Archive of Our Own

Felix was staring at her.

It wasn’t unusual for him to hang around while she dressed down from an outing, but tonight he loomed particularly close, half-sitting on the edge of her messy vanity right beside her while she sat and removed her minimal makeup, arms crossed. It was usually very welcome, to be looked at by him like this—Christine had started to notice it since they’d officially became a couple; how his eyes were always on her, how they constantly traced her body, her face and lips, how at times he’d even let himself smile as he did so. It always sparked this warmth inside her chest, made her so giddy that he’d stare just as hard as she always would.

This time was different—she was feeling studied, analysed, and not exactly in the sexy way. “What are you staring at,” she asked, not taking her eyes off her reflection.

For someone who always had his reply ready at a snap of a finger, so good at brainstorming, so impulsive—it took him a couple seconds to answer. “I don’t understand why you put on makeup.”

He used that weirdly earnest tone, the one she was still getting used to, and it surprised her enough that she turned from her reflection in the vanity to him. “Uh,” she thought, a makeup remover pad held limply in her hand, “because I... like it...?”

“It’s not like you need it. At all,” he emphasised, his eyebrows raised in the mirror where she looked at him. It was always sweet of him to say this kind of thing, especially now that his words had a genuine, romantic purpose rather than an exclusively sexual one, and she smiled at them—but she felt like there was more to this, like that wasn’t exactly the point. “Isn’t it kind of a hassle?”, he finished.

“I mean, yeah,” she resumed what she was doing, looking back at herself and gently wiping the blush off her cheeks. “But I don’t usually wear it, as you point out oh-so-often...”, she saw him smile at her reflection. “It’s just a thing I do when I feel like it. To feel... I guess, prettier... than I am?” She cringed—it felt a little weird to refer to herself as pretty—but she knew he’d be on her ass about it if she implied anything else. “But that’s just me. Everyone’s different with makeup. If it’s so boring, you can just go wait for me on the sofa. I won’t be long.”

“No, that’s not what I meant, I-” Felix hesitated, his body turned towards hers as he leaned on the vanity right next to her, arms crossed. “I was just asking. Out of curiosity, I dunno.”

“Mmh.” Christine threw the last wipe she’d needed into the bin underneath her and turned her eyes on him, giving him her full attention. He looked—well, he looked nice, as he always did, and just the slightest bit sheepish. There was a faint colour on his cheeks. “You know, it’d suit you,” she joked.

“Huh?”

“Some blush,” she specified, putting her remaining tools in their places. “With all your freckles... I dunno, just think it’d look cute.”

She was fully expecting Felix to laugh it off with her and push her to move to the living room with him, maybe plant a kiss on her temple as they walked, tell her he did love it, actually, when they’d get back to her place in the evenings and he’d make sure she’d forget about her makeup entirely, when she’d let him ruin it—

That did not happen. When she looked back, he looked like he was experiencing a complete shutdown of all his basic functions. His mouth was slightly open, no words or sounds coming out; his eyes confused and his face warm and red. “Uh.”

Oh, okay. A stretch of silence extended between them, as Chris decided how to put into words the myriad of thoughts that suddenly flooded her brain and Felix desperately tried to get his bearings, and she ended up with, “do you want to try it on?”

Another stutter. “N, uh, no.”

“Looked like it.”

A mirthless scoff. “I, I- no it didn’t.”

Oh, no. She would not let this become a childish fight, let him deescalate it.

Chris got up and crowded him against the edge of the vanity, hands on the smooth wood at his sides. His eyes never left hers, his breath hitched. “What if I asked?”, she slurred. “What if I wanted you to?”

Felix’s eyebrows furrowed—his breathing a little more laboured and face still so warm she could feel it. For the first time in... maybe ever? He looked completely unsure of how to react or behave: lost, almost frozen, and all at once Chris realised she was having an idea, and that—if he wanted to—she could take all of those decisions he was having so much trouble with into her own hands and take care of them for him.

So she asked. “Felix,” her voice lowered, firm and gentle. “What’s your colour?”

“My,” he choked out, then inhaled, thought hard for a couple seconds, and when he talked again he sounded breathless. “Green.”

Pride swelled in Chris’s chest and she couldn’t stop from gently running her hand down his arm. “Yeah?”, she pressed, “want me to do the work?”

Felix swallowed, nodded slowly, and that was that.

“Okay,” she breathed into his space, kissed the corner of his mouth, “sit down for me.”

Felix exhaled sharply and slid on the chair at their side, arms still crossed and position still defensive, eyes warm and careful on her. He was being very quiet for his standards, and she’d have to tread very carefully—she wanted this to be good for him, to be enjoyable, and she had things in mind she wasn’t sure he’d like. Christine would focus on the slightest reaction from him. Not that she ever didn’t.

“Good,” she said, and sat in his lap. His arms immediately unfolded and started moving to her sides before stopping midair.

“Can I-”

Christine smiled, giddy. “Yeah, for now.”

He hummed and quickly moved his hands to her waist, warm and solid. Chris noticed they weren’t holding her still, as usual, or even holding her at all, really—it felt more like he was barely lying them on her to ground himself. Maybe it was the dynamic shift. It made her head spin.

Glancing at herself and the back of his head in the mirror, Chris reached behind him and grabbed her blush—a brownish red tint she was in love with. “This’ll look so nice with your skintone, you know that?”, she ventured.

He grunted, thumbs drawing circles on her covered skin. “Whatever ya say.”

“Felix,” she whispered. She straightened up in his lap after getting her brush too, then decided against using it, threw it on the vanity, and properly looked back into his eyes. “It’s just me.”

His eyes were so intense—and they softened as he reached up with one hand, slowly, caressing the place between her neck and her shoulder, slid his fingers through her hair. “Just you.”

She nodded, welcomed it when he subtly pulled her in, a soft smile on her mouth when she kissed him, lips moving slowly against his, a little dry. “Just me,” she whispered into the warm air between them, as she dotted two of her fingers in her blush and brought them up to the highest part of his left cheek. “Stay still for me.”

With his back pressed into the edge of the vanity, Chris dusted the blush on him with her hands, over his already warm skin, his beautiful freckles. She loved looking at him from up close, touching him wherever she could reach, indulging in him entirely, with nothing to rush her. She wasn’t trying to make it look proper—she just wanted to see the colour on him, to blend it well enough to make it visible for her. When she was satisfied with one cheek, she kissed it and moved her hand to the other side. “You’re doing great.”

He exhaled hard again. “‘M not even moving.”

“That’s what I meant. Gotta be very still when putting on makeup, you know?”

He chuckled, tense. “Sure.”

When she felt satisfied, Chris leaned back and took a good look at her job—she hadn’t put on much, but it showed; it looked natural, a pretty addition to the high part of his cheeks, where his blood always ran the brightest. His eyes were heavy and still laser focused on her as he panted lightly, just hard enough for her to notice. She kept staring unashamedly until she saw him grow embarrassed, fidget, a small crease between his brows. “Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he joked.

“I don’t think I will,” Chris wrapped her hands around the back of his neck, “if I want to see you like this, I’ll just do it again.”

Felix blinked. “Chris-”

“It looks so good on you,” Christine leaned in and let her mouth ramble on, “and you’re blushing so hard... and I know what that looks like, I know you’re all red here, under your shirt,” she smoothed her hand down his shoulders, to his clothed chest; trailed a finger down the middle of his stomach to just above where his belly button was, “that it reaches down here, too.”

She felt his stomach tense under her hand, his fingers dig into her sides, saw his eyes flutter shut. “Christine-”

Chris just leaned down as she pressed her hand flat on his belly, kissed a line from below his ear to the base of his neck as a little reward. “I wanna put some eyeliner on you,” she mumbles into his skin, feeling his heartbeat race. “Make you look even nicer for me. All for me. How about that?”

“Oh my-” Felix panted, low in his throat. He probably didn’t mean for it to get out. Christine would remedy that soon enough. “Yeah, okay. Okay,” he said, a little more composed, but shaky.

Christine beamed at him, kissed his cheek, reached back again with her left hand to grab the only eye pencil she owned. She truly was never one for makeup, which made this whole thing much easier, in a roundabout way. “Can you stay still for me?”, she asked into his skin, and he nodded.

She did have half a mind to ask him to speak up, but... maybe not now. He looked overwhelmed, and she figured this was still very intense for him—for which reasons specifically she couldn’t know. She hoped she’d get to ask him.

Her hands reached up to his face then; one holding its side and gently pulling at the corner of his bottom lid, one holding the pencil. His skin was softer than it looked, and she knew it was on the sensitive side. Felix’s eye twitched, almost closing when the pencil touched his eyelid; a whispered relax into his ear and he immediately melted under Chris’s hands, who then got to work on his waterline and outer corner—nothing fancy or difficult, just for it to show.

He was still staring at her—never tearing his gaze away, like an anchor. Under her arms and legs he was tense as an elastic: after mulling over her next words, she took a deep breath. “You know,” she hesitated, “I’m very proud of you for this.”

Impossibly, he tensed up even more. “I’m literally not doing anything,” he murmured, and there was no animosity in his voice, kept carefully neutral.

“Not true. You’re trusting me to do this to you, and,” she tried, while moving to his other eye, “and you’re being really, really good at it.”

She was thankfully almost done with his eyes, because Felix did this small, jerky motion with his whole body—almost imperceptible, but obvious when she was doing such a precise sort of work on his skin. Most notably, though: he let out a small, delicious whine.

He tried to cover it up with a chuckle right after, his hand flying up and his fingers through his hair, and Christine was going insane. He was muttering something, trying to say anything, anything to distract her from how he’d reacted—and god, she was so, so deeply in love with this side of him, how awkward he felt when caught vulnerable, how earnest and open he could be for her, how red he’d get...

“Felix,” Chris murmured, no point to it—she pressed her lips to his, opened them against him when he moaned into her and slipped his hand to the small of her back, pulling her in. She offered everything she had, wordlessly asked to take more from him, and he let her: it made her lose her mind how little he was in control of himself, how speechless, confused, how malleable he was; it urged her to bite at his lip, claim him, drop the pencil to the floor and cradle his face and neck, pull him impossibly closer to try to express just how proud of him she felt. He was making these breathy, soft noises against her and she knew she was slipping a little, her tongue getting looser, her thoughts less filtered through the haze. She pulled back, and god, the surprise in his gaze at the total control she had over him, the blush on his cheeks and his eyes framed black by her—

“Take off your shirt, Fe,” she panted against him, “I wanna make you even prettier.”

“Uh,” his gaze was unfocused, “what?”

“Wanna see you,” she murmured in between butterfly pecks against the corner of his mouth, “in my shirt, c’mon.” She felt him loll his neck to the side, his breaths come faster, and another small moan leave his throat through one.

“No, Chris, ngh,” he tried to pull away from her, looked to the side, halfheartedly. She knew him better than this—she knew he was acting out just to piss her off, she knew he had the way to stop her at any time. A part of her told her to stop everything, to interrupt it all, to give into him immediately—another part kicked in stronger, telling her to react, like she knew he wanted.

And so she did. Christine hummed, and scooted back on his long legs, sat herself at the edge of his knees. She tried to keep her nervousness under bay, rubbed his clothed thigh until she reached the inside of it, raised her hand—and slapped him there as best as she could, the sound muffled by the fabric.

Oh, she had no idea what she was even doing. It definitely wasn’t supposed to hurt, what with his pants in the way, but she tried to make it into more of a warning than anything, trying to gather in her mind every memory of every time he did the same to her: just strong enough for it to be a threat.

She looked right at him, as she did it, and—

All her apprehensions were pushed to the side when she saw him gasp, squeeze his eyes shut, letting out this weak, delicious cry, clearly drawn out by frustration rather than pain. But that was the point, and she felt satisfied. She just hoped he did, too.

Well. Not too much. She found herself panting when she asked, “colour?”

The hand on her waist tightened. Felix breathed deep for a couple seconds, until, “...so, so green, Chris, fuck.”

“Okay,” she rushed out, “then too bad you don’t want to, ‘cause it’s up to me, hm?”

Fingertips digging further into her skin, Felix leaned forward, his forehead colliding with her collarbone, “Fuck-”

“And I think,” she brushed the shell of his ear with her lips, “I want you to strip down to your boxers for me, and let me put my shirt on you. Let me make you look so, so nice, all for me, okay?”

A breath left him again, shaky and hard, he nodded, and when she made sure he was okay, Chris smiled, kissed him again, got up and stood right in front of him—slapping his hand away from her body in a very clear, unspoken order, trusting he got it.

She then encouraged him with a gentle slap to his cheek, brought her own hands to her black denim shorts, low on her hips in a way she rarely liked, unbuttoned them, opened the zipper. Felix’s eyes followed every step—obviously—until she dropped them to the floor. “C’mon, Felix.”

“I’m,” he seemed the slightest bit more composed—maybe the familiarity of her stripping in front of him, how obvious it was that she’d lost her grip on him for a second there, or the respite from her body against his—he leaned his elbows on the vanity and his look was a little clearer, sharper. “I’m looking. Can’t I watch you first?”

“Pshht, fine,” she said after mulling over it for a moment, then bent down to slide off her thighs, eyes fixed on him. When she let those fall at her side too, she took a step closer—hovering over Felix, feet planted at the sides of the chair.

She loved when he had to look up at her. “So,” he ventured, eyes travelling down to her panties and hips, then up again to her face, “shirt?”

He was testing the waters. Shaking her head, Chris tsked. He was still trying to take back control, just like that? Yeah, right. “Not until you do what I said.”

Felix’s tongue played with his right piercing—for the first time in the evening, he was trying to take matters into his hands, and she found she really, really wanted him to challenge her. He was right—it would be so fun to put him in place if he misbehaved.

Fingertips cautiously slid on her now naked side, as warm as ever, just grazing her skin. He seemed to decide something when her eyes narrowed, but she didn’t complain—“I could make you feel so much better, y’know?”, he tried, sultry, “you could come over here, sit down,” he teased at the elastic of her underwear, “just move your cute little panties to the side and ride me however you liked. I wouldn’t even make you wait for it.”

God, what an ass. Chris leaned over him, hands on the vanity, his smell closing in on her. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ll listen. Give it to you quick and hard, hold you down, just like you like it,” Felix’s eyes were filled, for a moment, of their usual spark again. “Right here on your chair. Just say the word, Chrissy.”

She kissed her teeth, made an effort to get as close to him as possible. “How nice of you.”

His warm hand cradled the back of her knee, nudged her closer as his eyes shifted from her cleavage to her face— “so, how ‘bout it?”

Firm as a rock, Christine smirked down at him, snorted, “I think if you don’t keep your hands to yourself,” she forced as much honeyed condescension she could in her tone, “I’m going to have to tie them. And you don’t want that, do you, Felix?”

Just like that, his smile was wiped off his face, and his hand was back at his side. “Mh.”

“That’s not an answer,” she didn’t know where it even came from—Chris grabbed at his chin and forced him to look at her. “You want me to tie you? Wanna cum without touching me once tonight?”

Another deep, shaky breath. “N-no.”

“Then keep those hands to yourself, and take off your shirt.”

As soon as she let him go, he was at it, and when he was done throwing the shirt to the floor, his eyes were filled with frustration, a hint of urgency, and what Chris knew was excitement. She’d seen it many, many times. “Good job,” she whispered, “now your jeans.”

It was still hard not to say please when she told him to do something during sex, but she was getting the hang of it. Felix fiddled with his button for just a moment longer than usual, zipped down his pants, and shrugged them off.

When Christine looked down at his simple blue boxers and dragged her eyes back to his, her smile threatened to split her face in half, and she loomed over him again, a little more intimate. “So,” she chuckled, “I assume I’m doing a good job?”

The tension broke when Felix breathlessly laughed along with her, closed his eyes. When he opened them and stared at her, they were so warm, loving, intense, as he earnestly said, “yeah.”

Chris ran her fingers gently through his hair, and his eyes fluttered close for a second. “Yeah?”

“Chris,” he said, empathically, “I don’t think you’ve ever been hotter than you are right now.”

“Hmm, high praise.” He was bouncing his knee—getting restless. Back to it, she supposed. Christine slowly climbed over one of his knees, still quite some space between their torsos, positioning herself so that she could feel the solid weight of him under her, but she’d be barely grazing his erection.

His smile grew smaller. “Can-”, he tried again. “So, no touching?”

“No touching, and you,” she ground down into his leg with a silent gasp, punching a breath out of him too, “need to stop getting ahead of yourself.”

With Felix’s gaze fixed on her every movement, as if defying her orders, her hands finally moved to the hem of her shirt—an off-shoulder crop top, oversized on her and large enough to fit his frame without issue. She slid it up slowly, moving enough to tease her core on his thigh just enough that he’d feel it. His eyes grew desperate as he saw her simple bra uncovered, he kept fidgeting, he was making small noises from his nose. “Chris-”

“Hmm?”

With a huff, his eyes flicked up to hers for a moment—then moved back to looking at her body, her chest, her stomach, her thighs. A hand touched her waist—god, again?—defiantly running up her side, warm and trailing goosebumps that drove her crazy, going around and reaching up to the back of her bra—

“Felix,” firm, she pushed onto his shoulders. He immediately froze. “I’m getting tired of telling you off. Hm? Can’t you be patient for me?”

“Come on, Chris, I am being-”

“No, you’re not.” She didn’t need to hold his face, this time—he was looking at her like she was the only person in the universe. “What do you do to me when I misbehave, hm? You remember that, I’m sure.”

A spark ran through his eyes at the memory, she was sure. “Yeah, I do.”

“So use your words.”

“...I take you over my knee,” he said through heavy breaths, “and I spank you until you’ve learned your lesson.”

At the memory, Chris felt herself grow a little wetter, and chewed on her lips; she ground down on his knee again, making sure to tease his clothed dick just barely—his leg jerked against her, and she had to cover up a moan.

Her head was rushing—full of images, of ideas and possibilities, their roles reversed again, and before she could really think about it she was acting.

“God, you keep squirming,” she mumbled as her hand reached the inside of his leg again, bare, this time, and his breath hitched as she squeezed, nails digging into his skin. “You do need a little lesson, don’t you?”

He stayed defiantly quiet, mouth turned downwards and pupils still on her face.

Well, alright then.

Christine tutted and psyched herself up. She moved back just enough to have enough space, ran her palm roughly over his skin for just a moment, and fuck, he looked expectant. It drove her crazy. She raised her hand—

“You just,” slap!

She brought it down on his inner thigh once, light enough, a small exhale from his throat—

“can’t”—another one, harder, and he hissed through his teeth, his legs imperceptibly opening up—

“fucking listen”, her hand came down once more, hard this time, sharper, and this round he moaned loudly, almost relieved. When she looked down, he was definitely harder than before, and in the back of her mind, it wasn’t lost on Chris that she probably just gave him what he wanted all along.

“Hmm…” Christine leaned back into his space, rubbed her face against his, spoke hotly into his ear. “Guess I’m not the only one who’s a bit of a whore for a spanking, eh?”

It was like she had suddenly snatched control back into her hands from him. At the words, his eyes turned hazy again, needy. “Fuck…”

“How many will it take for you to keep your hands to yourself, hm?”, she finally, finally picked her shirt up, nudged his shoulders and put it over his head. He helped her, slipping his arms through the sleeves almost as an afterthought, listening to her like her voice was the only sound he could hear, and she smiled at the giddiness that made her feel. “How long until your thigh matches your pretty blush?”

He only breathed hard, staring—when she grabbed at his jaw again he let out a small sound. “Speak up. It wasn’t a rhetorical question.”

“I d-don’t know,” he tried for a smile, “more than it usually t-takes for you to keep your mouth shut and beg?”

What an ass! Christine scoffed at him, chose to let it slide for a moment so she could look at him, and look at him she did, stared without saying a word. He grew redder—smoothing the shirt down his chest, Chris realised he was finally right where she wanted him. “You know, you like to act like this,” she said, eyes fixed on the hiccupping rise and fall of his chest, “but I’m the one who gets to decide, now. And I think,” she crowded him again, “that if you want to cum on me, or even touch me again, you’ll stop with the attitude and do what I say.” The expression on his face caused her to smirk at him. “Got that? And I better hear a yes, this time?”

The air between them was immensely charged. “Yes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Good. Now stay still and let me look at you.” Chris got up from his lap, stood right in front of him, and indulged in some more staring.

Her top was a washed, periwinkle colour that she thought really fit her, and, turns out, really fit him as well; the neckline was a little tighter on him, sure, but it did just what it needed—showed off his entire neck, his shoulder, his collarbones, some of his tattoos. The length of the shirt showed off part of his stomach and his tummy, his happy trail running into the boxers he was tenting. For some reason, this shirt on him looked even better than nothing would. Leaned back into the chair, breathing deep and hard, looking up at her with all that heat, cheeks dusted red with her help and the black, messy lines under his eyes making them look bigger—god, he wasn’t just hot; he was beautiful, so human and simple and covered in marks that were hers—hell, he was, he was all hers—

“Get on the bed,” the words tumbled out of her, and he immediately obeyed.

As soon as he was lying down, propped up against the pillows, Christine was pouncing on him, not really touching him yet but hovered over him again, peppering his face and neck and shoulders with open mouthed kisses meant to drive him even more crazy. She reached his ear and it was like something snapped in him as well—like she was finally close to breaking him, to melting him into a mumbling mess just like she hoped. “Chris,” he moaned through heavy breaths, “let me-”

She wanted him, she wanted so badly—to undo him, to have him, in a weird way even to own him, or to make it obvious he was... what? Her boyfriend? Hers? She wasn’t this possessive, no. It wasn’t that—if anything, she decided, it was the desire to know Felix was choosing to offer himself like this to her. To know she was, currently, the only person to know what he was sounding like beneath her—not ever, maybe, but just now, just here. That this space between them carved with sweat and digital blood would never be replicated.

She felt a knot in her chest and fought to keep her attention to the present—and so she did the only thing she could. “You’re fucking perfect”, she said, earnestly, the one thing that was honest and yet wouldn’t bring her to tears or completely destroy the scene, and his breath hitched.

“You,” he stuttered, “uh, I-”

“No, let me talk, for once.” Christine started sucking at his skin right above the shirt’s neckline, biting, letting go, sucking again, and spoke in-between gentle pulls of her lips. He tasted like he always did, the soft, slightly sweaty hint that felt so inherently him. “You’re so pretty like this, Fe.”

He inhaled sharply, his hands grasping at the sheets below him. “Chrissy.”

“The prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” one of her hands runs up and teases his nipple over the shirt—and, surprisingly, his back arched into her so nicely, and she smiled. “Oh, that feel nice too?”

“I,” he panted, seemingly a little shocked at even himself, “I don’t, Chris, I-”

“Shhh, let me take care of you,” she started teasing both of his covered nipples with her thumbs, still pressing her mouth into him, a kiss on top of a small hickey she’d left just below his right collarbone, and he whimpered. “Let me mark you up, yeah? Make you even prettier,” she kissed up his neck, where he smelled like her lavender body wash—a shot to her chest—spoke right into his ear, lips pressed to it, “just for me. All mine.”

“Chris, yes, come on,” he blurted out, “fuck, c’mon...”

“So, so needy”, she lifted her head to look into his eyes, heavy and desperate. “What do you want?”

“T-touch me, or- or let me touch you, anything, come on.”

“Hmm...”, Chris straightened up and sat in his lap, careful not to touch his cock, hands running down his chest. “No.”

“No?”

“No. But, you know what,” she scooted back onto his legs, let her hands wander down his sides and the tops of his thighs. “You can touch yourself,” she told him, “show me. Go on. I wanna see.”

He let out the start of a dry, little sob, and he even humped the air, a movement small enough that she could only tell because of how laser focused she was on him. Cute. “Noooo, no, I need your hands,” he’d never sounded so whiny, “come onnn, Chris...”

Well, that wouldn’t do.

“Oh, you need my hands?” she teased, tilting her head, voice a little louder and a little meaner than usual; his eyes widened as she moved her palm down to the inside of his thigh, rubbing his skin reverently, a cruel contrast to what she wanted to do. “You’re being a fucking brat.”

“Chris, I-”

She shook her head at him. “Uh-huh, you want this, right? So, count to three for me. Can you do that? And if you say anything that isn’t yes or no,” she dug her nails into his skin and his chest stuttered, “it’ll be three more.”

God, how satisfying. Felix opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, finally croaking out, “yes, I can do that.”

She felt a little crazy with power, she thought. She didn’t know where the words were coming from. “Say, ‘yes, Christine, I’ll take your hand and like it,” closed into him—her breath on his face, “like a good slut.’”

There it was again—a hint, a light of something behind his eyes, something resembling anger, disgust, but also wonder and pleasure and fear. It was wiped off as soon as it came and she didn’t know how to begin to breach the subject, so she just filed it for later.

Most importantly: god, was he hard, enough that he needed to take a very deep breath before speaking. His words, though, were dripping with sarcasm. “Yes, Christine, I’ll take your hand-”

Slap!

“Ah-!”, it took him by surprise, and he blushed—he was planning on not making that noise, Chris would wager. “W-what gives?”

“I don’t like your tone,” she admonished, “wanna try that again, Felix?”

This time he really did look pissed, and, somehow, even more turned on. He bit his lip and blushed even redder, looked around, looked back at her with his head a little bowed. “Yes, Christine,” he murmured, “I’ll take your hand and like it,”

“Louder.”

“And like it,” he raised his voice, and then—and then, fuck, a little meek, so sweet— “like a g-good slut.”

God, okay. He looked incredible, he sounded incredible—Chris couldn’t help but hiss through her teeth, rush to hold his jaw, kiss him urgently and deeply, his moans resonating into her lips. She had to force herself off him, whispering her desperation against his mouth. “Fuck, Felix.”

“Okay, okay—” he shifted and wiggled in between kisses, panting against her, “Chris, c-can you,”

She chuckled back, still unable to move from him. “You really want my hand that bad, hm?”

He nodded in her grasp—like he was afraid of doing it, like he was admitting to it as a little secret between them, as if all of this wasn’t already—something that was theirs, only theirs. When she let go of him, she slowly pressed Felix back down into the pillows, hand protectively open just at the base of his neck; Chris moved away and kneeled over him to be in the optimal position to correctly slap his thigh.

“You’re perfect,” she whispered, out of character, took a deep breath and spoke clearer. “Count for me, baby.”

“Yeee-ES!-”

He was in the middle of answering her—bless him— when slap!, she aimed her first hit towards the top of his thigh, less sensitive, less strong.

He gasped sweetly, perfectly, just like she wanted, then bit out. “One.”

“Good,” she couldn’t tear her eyes from him, from his head thrown back against the pillows, his own black lids falling back open to look at her every time he felt so much he had to close them.

She raised her hand again, closer to the inside of his leg, and slap! He openly moaned that time, long, high, nearly unrestrained. “Two.”

“Open your fucking legs, Felix,” Chris murmured closer to his ear, feeling his answering groan so close it felt like it came from her. He obeyed, shuffling his thighs apart under her weight, and she touched the most sensitive, softest side of his trembling leg.

It was almost hard to do it, but she focused all her attention on his face, still and turned into a pillow, raised her hand a last time and slapped him as hard as she could in that position.

And god, his response—his entire body jumping with his voice, his gasp the highest he ever sounded. Completely lost in it. She couldn’t even be mad that he’d buried half of his mouth into the pillows—the mere thought that he’d needed to muffle his noises drove her crazy, made her feel powerful in a way that buzzed through her entire body.

“Three,” he breathed out, then hid his face, breath stuttering, almost panicky.

“Colour?”, she asked, just to be sure.

A little hazily, Felix let out a stupid, airy chuckle. “Any greener, I’d be a-”, he started, cocky as always, and then seemingly couldn’t finish his thought, and that was fun—to see his usual façade just fail and fall, his confident tone nowhere to be found. He trailed off. “Nghh, Chris...”

Adorable. She preferred that he didn’t see how fond she looked just yet. “You want something?”

“Chris, c’mon, I can be b-better, okay? I’ll be good…”

“I think you’ll need to show me,” she ran her nails down his trembling thighs, “hmm… touch yourself. And- and not properly, yet. Tease yourself. Like you ask me to do all the time.”

It felt both mean spirited and divine to control and delay his pleasure like this; she was drunk on it, on the knowledge that he was enjoying this, that despite this she’d let him have anything he wanted—in due time. He only needed to ask, and fuck, she’d get him there.

Another cry—but finally, Felix gave up and pulled down the hem of his boxers, somewhat awkwardly, just enough so he was exposed. He took a breath, then trailed the tips of his fingers up the side of his cock, red and angry. A little high note left his lips when he touched the head, then ran back down.

“Oh, finally listening to me,” Christine’s hands roamed everywhere but his dick and his hand, up and down, finally reaching his face and cupping his cheeks, propping herself up on her knees at his sides and leaning forwards so their foreheads touched. She looked down, him hard and aching, his knuckles obedient and shaky, and her mouth watered—but this wasn’t about her. “Just the tip, baby. You know how I do it.”

“G-god, okay,” he did, and fuck, why did she feel so proud? It felt almost silly to feel like this just because he was doing exactly as she said, his thumb rubbing himself.

“There you go, that’s good. Two fingers now. Up and down, juuuust,” her eyes followed his movements as he moaned into her mouth, “like that. So good for me.” Chris kissed at his moles, wherever his skin was warm, his hot breath coming in small puffs on her own face. “You’re surprisingly good at following direction when you’ve been put in your place, huh? Never would have thought...”

He was letting out this high breath in the back of his throat, fighting to keep his eyes open. “C-Chris, I can’t.”

“Oh, baby, you can’t?”, her right hand slides down his neck, his chest, his stomach, “can’t what?”

“Nhh, I,” he hiccuped when she grazed his happy trail, “can’t stand this, Christine, sweeatheart...”

“Hmm,” Christine brought her hand up, wet her palm with her tongue and spit—his eyes fixated on her—then reached back down and wrapped it around him, at the base. He covered his mouth with his hand when he moaned—god, cute!— “okay, then. Just a little. But you do it with me, hm? I’m just along for the ride,” she smiles, “you’re always so adamant I do things myself.”

His hand scrambled to wrap around hers, and he let out a beautiful, satisfied noise when he started moving her hand up and down. It felt so weird, to know the feeling so well and yet not being the one doing any work.

“Theeere you go,” she whispered, kissed him on the cheek where the blush sat, then his jaw. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”

He nodded, and she couldn't help but kiss him again. His eyes looked between them, but always came back to hers, heavy and filled with lust. “So, so p-perfect, Chrissy...”

“No, Fe, you’re the one who’s perfect,” she let her free hand roam down to his chest again, teasing at his covered nipple and earning a full-body shiver. Chris suddenly had a thought, and bit her lip in thought before speaking up. He looked at it. “...remember,” she hesitated just a second as his gaze came back up, “when you took me in that skirt, didn’t even take it off?”

He nodded faintly, but she didn’t need him to.

“I was thinking,” she leaned back, “hah, imagine you had that on right now?”

A long, low whine with his face turned into the pillow. She could feel all of his movements as if she had his own hand, and they stuttered as he twitched beneath her hand. “Chris-”

“Don’t hide,” Chris turned her head into his side, speaking into his ear. “Should’ve put it on you, earlier, you’d look so, so good... Imagine I took you over my knee,” she rambled, “I would never take it off. I’d- I’d scrunch it up and see if you’d cum from just my hands. What do you think?”, she bit at his lobe, chuckling, “would it get on my leg or the skirt first?”

“Fuck,” Felix suddenly stilled his movements and kept their hands still at the base of his cock, squeezing a little. “Fuck, oh my god, fuck-”

Christine feigned surprise. “Oh?”

“Gonna, ‘m gonna cum...”

He sounded so uncharacteristically shy. Ohh, that felt satisfying. “Mhh, so you do like the skirt thing...” Chris tried to move her hand on his cock, a little too eager to feel him, but he kept her very still—the reminder of how easily he could overpower her and still wasn’t, by choice, made her feel high from arousal.

“Shut up,” his whines ripped her away from her daydreaming, “god, I need to touch you, Chris...”

“Not even this is enough for you? Need to get your hands on me?” He nodded, and she really was trying her best, but fuck, was she growing hot too. “Wow, you’re needy… maaaybe if you asked nicely.”

“I-” his response was cut off the moment Chris moved her hand and started rubbing at his head, wet with precum. “Nghh, I...”

“Come on, baby, I know you want to,” she knew what he needed and purposefully offered him no kind of relief, just barely touching, pressing the underside of his head without moving an inch more, “let go for me, beg for me nice and pretty-”

Felix breathed hard, fast, like she sometimes would when she was close to her climax, she thought. “Please,” he said, sounding wrecked, punched out of his throat. “god, oh my god, Chris, please,”

A wide, genuine smile on her lips. “There we go, good, good job.”

He weakly slammed a hand on the bed beside him. “Can I, please, can I-”

“Not yet.”

He let out a little cry, and she chuckled. “You know, when I act like this, look like you do now,” she studied his face, cherry red, his eyes almost shut, “so demanding, desperate... usually, you call me a needy whore.”

Bingo. Her eyes widened when his hips tried bucking up into her hand, and Chris felt immediately smug when he had such a strong reaction that he squeezed his eyes, buried his mouth into the pillow, covered his face with a hand—maybe the hottest he’d ever looked, in all the time she’d known him.

Chris smirked so hard her face hurt. “Ohoh, you really agree, hm? It wasn’t just talk because you wanted my hand that badly?” She felt so warm all over, needed to feel him, somehow, needed to rip more of those sounds out of him, to tear him to even smaller pieces—she let go of him and threw her leg across his lap, hovering with her clothed core just over where he was aching.

He laughed a little maniacally. When he let out a single, broken Chri-is, it took the shape of a wet little sob. She felt drunk.

“God, look at you... stay still, now. Yeah, baby?” she slowly sat down and the feeling of him hard and damp against her, even through the layer of fabric, felt amazing—she’d gotten so, so wet. He must have noticed; he bucked up into her, and she gasped, but shook her head. “No, n-none of that. Take what I give you or I get off. Force you to watch while I fuck myself and p-pretend it’s you, and you can’t do it. You want that?”

He heaved a sob, and her heart broke a little. Not enough to stop. “Chris, nnnoo, I need you, n-need you-”

She bent down to him, hair tickling his forehead, mouth hovering his. “What, my little slut?” She felt it more than she saw it when he gasped, “what more do you want?”

A few illegible noises, a little thrashing, “wanna f-feel you on my dick, baby, touch you, I need you, Christine-”

A thrill ran up Chris’s spine as he trembled there, so overwhelmed in all the best ways, and her mind was racing, at this point—what would he do if she called him meaner things, if she tried really spanking him? If she edged him and told him he couldn't cum, actually? If she leaned into him enough for him to realise it was all a farce—that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t hide how her voice shook, couldn’t stop her orders from sounding like requests and her degrading from resembling more of a condescending allusion to something she would never really think? Was this what it felt like all the time? How had he ever done this for work?

She supposed—he also didn’t happen to be pathetically in love with every person pinned and begging underneath him. Secretly, she hoped he’d felt the same struggles at least once, with her. It was hard to tell with him, sometimes.

Domming while also being down bad for this guy was exhausting, she thought, and dragged herself to the present again, begged herself to follow him, to watch him closely, like he’d taught her to: blown pupils, heavy lids, the smudge of eyeliner she was very familiar with because she’d seen it on her own face so often.

He was lost in her—just as she felt lost in him, and Chris realised—she didn't have to force anything for him. She could just be, as herself, following some of her whims and ultimately her only goal of making him feel good, as good as he always made her feel, which sounded like an awesome time for her. And all at once, she let go just as he had.

“Felix,” she brushed his hair out of his eyes, “can you listen to me, baby?”

He nodded.

“Okay.” She sat down and moved her hips in a circle—the heat from him radiating through her panties, the single obstacle between them heightening every sensation. “This is all you’re getting. Got it?”

She was panting hard along with him at this point, so, so eager to just move already, to take what she wanted, to give him some release, to throw her own rule out the window, but she wanted to make a point, and by god, she would. She cupped his cheek and Felix sobbed weakly into her palm. “Ghh, Chris...”

His dick twitched beneath her, hips snapping up the slightest bit, and she had to bite her lip hard not to show a reaction. “Nnh, no, no. You’re staying right there, staying still for me,” her hands slid down to his shoulders and pressed him down, into the mattress, “and you’re gonna listen to me, and take it, and you’re gonna c-cum right there, right where I want you. Yeah?”

“Oh, jesus,” he sounded broken. “Okay.”

Christine let out a small, soft noise, leaned down again, incapable of staying away, pressed her face to his. “Good boy, Fe.”

Fuck, she should’ve thought about it.

Felix all but exploded—eyes shooting open and his entire body jumping and his hips snapping up into her causing her to choke out a gasp. His hand had flown to her hip like an afterthought, and he immediately retracted it, muttering small little sorrys, thighs shaking.

Catching her breath, Christine didn’t think she’d ever been more turned on. She filed the information for later.

Her hand scrambled for his, quickly bringing it back to her hip as she chuckled a little maniacally. “You c-can hold onto me, since you’re so desperate for it.”

“Oh my god, thank you,” his other hand immediately came up to hold her, press into her ribs, his nails dug into her skin and she saw stars, “thank you, thank you- Chris, fuck-”

The curse melted into a cry as soon as she started actually moving, and fuck, indeed—this would not last long at all. She moved her hips into a stuttering, uncoordinated circle, lifted herself off for a second as he lamented her loss, digging his nails into her again. “Easy, Fe,” she gasped, as she slipped her hand into her panties, gathered all she could of her slick and covered his twitching cock in it, easing their slide. When she sat down again and started grinding down, it felt delicious—just the right spot between wetness and resistance, her underwear many shades darker than it used to be, soaked, his head catching at the underside of her clit just so when she moved her hips a certain way, the noise it forced out of both of them.

Each and every one of her senses were entirely tuned to his. “Fff, Felix,” she forced out, straightening up, nails running up his warm neck, “Felix, baby, look at me...”

The words were dragged from her—this intense need to speak even if she had nothing to say, just to let him know—he looked at her, through her. “Yeah.”

“Does that feel good?”

He squeezed his eyes, nodded, opened them again with a shaky breath. His entire body was shaking.

Christine felt another intense pang in her chest, affection taking over her voice for a moment, her hand talking for her: up his neck, rubbing at his chin, smudging the blush on his left cheek, rubbing at the shell of his ear. “Use,” she bit out, grabbed his hair at the base, pulled on them, “your words, Fe.”

This was ecstasy, she thought, it must have been, because—god, the moment her nails scratched at his ear again, not even on purpose, the moment she shifted further and drew a circle with her hips right over the head of his dick, his eyes closed again and she saw a single tear run down the side where she pulled his hair, and oh, oh. She got it now—this was heaven.

He was mumbling and trying to speak and she was so entirely speechless— “Chris, it feels s-so good, so good, please-”

“Oh, my god, baby,” she was also running her mouth, losing control of a situation she should have been commanding, giving into the urge to just give in, and say everything she was thinking of, anything if it meant he’d feel good— “Fuck, are you crying for me?” Another tear and a little, angry sound rolling out his throat, “‘s it too much, hm?”

“I don’t, I, Chris—”

“Oh, but you can take it, can’t you? God, look at you, s-so fucked out you can’t even speak,” she shifted her weight to get better leverage, thrust into him faster, “speechless, all for me. I can’t imagine,” she wheezed in a breath at the same time he gasped, another tear rolling down the other side of his beautiful face, thin trails of faint black drying on his cheeks and the sight of it made, impossibly, even more heat pool into her stomach, “Can’t even imagine what you’d sound like if I actually fucked you.”

His voice sounded unreal—nothing like usual; it was so much higher, breathier, not louder but loud in spurts and gasps and little highs and lows accompanying his moans. He’d switched from silent to grunting to moaning to wheezing to, finally, finally, mumbling and begging and nearly screaming in frustration. “Fuck, fuck, Chris…!”

“I know, baby...” almost an out-of-body experience, Christine found she sounded almost genuinely sad, condescending, loving; she wanted him exactly like this, just like this, and she wanted to keep him like this forever and she wanted to give him everything—“you’d like that, yeah? If I t-took you from behind, right after work. Wouldn’t be able to wait. Put you in my skirt ‘n just lift it up,” she slid her hands on his stomach, slipping under her shirt; back down and up and down his arms, reaching for his forearms and wrists and bringing them close to each other on his stomach, like she was putting handcuffs on him—his hands big enough to still hold her waist, squeeze it. She held on for dear life, using his arms as leverage to grind harder. “B-bend you over, hold you still just like this, finger you right there in the kitchen. You want that?”

“Guh…”, his hands grabbed at her like he was losing his grasp and his eyes squeezed shut and stained tears rolling down his cheeks, uncontrolled, god, what a sight; he nodded, “uh-huuh…”

She was starting to get tired and achy but the buzzing, the thrill in her blood spurred her on. She’d started by taking and taking and now, the focus was entirely on giving him exactly what he needed. “Would you come untouched for me?” He sobbed loudly, “ohww, baby, you would, yeah? If I asked? I could m-make you, make you come right on my skirt-”

“C-close, ‘m so, please,” his eyes snapped open and stared right into hers with an urgency she’d rarely seen, his left hand holding her in a vice grip, “please, I’m- ghh- Chris, please, pleaseplease-!”

Christine got the hint loud and clear—leaned down, licked a line from his jaw to his ear— “you gonna come for me, Fe?” —and sucked at his lobe, bit at it just like he liked it, “gonna come just like this, just from me grinding on you, yeah? Good and loud for me, my pretty little whore…” His hips had started trembling and kind of jumping beneath her and she had absolutely no desire to stop him and god, she was so close too, now, wasn’t she?

“C’mon,” she squealed out, “G-gonna get it all over my top, sweetheart? All over me?”

Another bite at his lobe and he was gone and fuck, did he comply—Chris didn’t think she’d ever heard him so loud, a melody of identical, punched out moans on every single one of his exhales until—a noise in between a sob and a scream, half into the pillow, half into the air next to her ear, deliciously close. His hands were gripping her sides so tightly, his cock jumped and pulsed underneath her and, as soon as he stopped holding her down and still on him—fuck, just thinking of how it would have felt to be kept down if he’d been inside her, god—she moved and rode it out with him the way she knew he liked, gradually less intense, slower, and waited until his hips stopped stuttering and slowed into a lazy, exhausted twitching.

She’d felt him, watched him spill all over himself and her, fuck, fucking hell, she needed it, needed him, she could feel it on her skin—

He was shaking and pulling her in and she was so, so close, and she pulled back to grind a little harder, “f-fuck, Fe.”

He’d barely recovered—if at all, honestly—but he raised his eyes, stared for a moment, understood what she needed, even now. One of his arms slipped out of her grasp and he pushed himself up on one trembling elbow, the other hand coming around her waist to hold her, to pull her close. “C’mon, Chris,” he mumbled, and the exhaustion in his tone somehow did it for her—just the idea she’d been the cause of it.

She let go of her role a little earlier than she wished—gave in, wrapped her arms around him, slipping out of her dominance and into herself, letting the scene fall to pieces around them. He seemed not to care much: his hands had pressed into her so hard she was sure he’d left some marks, but now his fingers were gently, firmly keeping her up and encouraging her to hump against him. He’d stayed so still, so controlled; now, the only goal on his mind was taking her there, and he was helping her along, snapping his hips up with much more focused intention—firm, precise thrusts that felt delicious even if he was softening and probably overstimulated, that sounded slick and wet because of all her fluids mixed with his cum, and just thinking about it, god—

“Mmmh-hmm, Felix,” she mumbled into his shoulder, until he shifted her so that he could press his face to hers, mouth at her cheek, see her, seize her gasping mouth.

“Yeah, Chris, I know,” he said, between slow, open kisses, “use me. Ok? Take what you need, Chris. Anything.”

Holy hell. Her hips twitched, her breath hitched, her hands shook, all against her will, out of her control, at his words—they just hit the right chords tonight. “Ff, ahh, Felix-”

“Just like that,” he pulled back for a moment to look, his free hand leaving her side and cupping her face, “let me see. Please, let me see, Christine,” he spoke with his lips touching hers, “I’m all yours, look what you’ve done to me, how you’ve ruined me—” she gasped as he kept talking, eyes shining, “show me how bad you need to use me, baby.”

She moaned, a hiccup, high little sound—looking right into his tired, mascara-stained eyes, pleasure exploding from her tummy and reaching into her chest, her arms around him. She wasn’t as loud as usual, maybe because of her role in all this, maybe she was just that exhausted—no issue: the buildup to her orgasm had been so slow that it felt so intense she couldn’t even speak around it, just shook and trembled and fell into Felix, and he seemed very okay with that. “That’s it,” he panted, his entire body finally relaxing right alongside hers, “that’s it, honey, so, so good…”

She dropped her head in the crook of his shoulder and he huffed out what should have been a laugh, lying back into the pillows and holding her close, immediately closing his arms around her.

He peppered her head with kisses. “So good for me.”

Christine finally found the strength to raise her chin through the haze, and pouted at him. “Nnnno, you were.”

“So maybe we both were. So what?” Felix grinned, eyes so heavy they were almost closed.

“Y’re…” she mumbled, “such a f’cking brat.”

“Makes two of us,” he dropped his head fully onto the bed, curled up right around her.

“Eughh,” she said, “I gotta clean us up.”

He tightened his hold on her and said nothing. “No.”

“Felix.”

“Nnno.”

“Fe,” she lamented, “oh my god, did I unlock something now that you know you can act like a little shit?”

“Surpriseeee,” he deadpanned. She snorted, pushed his face away from her, and finally managed to detach herself—and yes, fine, it felt intensely wrong to be away from him now and so she rushed to get a towel and some water. She still made sure the water was cool, that she got his favourite glass. He didn’t need to know the details.

When she walked back—having cleaned her own stomach already, quickly gotten out of her underwear and changed it—she shifted a knee on the bed, nudged him to lie on his back, and started to clean him, and then her eyes caught on his—her—shirt.

Her shirt which had very obviously caught a few drops of his cum on its edges.

Fuck, okay. Christine stared, maybe a teensy bit too long, and then thought back to her soiled pair of underwear that was lying somewhere around her room, what the state of that would be—

She dropped her face in her hands, exhaling hard, then laughing incredulously at herself—a little mortified. “Ohmygod.”

The familiar, warm confidence slowly slithered back into Felix’s voice, though it was dry, tired. “You literally wanted this, Chris.”

“Shut up. I know.”

He chuckled, the asshole. She could feel him lazily take off the shirt. “I thought you liked it.”

He even had the audacity to sound sweet. Silence, and then Chris groaned.

“Ohh,” he breathed out, “you do.”

“Shutupppp shut up!”

“I don’t think you want me to, though,” he got into her space, talked into her ear. “You like marking me up?”

“Ughhhhh,” Christine tried to fight off the arousal, and pushed him away halfheartedly, “this is supposed to be aftercare! After!”

“Mmm, it is for me,” an arm around her waist again, he nosed at her jaw, mouth on her throat. “Want me to pull out and cum on your lips next time you go down on me?”

“Feeeelix…”

“So you can kiss me anywhere you want afterwards and leave a mess—”

“Felix.”

“You can kiss me, too, I don’t mind the-”

“I didn’t know you’d be into the makeup.”

Okay, fine, Christine just wanted to one-up him and shut him up, but she wasn’t expecting him to immediately shut his mouth the way he did when he was taken by surprise, and, well, she was curious about it, to be fair. She’d wanted to breach the subject at a different moment and when they didn’t have a shirt soiled with drying cum on it in their hands, but what can you do. Sometimes shit happens. “uh. Yeah,” he murmured.

“Did you… know about that?”

“That’s,” he blinked, “a really, really complicated question.”

Christine shifted into a comfortable position, finally, opened her arms to him, and she was actually relieved when he still immediately snuggled up to her. “I’m okay with complicated answers…?”, she tried.

There were a few seconds of silence where she really thought he’d just deflect. But Felix somehow still managed to surprise her. “I guess I did. Sort of. Sometimes I- I want to, to, I don’t know. Try?”

She nodded, encouragingly, into his hair—he wasn’t saying much of anything, but it was something, and she could understand him, she thought, she could get at the core of it, of him, as always. She would. Not looking her in the eyes was probably helping, and all she did was try to hug him closer, let him speak.

“Truth is, I don’t fucking know, Chris,” it sounded painfully grounded, honest. “I have no idea. Growing up, this- this- I could have never—”

Oh, he sounded so unsure, almost pained, and god, she knew. She pressed her lips to the crown of his head. “Well,” she whispered, “you can, now. If you want to. You know I’d help.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. I think I do,” she ran her fingers through his hair. “There’s no harm in trying out stuff, Fe.”

When she pulled away enough to look at him—her hands never leaving his face, her body tight around his—he couldn’t look her in the eyes, and yeah, that tracked. She still said her piece. “You know I’d- that I would never care, right?”

“God, you’re talking as if this was–” he sounded tight, tense, and scoffed, “as if this was– I don’t know what. It’s just makeup.”

“It can be,” she insisted. She needed him to know. “It can also be more. And I’d—I’d love to-”

“Okay, okay, jeez, I got it,” Felix raised his voice the slightest, like he did when he wanted to change the subject—he was not kissing her, which was weird for aftercare, but very good considering the topic at hand, so a victory overall. He had his head turned into the pillow, a little, into a small stain of blush he’d left there by pressing his face into it and crying into it, and suddenly all Chris wanted was to pull him closer.

Fine, Christine thought. She’d let him move on, this one time, so she nudged at his face with her nose, kissed the spot under his eye, the one where the makeup had sat, again and again until he turned and met her lips, until she could keep telling him in yet another language—you’re okay, you’re okay, whatever it is and whatever you’ll be, and she’d keep telling him until she was sure he knew.