Prompted by: Anonymous
Prompt: Hey :) I really love your imagines! Could you write: 28. "Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?" with Chris Halliwell/Reader?
Pairing: Chris Halliwell/Reader
Originally published 28 June 2018
You open the door to your apartment and close it behind you, take a moment to lean against it with your eyes closed and let out a sigh of relief that the day is finally over. Then you open your eyes, shove off the door, and walk down the little hallway that opens up into the living room, tossing your backpack onto the small sofa without looking. (You can always do your homework later.)
You're thinking about heading into the kitchenette and rummaging through the fridge for a snack when you hear footsteps and someone emerges from the other doorway into the living room. A startled shriek escapes you; then you recognize it's Chris Halliwell and you relax.
Like you, Chris is a student at UCLA. Unlike you, he's in his fourth year as an undergraduate (you're in your third) and he's a nursing student (you're a Computer Science major). Still, you know him due to having taken some basic lecture classes together. "Geez, Chris, you startled me," you say, holding your hand over your chest to try and calm your pounding heart. "Warn a girl next time, will you?"
Chris doesn't say anything, just offers a wan smile, and only then do you remember he doesn't actually live in this apartment (So how did he get in here? part of your brain wonders) and realize that he looks incredibly stressed out and tense. "Sorry," he finally says. "Wrong apartment. Mine's four doors down. I can leave if you want."
"No! No, it's fine," you blurt out. Somewhere in the back of your mind there's a faint voice whispering that there's something off about what he just said, but you ignore it. "Lie down or something. You look beat."
He considers it for a moment, and to your surprise doesn't put up much of a fight. "Okay, thanks." Chris crosses over to the back of the couch, hops over the back and stretches out, kicking your backpack off in the process—and your mouth goes dry as you study him, all thoughts of a snack forgotten.
You've always kind of noticed him in class before, but you've never realized until now just how tall and lean he is. His shirt rides up a little above his jeans, giving you a glimpse of skin stretched taut over stomach muscles, of the curve of his hipbones. You swallow hard, mentally chastising yourself for wanting to see more—for wondering what he would look like without any clothes on, what he'd— No. Later. Fantasize about that when you're alone.
You give yourself a quick shake to clear your head, and the next thing you know words are tumbling out of your mouth: "Do you… well… I mean…I could give you a massage?" You inwardly wince the second you say the words: There's no way he'd let you, no way he'd say yes, you've only briefly thought about maybe jumping him before and now that he's here in your apartment stretched out on your couch…
Chris sits up, looks at you quizzically over the top of the couch. "…I guess? Why?"
Relief crashes through you. "You just look really tense," you say. "Stressed out. When's the last time you ever allowed yourself to relax, Halliwell?"
"Never," he says dryly. "Every time I try to take a moment to relax, something happens."
"Well, not this time." You walk around to the other side of the couch, study him for a moment with your hands on your hips. "Roll over," you order him, "and take your shirt off."
He doesn't protest, just arches his eyebrows at your commanding tone before sitting up enough to grasp the hem of his shirt and lift it up over his head. Then he's rolling over onto his stomach before you can get a good look at his chest, his abdominal muscles. You kick off your own shoes and straddle his waist, your hands already moving for his broad shoulders and working out the kinks in the muscles beneath his skin. Computer Science major you may be, but you remember enough from high school anatomy to know which muscles you're working, what they attach to—and it helps that you have an aunt who's a massage therapist.
Your hands move lower, avoiding the line of his spine, and you smile to yourself a little when Chris sighs and starts making little appreciative noises—moans, more like. "Goddess, that feels good," he murmurs. You frown a little at that—despite sharing three classes with him, you still don't know that much about Chris, and on a campus that's full of primarily Christian, Jewish, Muslim, or atheist/agnostic students you haven't really heard Chris talk about his religious beliefs much (if he has any). Still… you don't know that much about modern paganism, but 'Goddess' seems like something only a pagan would say.
You shake the thought off (it's none of your business anyway); continue working the muscles beneath your hands; gradually feel Chris relax as the tension slowly drains out of him. And the sounds he's making… the way his body feels beneath you… it sends a faint stirring of arousal down your spine and through your blood. The thought crosses your mind that the other girls you share the apartment with are not going to believe that you've had Christopher Halliwell half-naked on your couch, moaning with pleasure at your touch—even if it isn't sexual (and part of you wants it to be).
At last, reluctantly, you run your hands up his back to his shoulders one last time before lifting yourself up off of him. "I'm done," you say. "Everything's all loosened up."
Chris turns his head (which has been resting on his folded arms over the armrest on the couch) to look at you, and your breath catches at the almost sleepy, contented look in his green eyes; the messy tousled look of his shaggy brown hair. "Really?" His voice is slightly huskier than it was earlier, and you shiver as heat flares through you.
You nod, swallow as you try and control yourself. "Yeah."
Chris shifts his body, reaching for his discarded shirt, and pulls it back on. "Thanks." He gives you a slight smile; then his expression changes, sharpens. "Get down!"
What? The thought barely crosses your mind before he's lunging toward you, sweeping you off your feet and onto your back. You hear the sound of something whooshing towards you; then it fades and is replaced by a scream of pain. Your head turns, eyes searching, trying to get a glimpse of what's happening.
What you do manage to see doesn't make any sense: a man standing in your apartment where there wasn't one before, and he's on fire. Before you can blink, he explodes and there's nothing left but a pile of ash.
"What the hell?!" Dimly you realize that Chris is still on top of you; you push with your arms and legs as you try to wiggle free.
"Wait!" Chris hisses in your ear, and you freeze. "I need to see if there's any more."
"More what?" you ask as he carefully pushes himself up off you.
He looks down at you, green eyes deadly serious. "Demons."
Okay, you may not remember much from Sunday Bible school, but you're pretty sure demons don't actually exist. When you tell him that, Chris just sighs and rolls his eyes.
"Look," he says, "I don't have time for this so I'm going to tell it to you straight. Demons exist. They were either after me or after you, and we have to get out of here before more of them show up. I don't think I can vanquish five demons at once."
"Why would they be after me?!"
Chris only hesitates for a second. "Because I'm a witch," he finally says. "And so are you."