inside you?”

You couldn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He spun, sat down on the stool behind him, and pulled you with him—manhandling you onto his lap with a roughness that made your breath catch.

You straddled him automatically, thighs spread wide across his legs, the hem of your hoodie barely covering anything. He didn’t even hesitate.

His hands gripped your waist, then slid down—thumbs parting your folds, fingers teasing the slick mess he found there like he knew you were already losing it.

Then—you felt it.

The thick, hot press of his cock freed from his boxers, heavy and twitching between you.

“Chan—”

“You said do it,” he growled, voice shaking. “So ride it.”

He lined himself up. You hovered for a heartbeat, your whole body trembling, and then—

You sank.

Slow.

So. Fucking. Slow.

Your jaw dropped as he stretched you open, as his cock filled you inch by throbbing inch, deeper than you thought was possible.

You couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t think.

Could only feel—the insane stretch, the burn, the obscene pressure as you took him all the way down and bottomed out on his lap.

Chan’s head tipped back.

“Holy fucking shit,” he gasped, hands shaking as he held your hips. “You feel—fuck—you feel like a dream.”

You clutched at his shoulders, pulse pounding so loud it drowned out the rest of the world.

You didn’t move right away.

Not because you were scared.

But because you wanted to feel every second of it.

He was so deep, you swore you could feel him in your throat—pulsing, heavy, thick where he stretched you open. Your walls clenched around him instinctively, and Chan’s whole body twitched underneath you.

“Shit—” he hissed. “Don’t do that.”

You smirked, dizzy from the pressure and the power.

You had him.

One slow roll of your hips and he groaned, deep and guttural, hands flexing on your ass.

“You said ride it,” you whispered, dragging your lips along his jaw. “Didn’t say how fast.”

You moved again—slow, wet, grinding down until your clit rubbed against the base of his cock and you saw stars.

Chan bit back a growl, head falling to your shoulder as you rocked against him—lazy, teasing, delicious. Every slick sound between your bodies made your toes curl.

“You’re evil,” he muttered, voice strained. “You wanna kill me like this?”

“Not yet.”

You leaned back slightly, watching the way his jaw tensed as you started a rhythm—taunting, slow, so fucking wet it echoed off the kitchen walls.

His cock dragged along your walls with every grind, perfectly angled, hitting that spot over and over like you were built for him.

“You feel how deep you are?” you whispered against his ear. “I can feel you in my stomach.”

That broke him.

Chan’s hands slammed into your hips, forcing you down harder—faster.

“You want deep?” he growled, mouth brushing your cheek. “Then take it.”

And fuck, did you.

You started riding him in earnest now, bouncing in his lap, tits swaying under the hoodie, moans spilling from your lips like you couldn’t hold them in even if you tried.

He was so deep, so thick, filling you to the brim and then some. Your nails raked down his arms, gripping him tight, thighs burning as you chased the heat building fast between your legs.

“Fuck, baby—” he was breathless now, watching you lose yourself on his cock. “Look at you.”

“Chan—” you gasped, already close again. “You feel so fucking good—”

“I’m gonna come,” he warned, breath stuttering. “You keep going like this, I’m gonna come so deep inside you, you won’t feel normal for days.”

That wrecked you.

You leaned forward, forehead against his, moaning like you couldn’t help it.

“Do it.”

And he did.

“Fuck—fuck, baby, I’m close—”

Chan’s voice was a growl against your throat, strained and trembling. His hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, sliding up your back under the hoodie, clutching fistfuls of your ass to help you ride him harder, deeper, faster.

You were barely holding on.

Every bounce made your breath hitch, your walls fluttering around him as the pressure curled tight inside your belly. Your legs were shaking, your skin hot, your vision hazy—but Chan’s voice, fuck, his voice, it grounded you.

“Don’t—don’t come yet,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours, his lips barely grazing your skin. “Not yet. Not without me.”

Your body was screaming for it.

You wanted to fall.

Needed to.

But when his hands tightened and he groaned, “Please—baby, wait for me,” something snapped.

You nodded, eyes glassy, grinding down on him harder even as your body threatened to give out. His cock was pulsing inside you, thick veins dragging along your walls with every desperate grind, making you clench like crazy.

“I’m so fucking close,” you gasped, lips parting as you whimpered. “Chan—fuck—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he growled, voice dark and ragged. “Come with me. Look at me. Come on my cock.”

You locked eyes.

That’s all it took.

You shattered—hard, loud, full-body spasms as you came with a cry, your cunt milking him in wild, clenching waves that made his face twist with helpless, raw need.

And then he lost it.

Chan let out the filthiest sound you’d ever heard, yanking you down as his hips jerked up, cock throbbing, flooding you with heat so deep you felt it in your core.

His whole body arched, wrapped around yours like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t be deep enough.

You both came so hard, so long, that when you collapsed against his chest, your body went numb.

His hands stroked your back, both of you breathing like you’d run a marathon. He kissed your temple, soft and slow, even as his cock stayed buried deep, twitching with the aftershocks.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “I’ve never come like that in my life.”

Neither had you.

You didn’t move.

Not even when your legs started trembling. Not even when the room stopped spinning.

Chan’s cock was still deep inside you—softening slowly, twitching every few seconds from the aftershocks—but neither of you could bring yourselves to let go.

His arms had wrapped tight around your waist the second you collapsed onto him, lips still brushing your temple, breathing slowly steadying against your skin. His hands moved in slow, dazed sweeps along your back, gentle and grounding.

You buried your face in his neck.

You were still leaking around him.

Still open for him.

Still aching.

And all you could think about was how full you felt.

How fucking good it had felt to let him in.

To take him like that.

To come so hard, your heart forgot how to beat.

A beat of silence passed, then two. His hand stroked the back of your head as you blinked, trying to find the words while still catching your breath.

You pulled back a little, enough to look him in the eye.

He looked wrecked—hair a mess, lips red from kissing you, pupils blown wide. And god, he was still the most beautiful man you’d ever seen.

Your hand slid along his jaw. You kissed him.

Soft at first.

Then a little more.

Your lips brushed his again, slower this time. Deeper.

His breath stuttered.

“I think I might want you again,” you whispered against his mouth. “Right now.”

His whole body twitched beneath you.

Your hands tangled in his hair, still breathless, still trembling. You kissed him again, tongue teasing at his lips, hungry and desperate even though you were barely holding yourself up.

He groaned softly, deep in his chest.

“You’re still inside me,” you whispered, breath tickling his skin. “And I already miss the stretch.”

His grip on your waist tightened. His hips shifted beneath you, cock twitching again, not even fully soft anymore.

And his voice—fuck, his voice—came out like a promise wrapped in sin.

“You’ll get it,” he whispered, eyes flickering dark. “But not on this stool again.”

⸻

He carried you.

Lifted you off his lap with your thighs still shaking, his spend dripping down your legs, your hoodie clinging to your sweaty skin. His cock—still hardening again between you—brushed against your inner thigh as he walked you to your bedroom, lips grazing your forehead.

He laid you down like you were precious.

But there was nothing soft in his eyes.

Not anymore.

He hovered over you, staring like you were some fever dream, like he still couldn’t believe what the two of you had done.

And still wanted more.

You reached for him—fingers trailing his jaw, then lower, your eyes locked to his as you slid down the bed, knees parting slowly between his legs.

He knew what you were doing.

And fuck, the way he sat back and let you…

You kissed his hip. His stomach.

And then you kissed the base of his cock—slow, reverent, like you were grateful for it.

Chan’s breath hitched.

“Baby…”

Your eyes flicked up, lips curling slightly as your hand wrapped around him—already rock hard again, already leaking for you.

He was so thick in your grip, so heavy. You kissed the tip, teasing, letting your tongue swirl slowly before you slid your lips over him.

He moaned—moaned, head dropping back.

“Fuck, you’re unreal.”

You sucked him in deeper.

Then deeper.

Then deeper still—until he hit the back of your throat and you hummed like you wanted to stay there forever.

“Jesus—fuck—” His hand flew to your hair. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that.”

You pulled off with a pop and a wicked smile.

“Maybe I want you to.”

But he didn’t let you go far.

Chan pulled you up—his lips crashing into yours, his cock pressing hot and ready against your soaked center. You didn’t even bother guiding him this time. Just let him push in slow, deeper than before.

You gasped into his mouth.

The angle was different. The stretch worse. And the pace?

Agonizing.

Deep, slow thrusts that dragged along your every nerve, filling you to the brim and staying there.

“You feel what you do to me?” he murmured against your lips. “I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m supposed to be your best friend and all I want to do is ruin you.”

You gasped, clawing at his shoulders.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” you breathed, heart racing. “I wasn’t supposed to want you like this.”

“I don’t care.”

He buried himself deeper.

“I’ll ruin everything. I’ll cross every line. Just say the word.”

You didn’t mean to say it.

Not out loud. Not while you were still beneath him, trembling from every thrust, barely holding on.

But something about the way he looked at you—like you were his beginning and end—ripped the words from your throat before you could stop them.

Chan pressed his forehead to yours, voice wrecked, thrusts getting sloppier.

“Fuck, you’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you?”

You nodded, whimpering, biting your lip hard to keep from falling apart.

But then your voice broke out, breathless, raw, completely unfiltered.

“Chan—” You gasped, nails digging into his back. “I think—I think I’m fucked. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop wanting you.”

He froze.

Just for a second.

Then he growled—deep and guttural—and his cock hit something inside you that made your toes curl.

“That’s not just the sex talkin’,” he panted, eyes burning into yours. “Say it again.”

Your eyes brimmed, voice trembling.

“I think you ruined me,” you whispered. “Because this? Us? It doesn’t feel like a mistake. It doesn’t even feel like just fucking. It feels like something I’m already terrified to lose.”

He snapped.

A messy kiss. A moan swallowed. His hand cupping your cheek as he started fucking you harder—deeper, desperate.

“Then don’t lose me,” he rasped. “Keep me. Want me. I’ll give you everything.”

You shattered.

Your orgasm crashed into you like a tidal wave, and Chan fell with you—grunting, holding you through every pulse, every shake, until all that was left was your tangled limbs and heavy breathing.

The silence after was thick.

But you didn’t move.

You didn’t want to.

Chan kissed your cheek. Your collarbone. Your lips. And then he just… held you.

“You know,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “this was the best worst idea we’ve ever had.”

You laughed softly, curling into him, still feeling his cum dripping between your thighs.

“Let’s make more bad decisions tomorrow.”

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

Authors note: Thanks for being patient guys, thanks for the feedback on part 1 too ❤️ i hope you liked it??

If you did, dont forget to drop notes for me, i always look out for those! Love you! 🥰

[ahfrickenfrick]

dick: truth or dare

damian: i do not want to play your mindless games, richard.

dick: come on dami, you want tim to beat you?

damian: i was not aware that this game had a point system… get prepared to forfeit out of embarrassment, drake

tim: whatever baby bat, answer his question truth or dare?

damian: *tt* truth, as i have nothing to hide

dick: why do you call tim by his last name and the rest of us by our first? i thought you two have gotten better?

damian: dare

dick: i dare you to answer the question

tim: i also would like to know

damian: *mumbles something*

dick: what was that??

tim: speak up gremlin

damiam: *begrudgingly* drake means dragon, and that is really cool

[incorrect-marvel-because-why-not]

Tony: Why do you act like we’re three year olds? Fury, exasperated: WHY?!? Fury points at Clint: YOU TRIED TO HIJACK A CAR! Fury points at Steve: YOU NEARLY JUMPED 20 FEET OFF A CAR PARK! Fury points at Tony: AND YOU ATE MULTIPLE DRIED LEAVES AND ROCKS OFF THE GROUND! Fury: AND YOU ASK ME WHY????

[mythicalmaven]

Gotta Be You - Charles Leclerc (THREE)

masterlist | promptlist | previous part

Here is part three! And I'm honestly so proud of this chapter! I think it turned out awesome lol <3

↳pairing: charles leclerc x female!gasly!reader ↳word count: 5K ↳warnings: awkward encounters, truth or dare (trust me lol) , jealousy, alcohol, drinking games, talking about feelings ↳side info: friends to enemies to lovers, reader is Pierre's younger sister, reader is Arthur LeClerc's childhood best friend, Charles is her former crush, Charles is a jealous ass sometimes, age gap between reader and Charles (5 years) ↳summary: In which you go on a shared holiday with both your and your brother's friend group, forced to be confronted with your former teenage crush Charles LeClerc yet again. The only problem is? You can't stand him nowadays, until you suddenly can.

*a few days later*

As you stood in the bathroom, tying your hair into a ponytail, the familiar scent of the devil himself filled the small space. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Charles had a way of entering a room without saying a word but still commanding all the air in it. He closed the distance between you two, silently taking his place by the sink next to you, reaching into the cupboard for his hair products.

You bit back a groan, focusing on your reflection. There was nothing inherently wrong with him being there—but him standing this close stirred feelings you desperately wanted to push aside. His presence was overwhelming, in that maddening, familiar way.

Your usual coping mechanism kicked in: sarcasm, sharp enough to keep him at arm’s length.

"Fixing your hair won’t fix your attitude, you know that, right?" you sassed, not entirely sure why you felt the need to say anything.

Charles scoffed, his eyes catching yours in the mirror. His gaze was intense, steady—always knowing too much. "There’s no attitude that needs fixing," he huffed, washing his hands and drying them on the towel with deliberate slowness. "Besides, some people actually put effort into how they present themselves..."

Your head snapped toward him. "Is this your not-so-subtle way of saying I look like shit?"

He rolled his eyes, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. "Are you honestly this delusional?"

You threw your hands in the air. "Well, apparently, I am! Because that insult was completely unnecessary." You crossed your arms, leaning back against the sink with a challenging glare.

Charles shrugged, unfazed. "First of all, you started it. I didn’t do anything until you found it necessary to attack me." His voice lowered slightly, holding that aggravating calmness. "And besides… you and I both know that wasn’t an insult."

You narrowed your eyes. "How was it not an insult? You basically said I don’t put effort into how I look."

He inched closer, his movements slow and deliberate. Before you could register what was happening, his hands were on either side of you, gripping the edge of the sink. His chest hovered just inches from yours, effectively trapping you in place. His cologne wrapped around you, sending shivers down your spine.

Your breath hitched as his gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips before snapping back, locking onto yours like he was daring you to look away.

"Chérie, don’t act like you’re unaware that I think you’re hot," he whispered, voice low and rough. "You don’t need the effort."

Your heart thudded violently in your chest. For a split second, your gaze dropped to his lips—damn it. Realizing your mistake, you forced your eyes away, breathing through the sudden rush of heat.

You steeled yourself and met his gaze again. "Charles, quit playing games and get out of my face," you said through clenched teeth, though your voice wavered ever so slightly.

His eyes swept over you one last time, lingering on how you were still pressed against the sink, tension radiating between you like a live wire. His jaw clenched.

What the hell is he thinking?

Charles shifted back slightly, but something held him there, still too close for comfort. He exhaled sharply, as if wrestling with himself.

"What changed?" he asked quietly, voice strained.

Your brows furrowed. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He sighed, shoulders tense. "What did I do that made you hate me so much?" His voice softened, tinged with something dangerously close to regret. "What changed?"

Before you could answer—or even begin to process what to say—someone cleared their throat at the doorway.

Charles jumped back like he’d been burned, stumbling a step before retreating to sit on the edge of the bathtub, his gaze fixed firmly on the floor. You turned your head sharply, locking eyes with Arthur, who stood leaning against the doorframe with a massive, knowing grin.

"I came to ask if you’re ready for game night," Arthur said casually, though his smirk betrayed every innocent intention.

You let out a slow, steadying breath, forcing yourself to relax. "Yeah, coming," you muttered, pushing off the sink and brushing past him.

But before you crossed the threshold, something tugged at you. You rested your hand on the doorframe, glancing back at Charles. His head lifted, eyes locking onto yours with a silent intensity.

"As for what changed?" you said quietly, voice sharper than you intended. "The fact that you have no idea says enough, Charles."

With that, you walked out, catching up to Arthur as he fell into step beside you, still grinning like an idiot.

He glanced sideways at you, suppressing a laugh. "You two really have a thing for getting caught in bathrooms together, huh?"

You rolled your eyes. "Don’t start."

Arthur chuckled. "Well, let’s just say... I did put my money on you two hooking up this holiday, but I didn’t expect you to get that intimate that fast."

"First of all, nothing happened," you snapped, face heating. "And second, it wasn’t what it looked like."

"That’s what they all say," Arthur teased. "But to me, it looked like my brother had you pinned against the sink pretty damn convincingly."

You groaned. "He did not have me pinned—"

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Oh? Because you being pressed against the sink while he boxed you in with his hands definitely looked like pinning from where I was standing."

"Fine," you admitted, throwing your hands up. "It looked exactly like that, but it was not for the reason you so desperately hope it was. So shut your mouth before I call your mom and tell her what happened to her couch." you said, referring to the time you caught Arthur and his former girlfriend having sex on his mom's new couch.

Arthur’s grin dropped instantly, his hands shooting up in mock surrender. "Alright, relax, no need for threats!" he laughed, shaking his head as the two of you headed downstairs.

As you and Arthur walked into the living room, you couldn’t help but laugh at his teasing, shaking your head in mock exasperation.

"I’m still putting my money on it, though," Arthur added with a mischievous grin, his voice light but teasing.

Before you could respond, Dennis looked up from where he was lounging on the couch, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Putting your money on what?"

Arthur didn’t miss a beat. "That she’ll hook up with Charles before the end of this trip," he declared confidently, shooting you a knowing smirk.

Dennis let out a deep chuckle, sitting up straighter. "Oh, definitely. There’s no doubt in that," he agreed, his tone playfully conspiratorial.

You groaned dramatically, throwing your hands in the air. "Seriously? You’re both delusional."

Arthur shrugged. "Just calling it like we see it. The tension could be cut with a knife."

Dennis nodded sagely, as if offering expert commentary. "It’s practically inevitable."

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed a pillow from the nearest couch and tossed it at Dennis, who dodged it with practiced ease, laughing.

"You two are ridiculous," you muttered, fighting back a smile as they continued to exchange amused glances like co-conspirators.

⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆₊⁺

Tonight, the sky outside was pitch black, the faint sound of waves crashing in the distance as the group gathered in the living room. Sprawled across the plush couches, each of you with a drink in hand, the night carried an air of relaxed intimacy. The warm light of the room and the subtle buzz of alcohol created the perfect atmosphere for a game that was bound to stir up some chaos.

It was Inès who first suggested it, her eyes sparkling mischievously as she leaned forward, waving her drink for emphasis. “Okay,” she announced, her grin widening. “Let’s play ‘Never Have I Ever.’”

There was a mix of groans and laughs, but no one protested. As the alcohol worked its magic, the group quickly fell into the rhythm of the game, starting with tame questions.

“Alright,” Inès began, her tone playful. “Never have I ever made out at work.”

A beat of silence followed before all the boys raised their glasses almost simultaneously, their movements earning a round of laughter.

“I should’ve guessed,” you said, shaking your head as they took their sips.

The game continued, the questions growing more personal but still lighthearted. Dennis asked if anyone had ever called in sick to work when they weren’t actually sick, which prompted a unanimous drink from nearly everyone. Joris, with his usual antics, asked if anyone had ever gotten so drunk they couldn’t remember anything, earning another flurry of laughter as most of the group took a sip.

Then Kika piped up, her eyes sparkling as she leaned back against Pierre with a devilish grin. “Okay, my turn,” she announced, her voice dripping with amusement. “Never have I ever made out with my brother’s or sister’s best friend.”

The room broke into a chorus of gasps and giggles as everyone’s eyes darted around, scanning for raised glasses other than the obvious ones. Pierre groaned, shaking his head with a laugh as he lifted his drink and took a sip.

“You just want to get your boyfriend drunk, don't you?” Dennis teased Kika, his grin widening as he, too, raised his glass and took a sip.

Kika laughed, and looked at Pierre, who shot Dennis a playful smirk. “You did too, I see?”

Dennis chuckled, not bothering to deny it. “Yeah, can't deny that.”

Kika raised an eyebrow, her gaze flitting around the room. “Alright, anyone else want to confess?”

You stayed silent, hiding your smirk behind the rim of your glass as you watched the game unfold. The question might not have been directed at you specifically, but the implications swirling around the room were impossible to ignore, clearly an indirect question to see if you actually ever made out with Charles, which bummer to them, you didn't.

The game was already proving to be far more chaotic than you’d anticipated. The group sat sprawled out on the plush couches in the villa’s living room, drinks in hand and laughter filling the air. You’d already survived a few rounds of lighthearted questions—some borderline embarrassing—but when Dennis sat forward, his mischievous grin spelled trouble.

“Okay,” Dennis announced, his voice cutting through the chatter. “Y’all ask boring questions. Let’s spice this up.” He took a dramatic pause, letting the tension build before smirking. “Never have I ever gotten off to the thought of someone in this room… since we arrived here.”

A ripple of laughter broke out immediately. Kika, sitting snugly next to Pierre, was the first to respond, raising her glass with a playful roll of her eyes. “Well, I think I better drink, because let’s be honest—no one would believe me if I said no, considering my boyfriend is literally right here.”

Pierre nudged her with a grin, clearly unbothered by her admission as he sipped from his own glass. “As if the feeling isn’t mutual,” he teased, earning another round of laughter.

Across the room, Gigi tried to be subtle, lifting her glass for a quick sip, but Dennis’ sharp eyes caught her immediately. “Oh, I saw that, Gi!” he exclaimed, wiggling his eyebrows at her.

Gigi flushed crimson, glaring at him. “Shut up, Dennis,” she shot back, though the laughter in her voice betrayed her. “Don’t turn all the attention on me. I’m not the only one who drank!” She gestured toward a few others who had lifted their glasses.

“Oh, I’m not pretending I didn’t,” Dennis said casually, raising his glass again for emphasis. “Because I have zero shame” His eyes flicked toward you for the briefest moment, a sly grin tugging at his lips.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, silently hoping to stay under the radar. But your attempt at blending into the background only seemed to make you more conspicuous.

“Don’t act all shy now, Gasly,” Dennis teased, his tone smug. His eyes locked on you as he leaned forward. “I saw you take a sip. Don’t think I didn’t notice that. Care to enlighten us who the lucky one is?”

Your cheeks burned as every pair of eyes turned toward you. You scrambled to think of a response, your heart pounding in your chest. Finally, you forced a laugh, raising an eyebrow at Dennis. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” you quipped, your voice surprisingly steady despite the heat in your face.

The group erupted into a mix of laughter and teasing comments, but before the attention could shift completely, Arthur piped up from where he was seated beside Charles.

“Alright, alright,” Arthur said, his grin widening as he leaned forward. “We’ve all been so focused on you three, but is no one going to mention the fact that two other people drank as well?” His eyes darted pointedly toward Charles and Joris, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “Hmm, I wonder who those drinks were about.”

Charles stiffened slightly beside him, his jaw tightening as he tried to play it cool. “Don’t drag me into this,” he muttered, taking another sip of his drink as if to distract himself.

“Too late, mate,” Arthur shot back with a grin, nudging his brother’s shoulder. “You drank. That means you’ve got to own up to it.”

Joris, ever the instigator, leaned back with a smug grin of his own. “Yeah, Charles, don’t be shy. Who’s the lucky one, huh?”

Charles rolled his eyes, leaning back against the couch and trying to appear nonchalant. “Not a chance,” he said simply, though the tips of his ears betrayed a faint redness.

You couldn’t help but glance at him briefly, your curiosity piqued. Did he…? No, there was no way. You quickly shoved the thought aside, but the idea lingered annoyingly in the back of your mind.

Meanwhile, Charles’ thoughts were anything but composed. When you’d taken a sip earlier, his stomach had twisted uncomfortably. At first, he’d assumed it was Dennis—the way Dennis was always teasing you, always so close—but then another thought crept in, one that made his pulse quicken. What if it wasn’t Dennis?

The idea of it being about him sent a conflicting mix of emotions surging through him—hope, doubt, and an overwhelming sense of confusion. He was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice Joris’ subtle kick to his shin until it made contact.

“Stop staring,” Joris whispered, smirking at his friend. “You’re making it obvious.”

Charles snapped out of his reverie, glaring at Joris. “Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, shifting in his seat.

Arthur, ever the opportunist, caught the exchange and raised an eyebrow. “What’s this now?” he asked, clearly amused. “Charles getting a little distracted?”

“Leave him alone,” Joris said with a grin, though his tone was far from serious. “Poor guy’s got enough on his plate already.”

“Oh, definitely not, he's pestered me long enough about things, payback time” Arthur said, his laugh echoing over the group’s chatter as Charles groaned, clearly regretting his choice to participate

The laughter hadn’t fully settled when Paul leaned forward with a mischievous grin, his drink loosely dangling in one hand. He glanced between you and Charles, his tone teasing as he spoke.

“So, Y/n, didn’t you mention something about the walls here being thin?” Paul asked, clearly enjoying the tension he was stirring. “Hope Charles has been a quiet neighbor. Otherwise, you probably heard everything. Poor Y/n.”

The room erupted into laughter, Dennis and Arthur practically doubling over. Kika smirked, nudging Pierre, who groaned, already sensing where the conversation was heading.

Charles narrowed his eyes at Paul, his jaw tightening slightly before he forced a smirk onto his face. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know,” he shot back. “If I had to… handle things, I’d make sure no one heard a damn thing. Either that or I’d do it somewhere more private.”

The laughter grew louder, Dennis nearly choking on his drink. “Good to know you’ve got a strategy, mate,” he teased, wiping his mouth.

You couldn’t help but feel heat creeping up your neck at the implication. The idea of Charles trying to stay quiet, and worse, the thought of actually overhearing him, made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to unpack. Not that you’d ever admit it.

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t hear anything,” you retorted, forcing a grin to hide your flustered state. “Because if I did, I’d probably have hearing damage.”

Charles turned to you, his smirk sharpening as he shot back, “As if I’d want to get off with you right outside my room.”

The room went silent for half a beat before Dennis, never one to miss an opportunity, leaned forward with a wicked grin. “No,” he said, drawing out the word for effect. “Because you’d prefer her in the room, wouldn’t you?”

The laughter that followed was deafening. Dennis clinked his glass with Paul’s, who was shaking his head but laughing just as hard. Charles, on the other hand, turned beet red, his face almost matching the color of his drink.

You weren’t any better, your face burning as you buried it in your hands. “Dennis, I swear to God,” you muttered, though your voice was muffled by the roar of the group.

Pierre groaned, his expression one of pure disgust as he rubbed his temples. “Okay, are you done? Because we are so not dragging my baby sister into Charles’ dirty fantasies.”

Arthur, always ready to escalate things, grinned and leaned back in his chair. “We don’t have to drag her into anything, Pierre,” he joked. “Charles probably already does that himself.”

The laughter doubled, filling the room with chaos as you and Charles sat frozen in mortification. Kika had tears streaming down her face from laughing, while Joris clapped a hand on Charles’ shoulder, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Pierre glared at the group, clearly over it. “I don’t even want to know,” he muttered, waving a hand dismissively. “Can we just move on before I lose my mind?”

The group slowly settled, though the smirks and giggles lingered as someone suggested the next round of the game. But despite the conversation moving on, you couldn’t help but feel Charles’ gaze flick toward you now and then, and you hated how much your heart raced when it did.

Meanwhile, Charles couldn’t stop replaying Dennis’ comment in his head. The idea of you in his room—or worse, of you thinking about him in that way—had lodged itself in his mind, refusing to budge. He shook his head, trying to focus on the game, but it was no use.

Neither of you wanted to admit it, but the seed of thought had been planted, and it was impossible to ignore.

The game moved on, the attention shifting away from Charles and you for the moment, but the tension hung in the air like a spark waiting to ignite. Charles stole another glance at you, his thoughts still tangled in the what-ifs. And as for you? You couldn’t help but wonder if you were indeed the one that had made him drink in the first place.

It was Joris who leaned forward next, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Alright, never have I ever kissed my best friend.”

The room buzzed with anticipation as everyone exchanged curious glances. Inès was the first to raise her glass and take a drink, earning a few cheers and teasing remarks. But it was the way both you and Arthur looked at each other, simultaneously bursting into laughter, that drew all the attention. Without hesitation, the two of you clinked your glasses together dramatically and downed your drinks in one go.

Charles raised an eyebrow, his perplexed expression giving him away. “Wait—you and Y/n kissed?” he asked, his gaze flicking between the two of you, his tone tinged with disbelief.

Arthur let out a laugh, leaning back casually. “Jealous much?” he shot back, his grin widening when he saw the flicker of annoyance cross Charles’ face.

Charles opened his mouth to protest, but Arthur cut him off with a chuckle. “Relax, I’m just kidding.”

Despite his brother’s reassurance, Charles still looked a little dumbfounded, his confusion—and something else he wouldn’t name—lingering. Kika, always one to stir the pot, leaned forward with a smirk. “Okay, I’m curious now. What’s the story?”

You laughed, shaking your head as you waved a hand dismissively. “There’s not much of a story, honestly. Happened a few times. We were both hopeless and single, and we figured, why not? It was just for fun. Turns out we were terrible at it.”

Arthur nodded in agreement, still grinning. “Massive failure. Zero chemistry. The kiss sucked, and we both agreed never to try again.”

“And the other times?” Kika pressed, her curiosity clearly piqued.

“Oh, just Truth or Dare,” you replied with a shrug. “Happened once or twice when we were younger. Nothing serious. More like a punishment than a kiss, honestly.”

The room erupted into laughter, with Inès nearly choking on her drink as she laughed the hardest. “I can so picture your disgusted faces,” she managed between giggles.

As the laughter died down, Inès perked up, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Speaking of Truth or Dare,” she said, her grin widening, “we should switch to that. Way more interesting than this.”

The group exchanged glances, a ripple of excitement building at the prospect of what chaos Truth or Dare might bring. You couldn’t help but glance at Charles, whose expression was still unreadable, though his gaze lingered on you for just a second too long before he looked away. Whatever this next game would bring, you had a feeling it wasn’t going to get any less intense.

The questions escalated slowly, moving from tame confessions to more suggestive dares. Someone dared Dennis to prank call his ex, which he executed flawlessly, much to everyone’s amusement. Gigi had to show the last text she sent to Joris, blushing furiously as everyone gathered around to read it. Pierre, naturally, had been dared to whisper something filthy to Kika, who doubled over laughing and refused to tell anyone what he’d said.

Then it was Paul’s turn, and his eyes gleamed as he scanned the room, finally landing on you. “Y/n,” he called out with a grin. “Truth or dare?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Dare.”

Paul’s grin widened, and the others leaned in, already sensing mischief. “I dare you to kiss Charles.”

The room went dead silent, every eye darting toward you.

You froze for a beat before scoffing loudly. “God, no”

“Oh, come on,” Dennis teased, smirking at you. “A dare is a dare”

“No, ew!” you shot back, shaking your head emphatically. “Anyone else in the world rather than him. I’d rather stick my tongue inside a trash can than kiss him.”

The tension seemed to settle, the group already laughing at your dramatic protests, until Charles’ voice cut through. Low, clipped, and tinged with something that sounded like a challenge.

“That’s not what you told me when you were sixteen.”

The room froze. Even the laughter died instantly.

You stared at him, wide-eyed and stunned, your pulse roaring in your ears. His words hit like a slap, and you could see the regret flicker in his eyes almost immediately.

“That was a low blow, Charles,” Arthur muttered, shaking his head in disapproval.

Pierre leaned back with a grimace, gesturing to the group. “Guess it’s better to call this game quits, non?”

But you weren’t about to let it go. Swallowing the knot of hurt lodged in your throat, you stood, fixing your gaze on your brother. “No need to,” you said firmly. “Dennis is right, a dare is a dare.”

The group exchanged glances, unsure of what was about to happen, but you didn’t stop. The anger bubbling inside you had morphed into something else—something that demanded revenge.

You marched over to where Charles sat, his eyes widening as you closed the distance. Without a word, you reached down, lifting his chin with your thumb, forcing him to look at you.

His breath hitched, his lips parting slightly, but before he could speak, you crushed your mouth against his.

The kiss wasn’t gentle—it was heated, full of anger and defiance. His lips were warm and soft against yours, but the sharp inhale he took before his hands moved to your waist betrayed how caught off guard he was.

Charles froze for a split second, his mind scrambling to process what was happening. But when your tongue brushed against his lips, seeking entrance, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

A low, guttural sound escaped his throat as he kissed you back with equal fervor, his hand sliding behind your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he deepened the kiss. His pulse was racing, heat surging through his veins, and he struggled to keep himself in check.

Your hands slid down his chest, slow and deliberate, feeling the hard muscle beneath his shirt. You knew exactly what you were doing as your palm settled over the bulge in his jeans, giving it a playful squeeze.

He let out a strangled sound, his body reacting instinctively, and you pulled back just enough to whisper, “I might’ve had a crush on you back when I was too delusional to see you for who you really are, but at least I’m not the one sitting here, a 27-year-old guy, getting hard because he had to kiss his best friend’s baby sister during a game.”

The room erupted. Dennis and Joris were practically howling with laughter, clapping each other on the back. Gigi and Kika exchanged wide-eyed glances before bursting into giggles. Even Arthur had his head in his hands, laughing despite himself.

Charles, on the other hand, looked utterly mortified. His face was beet red, his mouth opening and closing as if searching for words that wouldn’t come.

“Poor Charles,” Dennis teased, grinning wickedly. “Bet that wasn’t the reaction you were expecting.”

Another wave of laughter erupted, leaving Charles sitting in stunned silence. Finally, Charles downed the rest of his drink in one go, standing abruptly. “I need air,” he muttered before making his way out of the room and into the garden.

He pushed open the glass doors that led to the terrace, the cool night air hitting his flushed face like a balm. The stars glittered overhead, but he barely noticed them as he sank into one of the patio chairs, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

His heart was still pounding in his chest, his mind replaying the kiss over and over. He could still feel the ghost of your lips on his, the way your hand had trailed down his chest, resting on him with enough boldness to completely disarm him. And your words—sharp, cutting, and delivered with such venom—they were like a slap in the face.

He groaned softly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. What the hell had he been thinking, making that comment about you at sixteen? He’d known it was cruel the second the words left his mouth, but he couldn’t stop himself. His insecurities, his regret, his jealousy—it all spilled out in the worst way possible.

The sound of the sliding door opening made him glance up. Arthur stepped out, holding two fresh beers in his hands. Without a word, he handed one to Charles and took the seat next to him.

They sat in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the distant crash of waves and the faint hum of cicadas. Finally, Arthur broke the quiet.

“You’re a dickhead,” he said matter-of-factly, taking a sip of his beer.

Charles let out a humorless laugh, nodding slightly. “I know.”

Arthur turned to him, his expression softening slightly. “That comment, mate—it was out of line. You really hurt her with that one.”

Charles sighed, staring at the bottle in his hand. “I know,” he said again, his voice quieter this time. “I wasn’t thinking. Or maybe I was, and that’s the problem.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

“It’s just…” Charles paused, struggling to find the right words. “She makes me feel things I don’t know how to handle. And then when she said all that stuff about how she’d rather kiss a trash can or anyone else but me…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I just—reacted. Like an idiot.”

Arthur studied his brother for a moment before leaning back in his chair. “You know, it’s okay to feel things. But lashing out like that? That’s not how you handle it. You deserved what she did to you after that comment. Hell, if it were me, I’d have punched you.”

Charles chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. “Yeah, well, she went for humiliation instead. And it worked.”

Arthur grinned. “Oh, it definitely worked. She got you good. But seriously, Charles, what’s your deal with her? One minute you’re at each other’s throats, and the next, you’re looking at her like…” He gestured vaguely, trying to find the right words.

Charles sighed, leaning back in his chair and looking up at the sky. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “She gets under my skin. Always has. And for the longest time, I told myself it was just because she’s Pierre’s sister, and I shouldn’t feel anything for her.” He paused, his voice softening. “But I do. I have for a few years now.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “You’re in love with her.”

Charles didn’t answer, but the silence spoke volumes.

Arthur let out a long breath, tapping the neck of his beer bottle thoughtfully. “You’ve got to stop letting that eat you alive, mate. Either you tell her how you feel, or you let it go. This whole act of yours, pretending you’re indifferent while secretly wanting her? It’s not working. It’s just making things worse—for both of you.”

“I know,” Charles said quietly. “But it’s not that simple. She hates me now. And maybe she has a reason to.”

Arthur gave him a pointed look. “She doesn’t hate you, Charles. She’s angry, sure. And maybe a bit hurt. But hate? No. If she really hated you, she wouldn’t have kissed you like that.”

Charles frowned, replaying the kiss in his mind. The anger, the passion—it had been overwhelming, intoxicating. But there had been something else beneath it, something he couldn’t quite name.

“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted finally.

Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Start by apologizing. And I don’t mean a half-assed apology. Really apologize, Charles. Own up to your shit. Then maybe, just maybe, you can start fixing things.”

Charles nodded slowly, the weight of his brother’s words sinking in. He didn’t know if it was too late to fix things with you, but for the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope that it might not be.

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