Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, nor do I make a profit from writing about them.
"Chandler?"
Monica awoke to cold sheets and an empty bed. Her second official night with her live-in boyfriend and she wasn't met with his lips pressed against the back of her neck or his cobalt eyes shining at her in the warmth of the morning light. They'd been waking up in each other's arms, at varying, ungodly hours in the beginning, but almost every morning for a year. Even when he had to wake early for a meeting or she had to rush out of his bedroom so they didn't get caught by their friends, he would always kiss her good morning or lay awake waiting for her to join him in the daylight, or, on the rare occasions her late shift had left her exhausted, he'd leave a note on the end table that she shouldn't worry and he hadn't skipped breakfast.
There was nothing like that this particular morning.
Taking a deep breath, Monica swung her legs over the bed and walked into the living room. He wasn't whistling by the stove, and she couldn't hear the shower running. Her eyes flicked to the balcony. Chandler wasn't standing out there either but that hideous white dog was glistening in the sunrise. She rolled her eyes, remembering the way he had looked at her when he'd told her it was a gift from Joey.
"He wanted us to have it. Our first housewarming gift." And then, because he didn't like it all that much either, probably because it reminded him of the time he and Joey hadn't been speaking, Chandler had added, "We can keep it on the balcony, kind of like a scarecrow. It'll scare off that big pigeon. And who knows, maybe it'll rust quickly out in the elements."
"Or we could toss it over the side."
"And that poor pedestrian's obituary: killed by giant, flying dog," He'd laughed, holding her at arm's length and quirking his eyebrows. "We'll get rid of it soon enough. You know what you won't get rid of?"
And just like that he'd led her to their bedroom where her heart had beat a tango and his hips an adagio.
It was only a day later and already she was waking up without him, something was wrong. She called out his name again.
"In here," Monica shook her head at his useless reply. At least there was only one room left to check.
She folded her arms over her chest, the hockey jersey she was wearing sliding up her thighs with the action and leant against the doorframe to the second bedroom. He was standing in the centre of the empty room in a t-shirt and boxers, his head tilted to the right and his hands on his hips.
"Sick of waking up with my face already?"
Chandler jerked and turned around but recovered quickly. He took two strides to get to her, smiling, and had her eyelids fluttering closed before she even felt his chest press against hers. "Never," his whispered voice was husky and wanton, his lips just kissing hers as he pushed out the word. Then he kissed her properly.
He'd been awake for a while despite the early hour, she could tell. His lips were hard and determined against hers, his hands steady on her hips, thumbs on her hipbones, fingers angled downwards. When he was just waking up or falling asleep his grip would change constantly, squeezing and caressing like he still thought he was dreaming and wanted to make sure she was real.
"Sweetie," Monica exhaled. She leant back to meet his gaze but kept her arms wrapped tightly around his middle, very much enjoying the way his thigh was pressing between her legs. "What are you doing?"
Chandler licked his lips and took a step away from her. Then another. She folded her arms to replace his warmth.
"I was thinking." He paused, waiting for a joke. Monica nodded for him to continue. "If we're going to make this a guest room we should really go all out."
She stopped him then, "It doesn't need to be a guest room."
Chandler sent her a look, the same one he used to send her across the room when Rachel had just moved in and he wanted her to wait until Rachel had finished suggesting how she would arrange her room before she corrected her.
"What if my mum visits and gets snowed in? Or we have my work friends over for New Year's again and they get drunk? You don't want them driving do you?" he asked. "What happens when your parents come over and you don't have a bed to offer them? You'll never hear the end of it."
Monica had been considering offering the room to Chandler to turn into a sort of office space where he could bring work home and they could sort out the bills, maybe move the desk in here so they could use the seat under the window as a reading nook. But the picture he painted of her parents made her shudder. "Are you sure?"
"If we're going to turn it into a beautiful, vintage guest room, I was thinking it's got to stand out from the others. Be a little different, you know? Hotel Monica has to stand out."
She grinned, "Hotel Monica?"
"Cards so that guests can comment on their stay?" His retort came with one of those blinding smiles he sent her every so often. Monica wasn't sure she'd ever seen him smile like that before they had started dating, but they were coming thick and fast these days. She didn't keep score of many things anymore, didn't need to. But she still kept a tally in a notebook in her bedside table with 'Wins Over Rachel' and 'Good Advice Given to Ross.' She'd needed to stop keeping her tally of 'Chandler Bing's Perfect Smile' about a week after everyone had found out they were a couple because she couldn't accurately record the number of times she'd made his lips quirk upwards, dimpling his cheeks, and showing his teeth.
"There's nothing wrong with it, really. Maybe it's a bit old, but the paint's not peeling or anything." his hands gestured wildly around the room as he spoke. "But to go with all the new furniture, and so the room is definitively a guest room and not the same as our room, I figured the walls could do with a lick of paint. So, I picked up some swatches last night. Just some neutral colours, nothing too bad."
Monica touched her lips to cover her smile and tried not to sway at the gesture. She started to tease, "The pink not manly enough?" but decided against it the second the words were out of her mouth. Chandler had never cared about that stuff, not really, he might have bought into it when he was around Joey and Ross, but never seriously and never with her. So she continued before he could respond. "What colours are you thinking?"
Instead of answering, Chandler turned his back to her. "Like I said, nothing too outlandish. Nothing dark or dreary. They said to hand them in the morning so we can see the colour in all the light of the day and decide."
He couldn't see her, but Monica shook her head at her luck of finding this man. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his middle, her hands pressing against his sternum and navel. She rose onto her toes, the very tips, and lay her chin on his left shoulder (he might have bent a little to accommodate her). His large hands lay atop hers, pressing them harder against his body and he turned his head to kiss the shell of her ear.
He moved his left hand to point at where eight little squares of cardboard were stuck to the pink wall, two rows across and four columns down. "I got a couple different ones," his hand moved downward. "White, Off-white, Pearl, Beige. They all look like white to me and there were a couple hundred more if you want to go that way. We could have a couple of different bright and floral bedcovers to rotate, and any kind of furniture looks good in a white room."
Overcome, Monica kissed his cheekbone. Chandler returned the favour and they swayed together for a minute, Monica still trying to balance on her toes.
Undeterred or unaware of how seen he made her feel, Chandler pressed on with the recount of his newfound interior design knowledge. "The guy at the store said it would also make the room look bigger. Although the white might be weirdly bright compared to the purple of the living room and the pink of our room and the green of the kitchen."
Monica pulled herself tighter to his back, her left arm curling around the front of his shoulder. "What are the green ones?"
"They're blue."
"What are the green ones?" she repeated.
Chandler laughed lowly, his breath coming through his nose. "Just an idea."
"Tell me."
"These ones are similar to the green in the kitchen, so they kind of already belong in the house," his hand covered hers again. He paused, nodded, rubbed the back of her hand with his palm, stalling. She had no idea why he was so self-conscious sometimes, but it did mean that in moments like these when he started talking about something he was passionate about, he completely lit up. It came from deep within him and shone through his eyes and his smile and his fingers. He couldn't see it but she did. "A lighter wood would also look good against that colour, but imagine mahogany furniture, Pottery Barn is having a sale on some nice stuff. Orchids or lilies, anything white really, would also look nice, soft, in the green."
Monica pressed her eyes against his collar, her smile into his shoulder blade. He was perfect. "I thought they were blue," she mumbled into the back of his neck.
He laughed, "You won me over."
She kissed his neck. She had won.
Chandler pulled the trolley out of the bay and swung it out in front of him, both hands on the handle and walked through the warehouse doors to where Monica was waiting for him. In the time it had taken for him to get to her, she'd already memorised the map of the store and the most efficient route for them to take to get to the painting section – down all the way past the plumbing section, a left at electrical and then all the way down the wide concrete aisles to the back of the store.
It took them a few meters to figure out their rhythm. Monica, standing on his left, couldn't decide whether to rest her right hand atop his on the handle of the trolley or to link elbows with him. After a period of trial and error, they decided neither really worked and wordlessly found that walking down the aisles with their shoulders brushing every few steps was enough. When they got to their destination, an aisle dedicated to swatches of colour, Chandler let go of the trolley and she took up his hand, pressing their palms together briefly.
"Do you want to check out any other colours?" he asked, brushing his thumb against the back of her hand.
Monica shook her head, "No."
But he wanted her to be certain. She normally took at least a day to make up her mind at changes to Alessandro's menu or the agonising months it had taken her to finally get rid of that post in the middle of the thoroughfare even though Treeger had said it wasn't load-bearing and was only aesthetic and she could do what she liked with it. Careful planning was involved in every decision she ever made, except, it seemed, with him. It was flattering, really. She didn't need to think about picking him, she simply did it. She happily let him pick hotels to stay in and trusted him to pick the colour to paint the walls. All he'd had to do was say he liked the green-blue and she was grabbing her purse and his keys. He himself would have liked an hour or so to budget what they could spend on renovations to the room as a unit, but he'd had some money tucked away from their winnings in Vegas and his winnings in Cups against Ross and he'd taken a little from his paycheck each week since they had that quibble about what to do with the room and decided Rachel should take the furniture, knowing it would need to be replaced.
"Something more neutral like one of the million whites?" He offered. They'd only talked about it as though it was in the distant future but painting the room white would mean the room wouldn't have to be repainted if they had children sooner than they planned.
Monica grinned. He loved the way she showed both rows of teeth when she smiled like that at him, completely glowing and all because of him. She let go of her purse-strap and stroked her thumb down his jaw. "I'm gonna go find someone to help us."
They didn't drop their hands until there was too much space between them and their arms wouldn't reach anymore.
He couldn't help but think she looked so good, even in the harsh lights of the hardware warehouse. It could have been the tight jeans or the red jumper (he loved when she wore red) or the fact he knew she was still wearing his hockey jersey, the one she'd slept in, under the jumper and tucked into her pants. There was something about knowing she'd liked his idea so much she didn't have time to perfect her outfit, that she didn't feel she needed to dress up every time they went out. Even before they'd started dating, he'd seen her on days she'd had zits and felt bloated but there was something about living together, where they'd been together so long she knew exactly how many hours he had until his five o'clock shadow grew in and would remind him not to shave until later if they were going out for a late dinner and she finally believed he meant it when he said she didn't need to do her makeup or her hair. She hadn't done her hair this morning – it was curly and clipped back behind her ears and natural as it frizzed slightly, not straight like Rachel and Phoebe had convinced Monica she needed to wear it to be 'in style.'
"Can I help you find anything?" It was a young voice from behind them. The owner was female with a blonde bob, streaked with paint and a well-worn apron that had to be as old as she was.
"Yes," Monica ducked her head and fished out her notebook from her purse. Chandler smiled politely at the worker, apologising in advance as he watched Monica shift into her head chef demeanour – taking charge and not taking no for an answer. He loved her confidence and her faith in herself and her skills, but sometimes it came off as bossy and a little crazed with power to those who didn't know her.
"We're looking for some paint, about six tins worth. We have the colour we want but we wanted to know if you had any of these four colours in your bargain bin. You know, the half-tins, the display tins, the mixing tins." She rattled off the different gradients; Pantone 3252 C, Pantone 4262 C, Pantone 318 C, Pantone 319 C.
"Let me check with Darryl. He's in charge of mixing," she walked off.
"What is a mixing tin?" he asked, incredulously. This woman was constantly surprising him.
Monica blushed; he had no idea why. "When they mix the paints to get the exact colours customers want, they open up the paints that make the colour but don't always use it all. They sell what's left significantly cheaper than the full tins even though almost nothing is taken, all because it's already open and paint goes off."
He sent her a look, regripped the handle of the trolley and together they started off in the direction the girl had wandered.
"I could never decide on the colour I wanted my room to be, Dad and I used to paint it every couple of years," she explained.
Chandler kissed her temple as they reached the paint mixing station. The girl that had helped them and an older man were bent over an industrial aluminium trolley, their voices hushed. "Ever think your mum was jealous of how much Jack adores you?"
Monica snorted. It was a mostly ridiculous suggestion, but it had the desired effect. She skipped the actual laughter and just made that odd little sound at the back of her throat, making him grin.
"I just thought we could save a little money this way," she admitted. "And we could get a bed frame on sale after Thanksgiving."
"We could collect a couple of catalogues and measure the space and plan what we want to get and wait until Black Friday to find the best prices," he suggested. Chandler would probably never admit it in front of the group, Ross and Phoebe would tease him mercilessly and Rachel wouldn't believe he was being sincere, but he loved the little domestic activities he'd discovered that came with living with Monica. He liked things organised and ordered and he liked finding new ways he could spend time with her and make her apartment theirs. He also liked that they filled each other's flaws and complimented each other's skills – like for someone so organised, Monica was terrible at keeping her receipts in order and Chandler enjoyed the monotony of accounting as his best friend made him mac and cheese as payment. He liked it even more now that they were sharing a place and their names appeared together on the lease. And he liked to be frugal, and she liked bargain hunting.
"I love you," she announced in response.
They had to wait another week, until after the rush of Thanksgiving, to start renovating the room. They'd managed to turn their shopping trip into a contest, the two of them against the rest of the Black Friday shoppers trying to find the best deal, as Monica had expected. But Chandler had also challenged her to find better deals than him in catalogues in the lead-up to Thanksgiving, which might have been his way of getting her to stop stressing about cooking the meal. He'd even reminded her that she should let Rachel cook something. He'd couched that in a way that made it sound like he wanted her to show Rachel them kicking her out was nothing personal, however, she had the niggling feeling it had more to do with him wanting her to take a break from waiting on their friends.
Plus, they'd had fun spending their midmorning on their sore feet, knowing they had all they needed was packed in boxes to be sent to apartment 20, holding hands and strolling through the crowds, proudly announcing with their intertwined hands and large smiles that they had finished their shopping first and no one could beat them.
But now, it was time to get down to finishing the room before the furniture showed up.
"Hi honey," Monica walked into the guest room having just been out with Rachel and Phoebe for breakfast. Chandler was stood on a ladder in a pair of white shorts and a navy polo. She ran her fingers up the back of his muscular calf, under the baggy leg of his pants and squeezed his thigh.
He looked down at her and stepped down from the ladder. "Hi," he kissed her, grinning.
"I thought I told you not to wear white."
"I thought you liked me in these shorts," he waggled his hips to make Monica smile. She wiggled her eyebrows in affirmation.
"Let me change and I'll come help," she patted his chest.
Chandler reached for her hands, clasping her wrists together at his sternum. He shook his head, rubbing their noses together as he spoke. "No way. I got up out of bed the second you left this morning so I could finish this last wall. Give me a kiss and ten minutes and it'll be finished, and you can pull the tape off the skirting boards."
Monica leant forward and kissed the tip of his thumb. He narrowed his eyes at her, his lips pulled together as though he was biting back a smile, "That's not an incentive."
"That's all you get," she smiled sweetly. "You got paint all over me yesterday."
"It was one stripe of blue on the back of your neck."
"No," she scowled. "It was two fingerprints of green on the back of my neck and a stripe on the back of my arm that everyone at work saw."
He leant his forehead against hers, their hands now resting against her chest as well. "If it helps, I only put the paint on your arm, your neck was an accident."
It was the first time they'd both had a Saturday off in over a month, Monica normally worked both weekend evenings but had told her boss she needed a day off and been granted a day with her boyfriend. Of course, she'd asked for the time off almost a month prior and hadn't foreseen the paint job they'd be undertaking. She'd hoped for a nice day out shopping or lunching in the park, a quiet night in, maybe a bath, hopefully together and sex sporadically tangled around those activities.
But this was fun too.
It was taking a little longer than Monica had expected. They only had limited time during the day and they didn't want help from their friends or from professionals, something that had amazed Chandler, Monica trusting him, her sentimental plan to have them paint the room together trumping her need for perfection, but only just. Besides, he was really good at keeping the rollers straight and she'd learnt why he had such a steady hand. Learning new things about her boyfriend had perhaps been the second-best thing to come from this endeavour of theirs. He didn't often talk about his teen years and vying for his parents' approval by spending time with them any way he could, even if it meant having to assist his father's burlesque troupe with their make-up. She herself had been in charge of the prep work, laying drop cloths and taping them down, taping the skirting boards and power sockets too.
They both wore old ratty clothes but so far hadn't suffered and any damages. That being said, the man did have a streak of aquamarine paint across his jaw. Every so often Monica had thought Chandler might be about to flick paint at her and threatened him with sleeping on the couch to keep him in line.
Chandler crossed the room. He traced his index and middle finger down the back of her tricep and kissed the crown of her head. She leant back against him, hunching her shoulders so his arms could go around the tops of her arms, his chin resting atop her head. His right hand stroked down her forearm, his thumbnail against her skin.
She turned her head to kiss him, their lips meeting at an awkward angle. She leant backwards against his left arm as Chandler curled around her, pressing more firmly against her lips. His left hand was stagnant against her hips bit his right slipped across the front of her body and pulled her hip to him, turning her around in his arms. Monica sighed at the hard lines of his body pressing against her, his left hand pressing against the back of her neck, pulling her closer to his mouth.
She pressed her tongue into his mouth, stroking the roof of his mouth knowing it always made his knees buckle. Her fingers pushed into his hair, her thumbs massaging just behind his ears. His hand tangled in her hair, tugging a little at the strands just beneath her ponytail his other hand pressing against her lower back, pushing their hips together.
All of a sudden, he pulled his lips away from hers and smiled at her wickedly. His hands swirled against her skin, slipping down to her thighs. She shook her head at him, pulling him by the ears so that his smiling lips came back to hers.
"No," she told him, tangling her tongue with his. She had to concentrate to get the words out, but managed them breathily, "Watching you paint is foreplay enough."
"Yes," Chandler whispered, his lips travelling along her jaw and zigzagging from behind her ear and kissing down the front of her throat until he could softly suck on her collarbone. "We've never needed foreplay, babe."
Monica chuckled, wasn't that true. She pushed Chandler's shoulders down, making him laugh. "I've had my diaphragm in since lunch. I'm ready when you are."
Chandler held her hips tightly, kneeling at her feet. His blue eyes met hers, glinting with pleasure at the idea of him wanting her. She was wearing his boxers and they slid off her legs easily as he knelt at her feet. He kissed the slip of skin between her hipbones and caressed her creamy thighs, pulling her right leg over his shoulder.
Monica had to bend forward to keep her balance when he pressed his warm lips to her soft inner thighs. He nibbled her skin and she moaned. He kissed her warm flesh the same way he suckled at the rest of her skin, his hands cupping the apple of her ass, pulling her against his face.
His tongue traced the crevasse between her hip and thigh. Monica shivered. She scratched her fingernails into the meat of his back to steady her shaking knees.
Chandler's left hand rubbed up along the line of her spine, pulling her closer as he pressed a kiss to her sex. Placing light kisses around where she wanted him most, Chandler teased his girlfriend until she groaned her need for him. His right hand massaged her thigh, pressing his thumb hard against her skin.
The sensitive skin at his nose bumped her swollen pearl. She cried out.
His tongue flattened and pressed into her warmth, swirling and tasting over and over, her scent making him giddy. There was no pattern to his movements, he would kiss and bite at her innermost folds and lick deep strokes against the length of her. Just as she was recovering from the intensity of his fellating lips, Chandler thrust his tongue into her. He squeezed the back of her thigh, his grip pulsing against her skin. Chandler's other hand stroked against her upper thigh, moving higher and higher until he could press his thumb in the places his mouth wasn't covering, circling around her clitoris as his tongue drove into her.
"Chandler!"
In a flurry of movement, Chandler half-stood, her naked leg still thrown over his shoulder. His hands held her shoulder blades but he didn't reach her full height. Instead, he moved them to lay against the drop cloths.
"You know, all I was going to suggest was that you go have a bath, relax a bit."
It took her a minute to find her voice, when she did it didn't sound like her own, "This is better."
She pushed her hands down his body, shoving his white shorts down his legs. Monica ran her hands along her lover's back, up and under the fabric of his shirt, but couldn't quite work out how to keep herself hitched over his shoulder and take his shirt off too. So she left it. Chandler, on the other hand, managed to pull her out of her shirt and capture her peaked nipple in his mouth. Monica pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the column of his throat, her breath hot and wet against his skin. He shuddered, his hips finding the precise angle to press the tip of his erection into her entrance.
Monica rolled her hips, keeping him just pressing into her, stretching her deliciously.
It was a playful pursuit waiting for him to move, neither of them admitting that they wanted to move together. Chandler was content simply holding her under the shoulders and sucking against the skin over her ribs. Monica would have been fine, she liked when he took her slowly, languidly, lightly. But she wanted the passionate friction that would leave her limp and exhausted and leave her unable and unwilling to get up and be productive. She drew his earlobe between her teeth and let him know with a breathy exhale and a twist of her hips.
He shifted his weight atop her, his forearms pressing into the sheet they'd covered the floor with and his hands cupping the balls of her shoulders. Monica kept pulling his shirt as far up his back as she could, scratching her nails into his skin. Chandler drove himself deep into her core, his forehead dropping to hers, his mouth ajar. She was so warm and her muscles fluttered around him, pulling him deeper. Monica swallowed.
He kissed her eyebrow and she let out a breath, knowing what was coming. He pulled his hips backwards and snapped them back into her. Monica planted her left foot on the floor to gain a little traction and met him thrust for thrust. It was a good position, perfect even, his skin slapping against hers, their abdomens pressing together with every breath. But she wanted him harder.
She lifted her foot and pressed her heel against the soft flesh of his rear, the ball of her foot pushing into his thigh, encouraging him deeper. Chandler kissed her cheekbone, her neck, his lips coming to rest against her collarbone, his forehead on the floor. His while body pressed against hers, his hips pulling backwards until he was completely free of her body and back in until he nudged at her cervix. She groaned. Her toes curled and her knees weakened. Her left leg collapsed against his, snaking around his leg until her foot came to rest against the floor between his knees. Her hands came away from his body and slapped against the covered carpet. She pushed her chest against his as best she could with her thigh between them.
Chandler pushed up on his hands, separating their bodies except for where his most sensitive skin slapped against her ass. He pressed up on his knees even higher, pushing her left thigh outwards and her right leg stretched upwards, opening herself up even further to him. He rammed into her shallowly, moving his hands to her hip bones and pulling her body against his desperately.
Her back arched off the floor, a cry spilling from her lips. Monica fisted the sheet beneath her hands and a tearing sound echoed around the empty room.
When she slumped back against the floor and opened her eyes, Chandler was surrounded by the soft turquoise of the room, his skin looking tan and his eyes dark, and a curl of his brown hair fell over his forehead. She pushed it back tenderly, sweat dotting the skin underneath. He kissed the inside of her wrist. Her heart fluttered.
Sometime in her climax, her leg had fallen from over his arm and lay spent, propped up by his forearm. She pressed herself up against him and squeezed whatever skin of his she could reach, tossing her head back as he kept moving within her, twisting his hips in circles, touching the most sensitive nerve endings inside her with every pass but gradually losing his rhythm. She shuddered, her muscles fluttering, coming undone with his fingers digging into the muscle where her waist became her hips and his open mouth pressed against her arm where she reached to pull at his hair and grip the back of his tense neck.
A shrill sound interrupted them. The landline Monica had moved into the room in case anyone called.
"No," she told him, stroking down his back to his ass. She couldn't quite reach where she wanted to, where she knew touching him would make him forget about the ringing phone. However, Monica did manage to caress her forefinger along his perineum, up and back and up again.
He shuddered as he released into her, his laboured breathing hot against the inside of her upper arm where he pressed his mouth to thank her.
The answering machine beeped and Monica could hear the voice of her coworker, Mona, apologise for calling on her day off.
"You think they want you to work?" She wasn't sure how Chandler had caught his breath so quickly, his mind clear enough to ask the question because she was still wilted and pliant against him, her mind foggy and light. Despite her desire to keep him against her, Chandler rolled to lay by her side. "You should call her back."
Monica rolled onto her chest and reached to where she'd put the phone by the bucket of painting supplies they were using. Her mind was clearing as she hit redial, her office taking an inordinate amount of time answering despite having just rung. The tearing sound had been the tape she'd painstakingly laid out connecting the sheets to the skirting boards ripping from walls. She got up to see if anything had been damaged, it hadn't, her investment in proper painter's tape paying off.
"Hi Mona," she could feel her boyfriend looking at her naked form as she crouched by the wall. She crawled back over to him and pressed her hand to his cheek. "Yes. I'll be there in half an hour."
She kissed Chandler in apology, and he smiled lazily up at her. "Have fun," he whispered as she apologised for leaving in such a hurry, asking him not to move. "I'll be right here."
Monica pulled away, remembering she'd rushed off without asking him nor checking herself for any evidence of their play on the floor. Still, he'd had pain on his fingers and should have known better than to cover her with it. She lowered their clasped hands so that they hung between them. "It got in my hair too. It hurt getting it out."
"Small price to pay for how fun it was putting it there . . . accidentally," he added the last part when she glared at him, taking a step backwards. It was playful, as all their teasing was, but when it came to ruining Monica's reputation as clean and tidy and rigid in front of her workmates, especially the ones who somehow didn't like her, Chandler figured he better play it safe. He really was sorry it had caused the jokes it had from one of the prep cooks, but it truly had been an accident and Trevor was on track to be fired anyway. Besides, she wasn't complaining about the ache between her legs, the bites across her shoulder, or the rugburn on her back.
Monica swung his hands between them, letting him know she wasn't all that mad. "Small price to pay for how nice it was to brag to everybody about you and us moving in together and how light you make me feel."
"Light?"
"You know, free." She pressed her lips to his once. Twice. "Happy." She sucked on his top lip the third time she kissed him, shivering as his teeth pulled on her bottom lip. Monica let go of his hands and pressed her fingers against Chandler's stomach. It was all too easy and tantalising to slip her hands under his t-shirt and rest against the warm skin of his abdomen.
"You know what else is light?" Chandler asked, lips still busy with hers. He kissed her softly a few spare times, to make up for pulling away and held her shoulders as if to keep her at a distance. "This room. I didn't realise it was so big and bright."
"This colour is much better than the pink," Monica nodded, looking around the room as the orange sunset streamed in through the open window and seemed to reflect against the bright walls, bathing the whole room in soft light. Chandler looked warm and soft, the top of his hair fluffy and unkempt, the hair at the nape of his neck curled with sweat, but his skin was hot and hard under her hands, and she could feel his heartbeat pulse as she snaked her hands higher under his clothes.
"I know," he murmured, capturing her lower back in his hands, and pulling her tight against him. "Our multicoloured home. It's going to look so good when the furniture gets here, and it's really finished."
"It already looks pretty good," her fingernails ran down his sides. Monica brought her face close to her boyfriend's, almost kissing him, instead whispering, "This colour's good for you."
Chandler closed his eyes, extending his neck backward, moaning low in his throat. "You should see yourself in this sunset. I really can't wait for that furniture to get here."
"That didn't stop you yester-!" she squealed, laughing loudly as he lifted her as though she was as light as the newly painted room. Turns out, it wasn't going to stop them now either.
Author's Note that You're Free to Skip:
So, this is me just dipping my toe back into writing after a couple of years away. I normally write description and not dialogue, but it's been a while so I've lost a lot of practice and skill in both. Feel free to check out my Matt and Harriet fic if you like Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip.