exo; advantage
krischen. r. 495 words. sort of inspired by m's ceci bts.
Kris decides to forget about his earlier discovery of how alarmingly thin his checkbook has grown, either way unable to remember the exact number of zeroes he scribbled on this particular slip of paper, because Chen is incessantly gorgeous and impossibly elegant as moves through the parlor, glass of 1874 Perrier-Jouët steadily pinched between his thumb and middle finger while he makes casual conversation with one of mainland’s biggest Dragon Heads, and he’s wearing a fucking choker. A thick, knotted ring of dark silver resting high on his nape, just below the drop of his adam’s apple and tightening faintly whenever he laughs, straining a bit against the skin.
The pleasant smile on his face when Kris slides up behind him to put a hand on his elbow changes for a much too familiar twisted grin when they reach the hallway, but changes again for a questioning lift of the brows when Kris slams him against the inside of the door of room 1950, realizing he can’t even fucking help himself and promptly dropping to his knees, fumbling for Chen’s zipper, and changes once more for a head tipped back and kohled eyes slid shut and mouth fallen open with the most delicious symphony of breathy groans when Kris blows him.
And it hits Kris when he gets back up on his feet and reaches out to trace a finger where necklace meets skin that regardless of how ridiculously hard this made him, he doesn’t even need to get off. There is this fundamental satisfaction burning within him, burning deeper than hot skin and straining boners, and the sight of Chen with afterglow pearling on his forehead is so beautiful that something tightens in Kris’ chest, tightens painful and amazing behind his sternum. If he had to choose between fucking anyone he wants in the entire world except Chen for the rest of his life, or just giving Chen head and being left hard and aching - he’d go for the latter. Any fucking day. All he needs is getting to feel Chen’s cock grow in his mouth, getting to be able to make him feel good.
And that, Kris thinks, should fucking mean something.
So he opens his mouth and utters three small, utterly idiotic words.
“Wufan, please.” Chen says when he has finally stopped laughing. “I know I’m good at my job, but this isn’t fucking Pretty woman.”
It’s only two years later, in yet another wee hour and yet another cold bed, that Kris realizes what he should have said.
I’ve invested enough in you to keep your ancestors economically independent for the next three generations. Don’t fucking try to tell me you do this because you like money.
Although he’s afraid he knows what Chen might have replied. There in the locked room, before he left. With a little cock of the head, perfunctorily compassionate.
I like how much you want me. (And I like being able to make you feel bad.)
Kris decides to forget about his earlier discovery of how alarmingly thin his checkbook has grown, either way unable to remember the exact number of zeroes he scribbled on this particular slip of paper, because Chen is incessantly gorgeous and impossibly elegant as moves through the parlor, glass of 1874 Perrier-Jouët steadily pinched between his thumb and middle finger while he makes casual conversation with one of mainland’s biggest Dragon Heads, and he’s wearing a fucking choker. A thick, knotted ring of dark silver resting high on his nape, just below the drop of his adam’s apple and tightening faintly whenever he laughs, straining a bit against the skin.
The pleasant smile on his face when Kris slides up behind him to put a hand on his elbow changes for a much too familiar twisted grin when they reach the hallway, but changes again for a questioning lift of the brows when Kris slams him against the inside of the door of room 1950, realizing he can’t even fucking help himself and promptly dropping to his knees, fumbling for Chen’s zipper, and changes once more for a head tipped back and kohled eyes slid shut and mouth fallen open with the most delicious symphony of breathy groans when Kris blows him.
And it hits Kris when he gets back up on his feet and reaches out to trace a finger where necklace meets skin that regardless of how ridiculously hard this made him, he doesn’t even need to get off. There is this fundamental satisfaction burning within him, burning deeper than hot skin and straining boners, and the sight of Chen with afterglow pearling on his forehead is so beautiful that something tightens in Kris’ chest, tightens painful and amazing behind his sternum. If he had to choose between fucking anyone he wants in the entire world except Chen for the rest of his life, or just giving Chen head and being left hard and aching - he’d go for the latter. Any fucking day. All he needs is getting to feel Chen’s cock grow in his mouth, getting to be able to make him feel good.
And that, Kris thinks, should fucking mean something.
So he opens his mouth and utters three small, utterly idiotic words.
“Wufan, please.” Chen says when he has finally stopped laughing. “I know I’m good at my job, but this isn’t fucking Pretty woman.”
It’s only two years later, in yet another wee hour and yet another cold bed, that Kris realizes what he should have said.
I’ve invested enough in you to keep your ancestors economically independent for the next three generations. Don’t fucking try to tell me you do this because you like money.
Although he’s afraid he knows what Chen might have replied. There in the locked room, before he left. With a little cock of the head, perfunctorily compassionate.
I like how much you want me. (And I like being able to make you feel bad.)