Chris “Chowder” Chow is stupidly good in bed.
Like, okay: it’s not that Farmer doesn’t find him attractive - clearly she does, what with the whole dating thing - but 90% of the time, Chowder reads as more cute than hot, because the guy is basically human sunshine. He’s sweet and kind and eager and he makes her laugh, and it’s not like she thought he was totally virginal, either - they both talked about their exes before they ever really hooked up, part of the getting-to-know-you schtick - but she figured early on that Chowder would be one of those guys whose bedroom personality is more or less identical to his regular personality, only sweatier and more breathless, and Chowder's regular personality can best be described as puppyish, enthusiastic and earnest.
The thing is: Chowder in goalie-mode is a creature of serious, single-minded focus, laser-sharp reflexes, freakish natural dexterity and unholy skill. It’s not that he’s humourless when he gets in the cage; it’s just that the goofiness is swapped out for sharp intensity, and what Farmer didn’t account for is the fact that Chowder’s bedroom personality is goalie-mode, but centred on pleasing his partner.
And it’s. so. good.
As in, the first time they finally do it, Farmer is convinced it’s an alcohol-induced fluke, because there’s no way the Chowder who babbles endlessly about the San Jose Sharks and enthuses about the sack lunches Bitty makes for his “precious shark child” can possibly be the same guy responsible for literally the best sex of her life on the first try. Like, Farmer is 100% into guys and she digs that Chris is an athlete, but she’s been with other jocks before and generally speaking, they needed a fucking map and compass (or maybe an hour-long YouTube tutorial with diagrams) to have any idea of what works for her. And the beauty of Chowder - she figured, back before The Most Amazing Sex happened - is that he’s eager to please, and likes to ask questions, and generally vibes like the kind of dude who’ll actually listen if you tell him your preferences and make a sincere effort towards achieving them. She was, as she’d gigglingly joked with March over drinks, looking forward to breaking him in.
Except that it’s not a fluke. Except that somehow, impossibly, it’s even better next time when they’re both stone cold sober, and it keeps on getting better as Chowder, without ever needing to be told - although he does sometimes ask for clarification, in this low, quiet voice he never uses at any other time; a voice that makes Farmer feel like she’s going to die in the very best way, oh god - figures out exactly what she likes. Farmer has never had so many multiples in her fucking life, and she owns a vibrator, okay? And not a cheap one, either!
And the first time she tries to tell her friends about it, nobody believes her.
Because, really: it’s not that Farmer’s friends don’t like Chodwer - they do! Her teammates actually Approve Of Him, which is fucking rare and to be cherished; it’s just that it’s really goddamn difficult to explain the shift that comes over him when they’re fooling around in private to people who’ve only ever seen him the rest of the time.
“Honey,” says Heather, gently. “Have you considered that those other guys were just so very bad that Chris only seems extraordinary in comparison? Not that I’m saying he’s bad,” she adds hastily, “it’s just that - well. He’s Chris.”
Murmurs of agreement from all present bar Farmer; March nods sagely and makes grabby hands for the wine.
“You don’t understand,” says Farmer, gripping her wineglass just that little bit tighter. She’s never been much of a graphic-deets-dishing person, but then, she’s never had sex worth boasting about before. “Like, okay, yes, those other guys were pretty average, especially Todd, ugh -” loud, disparaging murmurs of agreement, “- but like. The other day? He made me come four times in forty minutes. Four times.” She makes desperate eye contact with Heather, willing her to believe. “Okay? I nearly missed class because my goddamn legs weren’t working, and I say that as someone who runs for over an hour three mornings a week. He. Is. Good.”
March nearly drops the wine.
Later, Farmer is adamant: she didn’t mean for it to become a thing. But as they get into details about Chris’s “particular skills”, as Heather insists on calling them - specifically, to the question of who the hell taught him all that - Farmer mentions the name of his first girlfriend, and it turns out March’s little sister’s best friend actually knows her. At that point, they’ve all had just enough wine to think that tracking this woman down, if only to thank her for her service to humanity, is a good idea, and somehow the phone tree gods are smiling on them all, because fifteen minutes later they’ve got her actual number. March calls her on speaker phone to riotous cheers from the group, and Farmer is utterly red-faced with embarrassment at how badly this could go wrong, and it’s slightly awkward at first even though March’s sister’s friend forewarned her they were calling because, hello, random drunk strangers asking about your sex life? Seldom a great idea.
Except for the part where it is a great idea, because Leah, apart from being genuinely nice - to say nothing of being a whole year older than Chris - is, if possible, even more effusive in her praise of him than Farmer.
“Oh my god, do you have any idea how validating this phonecall is?” she says, voice going up a pitch when March asks the salient question. “This is my second year of college, okay, and I’m not exactly living like a freaking nun - do you know how fucking weird it is to still be saying that my first high school boyfriend is the best sex I’ve ever had? Jesus Christ, if he wasn’t such a sweetheart I’d want to hate him for literally ruining me via the setting of unmeetable sexual standards. I am ruined for dumbass college bros who think the clitoris is a beach in Greece, okay? I have fucked actual grown-ass men who have less idea how to use their hands than he does, and then there's his mouth -”
“Right?” says Farmer, snatching the phone from March. “And that thing, where he suddenly gets all intense - ?”
“Oh my god,” says Leah, making an inarticulate noise, “oh my god, right?”
“Why the fuck did you break up with him, then?” demands March, with the sort of outraged breathlessness she reserves exclusively for dissecting romantic entanglements.
“He spoiled me!” Leah wails. “I just - he was the first guy I ever slept with, and I figured all other guys would be somewhere in the same ballpark, if not better, right? I mean, he was younger than me, and I know he’d never had sex before - I thought, if sex with Chris is this good, imagine how great it’ll be with someone more experienced! How the fuck was I supposed to know that he’s like some goddamn savant?”
The call goes on in this vein for ten more minutes before, with surprising goodwill, Leah congratulates Farmer on snagging “possibly the only straight American man of our generation capable of performing good cunnilingus” and says goodnight.
Farmer radiates smugness. Heather looks frankly stunned.
“Shit,” says March, awed.
After that - well. It’s not like Farmer makes a habit of giving details, but she has an audience for them now, and after the phonecall with Leah, Chris starts to develop a very favourable reputation among Samwell’s male-inclined lady population, who can't resist spreading tales of his prowess. And Farmer, who is otherwise honest with Chris about all things, doesn’t bring this up with him: partly because she’s embarrassed at how quickly it snowballed, but mostly because she doesn’t want the fame to go to his head. She's not completely stupid, after all.
And then, about two months later, during a particularly big kegster at the Haus, Ransom, Holster and Lardo approach Farmer, who’s drinking with March, with what can only be described as businesslike expressions.
“Farmer,” says Holster, in that deep, serious voice of his. “Rans and I have a question. And it’s possibly an inappropriate question, but the matter was deemed vital enough that we need to ask it anyway.”
“Which is why Lardo’s here,” says Ransom, nodding at their tiny manager. “To make sure we don’t, like, overstep.”
March chokes on her cup of tub juice. Farmer fights an urge to grin.
“What is it?” she asks, sweetly.
“Um,” says Holster. He sounds honestly bewildered. “So. Like. Some girls just asked us if we could introduce them to Chowder? For, like - ” he glances briefly at Lardo, lowers his voice and says, hesitantly, “- sex purposes?”
“Not that we think he’s cheating on you,” Ransom says hastily, “that’s not even on the menu, but we just, uh - we didn’t think he’d dated anyone other than you at Samwell, so we were kind of, uh, wondering why - that is -”
“Bros,” says Lardo, giving them both a Very Disappointed look. Turning back to Farmer and March, she says, with the barest roll of her eyes, “Rans and Holster thought the girls wanted to hook up with them, only then they asked about Chowder and they, like total jackasses, laughed, thereby ruining what little chance they had of scoring with a pair of sophomores who were, quite frankly, out of their league in the first place.”
“Bro,” says Holster, wounded. “Harsh.”
“You laughed first,” Rans mutters.
“The point being,” Lardo says, “that this experience has confused them deeply. So.” She raises a lethal eyebrow. “Care to enlighten us?”
Farmer is on the brink of answering when, through the crowd, she catches a glimpse of Chowder, and realises she has a better idea.
“Chris!” she yells, waving him over.
Hearing her, Chowder's face lights up. "Cait!" he says, hurrying over. "Hey, I got you another drink! I don't know what Shitty put in the tub juice, but it's really tasty -"
"Chris," says Farmer, "can you weigh in on an argument we're having?"
"A sex argument," March stage-whispers, clearly catching on.
"Oh!" says Chris, taking in the sight of Ransom and Holster and Lardo and drawing something approximate to the right conclusion. He flushes slightly, then tips his head, smiling. "Sure, I guess. What is it?"
Farmer summons her straightest face. "How many orgasms do most women have during sex, would you say?"
"Like, on average," March says. "During a single average fuck. In your experience."
"Oh!" says Chowder again. He scratches the underside of his chin. "Um, I don't know. Like, five or six, maybe? Like, calling it a fuck never really feels accurate, you know, 'cos it's not like that's all you actually do, but - six, I guess?"
Farmer grins at Ransom and Holster. "Sounds about right to me. What do you guys think?"
Ransom and Holster look like they've just seen god.
"Holy shit," Rans whispers. "Chowder. Holy shit."
Holster doesn't quite fall to his knees, but he looks like he kind of wants to. "Bro," he says, pleading. "Teach me your ways. I will pay you."
"What?" says Chowder, frowning in confusion. "Was that the wrong answer?"
"It really wasn't," Farmer says, grinning.
Lardo steps forward, clapping Chowder warmly on the arm. "Christopher Chow, you are officially my favourite." And then, bellowing half over her shoulder, "SHITTY, GET THE FUCK OVER HERE! CHOWDER NEEDS TO DO A KEGSTAND IMMEDIATELY!"
"I do?" says Chowder, sounding half-thrilled, half-puzzled. "Like, that's totally cool, but what did I -"
Farmer kisses him soundly, grinning when they finally break apart. "I'll tell you later," she says, and just for a second, Chowder's eyes go dark.
"Yeah," he says, fingers grazing across her ribs. "Okay."
March laughs so hard at Holster's betrayed expression, she gives herself hiccups.