Tahi

dom!matt, enemy!matt, enemies to lovers, hate-sex, praise, unprotected sex

✧ summary: when your annoying neighbor matt gets locked out during a storm and shows up at your door drenched and smirking, you end up hate-fucking on your couch until the power comes back.

✧ word count: 3.1k

✧ authors note: yay violet finally wrote something...

the storm hit around nine pm.

not the gentle kind of rain that taps against windows and lulls you to sleep. this was the violent kind, wind screaming against the trees, water coming down thick enough to blur the streetlights into orange smears.

you were on the couch, already in sweatpants and an old tank top, hair piled messily on top of your head, when the knocking started.

three sharp raps. insistent.

you checked your phone. no emergency alerts, no texts from your roommate who was out of town for the weekend. probably just a branch hitting the siding, you decided, turning the volume up on your show.

the knocking came again. louder.

"you've got to be kidding me," you muttered, pausing it. you padded to the door, checked the peephole, and felt your stomach drop with annoyance that only one person could summon.

matt sturniolo.

he was soaked. absolutely drenched. dark hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping off his jaw onto your welcome mat. he was wearing that stupid leather jacket he always had on, the one that creaked when he moved, and he looked like he'd just swum here.

you opened the door slightly, peeking through the crack. "what."

he looked up at you through wet lashes, already smirking despite the fact that he was visibly shivering. "hey, neighbor."

"no."

"come on." he gestured vaguely at the downpour behind him. "i'm locked out."

"how is that my problem?"

"chris and nick are gone until tomorrow." he wiped water from his face. "and your door is the closest one that isn't across the street."

you stared at him. he stared back, blue eyes catching the porch light, water dripping steadily from his nose.

you hated him.

you hated him since the day he moved in three months ago, when he'd "accidentally" taken your parking spot and left a note that said finders keepers on your windshield. you hated how he blasted music through the thin walls at two am. you hated how he smirked at you in the hallway.

mostly you hated how good he looked doing it.

"you're dripping on my mat," you said flatly.

"i'm dripping everywhere, yeah." he shifted, leather jacket creaking. "look, can i just. can i come in for like twenty minutes? until the rain slows down? i'll stand right here by the door, i won't even—"

thunder cracked directly overhead, loud enough to rattle your teeth. the lights flickered. once. twice.

then went out completely.

you both stood there in the sudden darkness, the only light coming from the streetlamp outside, casting his shadow long across your floor.

"or," he said quietly, "i could come in until the power comes back. since we're both gonna be sitting in the dark anyway."

you should have told him to sleep in his car.

but you stepped back, jerking your chin toward the living room. "take your shoes off. if you get water on my floors, i'll actually kill you."

matt's smile was quick and crooked, there and gone. "there's that hospitality."

"shut up."

he toed off his boots. they were heavy work boots, you noticed, scuffed and worn. as he stepped inside you realized he was taller up close, filling your doorway with the smell of rain and leather and his cologne.

"living room," you said again, stepping back to give him space.

he walked past you, close enough that you felt the chill radiating off his clothes. "nice place," he said, which was obviously a lie because you were a mess, not expecting a guest.

"don't look at anything."

"wasn't planning on it."

he stood in the middle of your living room, water pooling around his feet, and you realized with a sinking feeling that you were going to be stuck with him for hours.

the storm was only getting louder, rattling the windows, and you knew from experience that outages in this building could last until morning.

"you have towels?" he asked.

"theres some in the bathroom. down the hall."

he moved toward it, shedding the leather jacket as he went, dropping it over your armchair without asking. you bit your tongue.

when he came back, he'd stripped off the wet hoodie underneath too, leaving him in just a black t-shirt that clung to his chest and shoulders, dark hair already drying into messy waves.

he tossed you a towel, kept one for himself, and started roughly drying his hair.

"this is ridiculous," you said, more to yourself than him.

"agreed." he rubbed the towel over his neck, exposing the line of his throat, the tendon there flexing. "we could just sit in silence. pretend the other doesn't exist. like we do usually."

"you started that."

"i started that?" he dropped the towel, looking at you with genuine disbelief. "you're the one who looked at me like you wanted me dead the first time we met."

"you took my parking spot."

"it was empty!"

"it was mine."

matt stared at you for a second, then laughed—low and surprised, like he hadn't expected to find you funny. "christ, you're still mad about that? that was three months ago."

"i hold grudges."

"clearly." he ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and you watched the movement despite yourself. "you know what i think?"

"that you're entitled?"

"that you just like being mad at me." he took a step closer, casual, hands tucked into his pockets. "gives you something to think about at night."

"i don't think about you."

"liar."

the word hung between you, soft and dangerous.

you should have stepped back. should have grabbed a flashlight, lit a candle, done anything other than stand there while he looked at you like that. like he could see right through you, through the annoyance.

"you're insufferable," you said quietly.

"and yet you're not kicking me out."

"the door's locked, genius. power's out."

"could tell me to sleep on the porch."

"considering it."

matt hummed, taking another step. he was close now. close enough that you could smell the rain on his skin, see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the freckles you hadn't noticed before.

"you're shaking," he observed.

"i'm cold." you weren't. you were burning up.

"yeah?" he reached out, slow enough that you could have stopped him, and brushed the back of his fingers against your neck. his skin was cool from the rain, but his touch sent heat down your spine. "feels warm to me."

"don't," you said, but your voice came out rough.

"don't what?"

"touch me like that."

"like what?" his thumb found your pulse point, pressing just hard enough to make your breath hitch. "like i know you want me to?

you should have pulled away.

you should have stepped back, grabbed a blanket, told him to sleep on the floor like the obnoxious inconvenience he was.

instead you stood frozen while his thumb traced slow circles against your pulse point, watching your reaction like he was memorizing it.

"you gonna hit me?" he asked quietly, voice rougher than the rain against the windows. "or you gonna admit you've been thinking about this since i moved in?"

"i hate you," you breathed, but it sounded weak even to you.

"yeah?" matt stepped closer, crowding you against the arm of the couch, his body a wall of heat and rain-cool skin. "say it again."

"i hate—"

he kissed you.

hard.

no words, no gentle testing, just his mouth crashing against yours, his hand sliding from your neck to grip your jaw, tilting your head back exactly how he wanted. he tasted like rain and mint and your knees buckled before your brain could catch up.

you made a noise against his mouth, embarrassing and desperate, and matt laughed before doing it again, his tongue sliding past your lips with arrogant confidence.

"that's what i thought," he murmured against your mouth, his other hand finding your waist, fingers digging in with a possession that made your head spin. "all that anger. all that shit you talk." he bit your lower lip, sharp enough to sting. "just covering this up."

"shut up," you gasped, but your hands were fisting in his t-shirt, pulling him closer, not pushing him away.

"make me."

you kissed him this time, aggressive and messy, all the frustration of three months spilling out into teeth and tongue and grasping hands. he groaned into your mouth, a sound that vibrated through your chest, and then his hands were moving—sliding down to grip your thighs, lifting you easily onto the back of the couch.

"wait—" you started, but he was already stepping between your legs, pressing close enough that you could feel him hard and thick against you through the thin layers of clothes.

"no," he said simply, his mouth finding your throat, sucking marks into your skin with a hunger that made you arch. "no more waiting. you've been driving me fucking insane."

his hands pushed up under your tank top, rough palms dragging over your ribs, your stomach, thumbs brushing deliberately beneath your breasts. you shivered.

"cold?" he taunted, even as his touch turned gentler, tracing the shape of you like he couldn't help himself.

"you're—" you couldn't finish, your breath catching as his thumbs swept over your nipples, already hard and aching. "fuck."

"that's the plan." he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes blown wide, black in the dim light from the window.

his hair was drying into wild waves, his mouth swollen from kissing you. he looked wrecked already, and he'd barely touched you. "tell me to stop. right now. or i'm gonna fuck you like i've been imagining since we met."

your stomach flipped hard. "you imagined?"

"every night," he cut in, his voice dropping to something dangerous. "every time you walked past me in the hall with that stick up your ass, ignoring me." he rolled his hips, grinding against you, and you both groaned. "imagined you just like this. desperate and wet and taking my cock."

"god," you choked out, your head falling back against the wall. "you're such an asshole."

"and you love it."

he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands finally cupping your breasts properly, thumbs flicking over sensitive them until you were squirming against him.

the rain was deafening against the windows, the power still out, and you felt like you were drowning in him, in the smell of his skin and the roughness of his palms and the way he kissed like he was trying to consume you.

"matt," you managed between kisses, your fingers fumbling with the hem of his shirt, needing skin.

he growled against your jaw, his hands dropping to your waistband, fingers hooking under the elastic of your sweatpants. "need to feel you. now."

he dragged the fabric down your hips, taking your underwear with it, the cool air hitting your skin. you lifted your hips helpfully, your pulse hammering in your ears as he tossed the clothes aside.

he looked at you, really looked at you, his gaze dragging down your body with a hunger that made you feel exposed.

"shit," he breathed, his hand sliding up your inner thigh, spreading you open for him. "look at you. already soaked."

you squirmed as his fingers brushed through your folds, finding you embarrassingly wet. "matt, please—"

"please what?" he asked, maddeningly slow, circling your entrance with one finger while his thumb found your clit, pressing just hard enough to make you see stars. "use your words. you're usually so good at telling me what i'm doing wrong."

"shut up," you whined, rocking against his hand, seeking more friction. "just fuck me. god, just fuck me already."

he laughed, dark and pleased, and then he was pushing a finger inside you, curling it immediately, his palm grinding against your clit with every movement. you cried out, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging in through his shirt.

"that's it," he praised, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath hot and ragged. "that's my girl. taking it so well." he added a second finger, stretching you open with a burn that made your toes curl. "so tight. been thinking about this? about me filling you up?"

"yes," you sobbed, your hips moving in time with his hand, chasing the building pressure. "yes, fuck, matt,"

he captured your mouth again, swallowing your sounds, his fingers working you ruthlessly while his other hand pushed your tank top up, exposing your chest to the cool air.

he broke the kiss only to drop his head, his mouth finding your nipple, sucking hard enough to make you cry out, your back arching off the couch.

"matt," you gasped, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. "i'm gonna, i'm close—"

"not yet," he said against your skin, lifting his head, his eyes dark and intense. "not until i'm inside you. want to feel you come on my cock, not my hand."

he pulled his fingers out and shoved his own pants down, his cock springing free. you reached for him without thinking, wrapping your hand around his length, marveling at the heat of him, the way he throbbed in your palm.

"shit," he groaned, his hips bucking into your touch. "careful. been holding this back for months. won't last if you keep doing that."

"then don't wait," you whispered, your voice wrecked. "fuck me. please. i need—"

he didn't make you finish the sentence. he grabbed your hips, pulling you to the edge of the couch, and then he was guiding himself to your entrance, the head of his cock sliding through your folds, spreading your wetness, making you both gasp.

"look at me," he commanded, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing your eyes to his. "stay right here with me."

he pushed in.

slow at first, just the thick head stretching you open, burning so perfectly that your breath stuttered. he groaned, a low, broken sound, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.

"fuck," he gritted out, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise. "fuck, you're so tight. so perfect."

"more," you begged, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him deeper.

he snarled, actually snarled, and thrust forward, burying himself in one rough movement. you cried out, your head falling back, your body adjusting to the overwhelming fullness of him.

he was so deep like this, your knees pressed against his ribs, his pelvis grinding against yours with every slight shift.

"okay?" he asked, his voice strained, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.

"move," you demanded, your nails raking down his back. "fucking move, matt."

he did.

he pulled back and snapped his hips forward, the force of it making the couch creak, your body jolting with every impact. he set a brutal pace immediately, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room alongside the rain.

"is this—" he grunted, his hips snapping forward again, harder, "—what you wanted? when you were glaring at me across the hall? imagining me inside you like this?"

"yes," you sobbed, your hands gripping his shoulders, your body bouncing with every thrust. "god, yes, harder,"

he laughed, breathless and wild, and obliged, his grip shifting to lift your hips slightly, changing the angle so that he was hitting that spot inside you with every stroke, the pleasure building sharp and overwhelming.

"look at you," he panted, his eyes locked on where you were joined, watching himself slide in and out of you. "taking it so well. so fucking pretty when you're not talking."

"you talk too much," you managed, your voice breaking on a moan as he thrust particularly deep.

"yeah?" he leaned down, his mouth finding your ear, his breath hot and ragged. "then tell me to stop."

he rolled his hips, grinding against your clit with every movement, and you cried out, your body tightening around him involuntarily.

"didn't think so," he murmured, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. "just take it. take my cock like a good girl. let me feel how much you like it."

"i don't—" you started, but he thrust hard, stealing your breath and your words.

"don't you?" he teased, his hand sliding between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, desperate circles that had you teetering on the edge. "then why are you so wet for me? why are you clenching around me like you never want me to leave?"

"matt," you choked out, your vision blurring at the edges. "i'm gonna—"

"come for me," he commanded, his voice dropping to that rough register that went straight to your spine. "come on my cock. show me how much you want this. how much you want me."

his thumb pressed down harder, his hips snapping forward with a force that moved the couch, and you came apart with a cry that he had to muffle with his mouth, his tongue sweeping as your body convulsed around him, your orgasm ripping through you in waves that left you shaking, boneless.

"shit," he gasped against your mouth, his rhythm faltering, his cock twitching inside you. "shit, you're so perfect, fuck,"

"inside me," you begged, your voice wrecked, your hands gripping his face, forcing him to look at you. "come inside me, matt. please, want to feel it,"

he groaned and then he was burying himself deep, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing as he spilled into you. he kept moving, shallow, desperate thrusts, his breath ragged and warm against your neck, his body trembling through his own release.

for a long moment you stayed like that, breathing hard, his weight pressing you back against the couch, his cock still inside you, the rain still raging outside. the room smelled like sweat and sex and the storm, and you felt completely wrecked.

"you okay?" he murmured eventually, his voice muffled against your throat, his thumb stroking gentle circles on your hip where he'd gripped too hard.

you hummed, too fucked out to form words, your fingers lazily tracing patterns on his back.

he laughed softly and pressed a kiss to your temple. "yeah," he said quietly. "me too."

when he finally pulled out, you winced and he immediately looked concerned, his hands gentle as he helped you shift, arranging you on the couch beside him.

he cleaned you both up with his discarded towel and then he was pulling you against his side, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare thigh.

outside, the storm continued to rage, and you realized with a start that the power was still out, the room still dark.

you leaned into him, your head on his shoulder, your body thrumming with a pleasant warmth.

"we can't stay on this couch forever," you murmured.

"why not?" he kissed your forehead, his voice already drifting toward sleep.

you smiled against his neck.

"you're ridiculous," you whispered.

ⓘ SMUT. DOM!MATT. BEARD!MATT. SUB!READER. BEARD KINK (?). CLIT PLAY. OVERSTIMULATION. DIRTY TALK. PRAISING. and more?

everything was so hot.

matt’s bare chest was pressed into your back as he held you against his body—your own bare skin clinging to him.

you were completely naked—your body fit snugly between matt’s legs as he held you to him. his legs wrapped around your own to keep you spread wide open for him—one arm wrapped around your middle as the other was between your legs, slowly running his fingers along your wet cunt.

“y’so warm baby.” he murmured, his mouth brushing your neck—the beard he let grow out dragging up the column of your throat. “you always get like this when I touch you.” his words ghosted along your flushed skin, and he was right.

. . . F1!DRIVER!CHRIS

F1!DRIVER!CHRIS who is the newest driver for ferrari's formula 1 team. he spent years fighting for his spot on the grid, but fought even harder to prove himself to you. he loves getting praised, thinking that when he’s getting praised he’s doing something good. he didn’t receive much of it growing up but, when it's you praising him, it's like no one else's words matter to him.

F1!DRIVER!CHRIS who hates being far from you. he knows that his job requires him to travel a lot—almost every other weekend requires him to be in a new country, but he can't rest well knowing you're not by his side. he chalks it up to just enjoying your company, but deep down it’s his fear of abandonment that scares him from being away from you.

F1!DRIVER!CHRIS whose a completely different person when he’s around you. when he's at the paddock, on the grid, or anywhere f1 related, he's this strong-headed, competitive, fearless man who only has his head in the game, yet, when he's with you, he's soft, kind, and lets his guard down completely. every time someone points out how different he is with you and when he's working, he always responds with, "i don't have to perform with them. i don't have to worry about disappointing them."

F1!DRIVER!CHRIS who finds every reason ever to talk about you. he acts like your biggest fan. in every interview he finds himself bringing you up in questions that has nothing to do with you or his relationship. you feel realer to him than anything the sport has ever given him, and sure it's given him a lot but, except for him, you've given him more.

⤷ masterlist ⟶ previous scene ⤷ cw . . . explicit sexual content & language, consensual rough sex & spanking, possessive/dominant behavior & verbal control, mild restraint, light degradation/praisekink . . .

꒰ comment on this post to join series taglist ꒱

「 ✦ 𝒃𝒇.ᐟ𝒄𝒉𝒓𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒖𝒅𝒅𝒍𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 ✦ 」

You were awoken by the glaring sun in your face and the way too bright chirping from the birds outside. Turning around in your boyfriend’s arms with a soft groan, you realize how hot your head had become from being exposed to the sun for so long.

Chris stirs beside you due to your movements, arms tightening instinctively around you. A slow, lazy smile creeps up his lips before his eyes are even open. "Mornin’," he mumbles, his voice rough and raspy with sleep.

"Morning," you mumble back, sighing softly as you melt into his chest.

"Your head’s so hot right now," Chris chuckles when he buries his face in your hair.

You grin, pulling back to look up at him with soft, sleepy eyes. "I’m so hot?"

Chris laughs, his eyes barely open and crinkling at the corners with mirth as he looks down at you. "I didn’t say that," he teases.

You fake frown. "So you don’t think I’m hot?"

"I never said that."

"You implied."

Chris groans. "It’s like 8 in the morning, babe."

You pull back more, eyes narrowing even as your lips twitch at the corners. "You don’t think I’m hot in the morning."

"Hey... come back," he pouts, scooting closer when you turn your back to him. His eyes sparkle with amusement at you sulking even though you both know you’re not really mad at him over something so ridiculous.

Chris’s arms wrap around you from behind, face burying in your neck. "Babyyy..." He whines. "You know I didn’t mean it."

Your lips finally stretch into a smile, trying to hold back your laugh.

"You’re the most hottest, sexiest, and prettiest girlfriend ever," he murmurs, his voice becoming softer and losing some of the playfulness. "And you smell fucking amazing."

You snort. "Are you tryna butter me up?"

Chris chuckles softly. "Maybe. Is it working?"

"Unfortunately, yeah." You turn back around to face him, and find him looking at you with the softest look ever—enough to make your heart feel like it’s extending and melting and doing all kinds of things all at once.

"I love you," he whispers, cupping the side of your face with one large hand, his thumb brushing reverently along your skin.

"I love you too," you whisper back, eyes dropping to his lips before looking back up into his pretty blue ones.

Chris leans in slow, and you meet him halfway. A soft sigh leaves him as his eyes flutter closed, and he smiles into the kiss when he feels you kiss him back—your lips moving in tandem with his.

The kiss is slow, sensual, reflecting the day you’re both—hopefully—going to have.

You pull back first, needing oxygen, and smile when you feel him chase after your lips. "Hey, greedy."

"Can you blame me? I wanna keep kissing you." He plants small, quick pecks all over your face and neck, making you laugh and try to push him back half-heartedly.

"Chris- Baby, stop-" You burst into a fit of giggles.

Laughter bubbles in his chest at hearing the small giggles escaping your lips, his heart feeling so full to the point it feels like it’ll explode from happiness.

Chris never thought a day like this would come—where he’s doing things he thought were just “corny couple shit”.

He’s eating his words, but he’s not embarrassed. Not at all. It just means you’ve changed his perception of love. You’ve changed him for the better.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Comfortable silence fills the room when Chris finally stops and you two stay tangled in each other’s limbs and the comforter. Your cheeks still ache from laughing too much and yet you can’t seem to stop smiling.

"Your head’s still hot though," Chris suddenly says, but it doesn’t break the quiet moment.

"Yeah... I know," you hum.

"Next time let’s close the blinds before we sleep," Chris says, tucking your hair behind your ear. "Can’t have my pretty girl all hot and bothered without me being the reason for it."

You make a face. Chris grins wide.

"Chris- What?!" You laugh heartily.

Something mischievous glints in his eyes as he leans closer. "You heard me."

Your laugh dissipates when you feel his boner poke against your inner thigh and you look at him, blinking. "You're a pervert."

"Hey, that’s mean! I’m your boyfriend." Chris scoffs, playfully offended. "How can I not get hard when I wake up to my hot girlfriend beside me every morning??"

"You’re unbelievable." You shake your head.

"You mean the most awesomest boyfriend?"

"..."

"..."

"So... no handjob?"

"Ugh, fine... pull your boxers down then."

Let’s just say that it did not end with just a handjob lol.

˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖ 𝒆𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒂𝒈𝒆.ᐟ | 𝒘𝒄 – 𝟎.𝟕 𝒌 ˖ ݁𖥔 ݁˖

› got a cute lil’ request from anon & also inspired by this post by @bunnymuffinn :p i don’t really like this but i also didn’t wanna scrap it sooo i ended up posting it... writing fluff is haaard 🫩

𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱!𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰 𝔵 𝔥𝔞𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯 𝔞𝔲

divider by: @/strangergraphics

𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱!𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰

𝔥𝔞𝔲𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔡!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯

𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔠

𝔱𝔬𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔬𝔴

╋━THE FIRST BOY

⚰︎ 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱!𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰 𝔵 𝔥𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔡!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯

⚰︎ 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔞𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰

⚰︎ 𝔠𝔴: 𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔩, 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔬𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫

You’re getting used to the floor now. The smell of the hardwood is inviting, the burn in your back almost comforting. Enoch gets the entire bed to himself.

He still won’t go near the record player.

The word Tomorrow is perfectly etched on top of the lid. Specks of dust float through your room in the morning sun. Your pointer finger grows dirty with how many times you retrace what the boy—no, Chris—sketched there. The hair on your arms rises as you loop the letters again and again. It feels good. You imagine it’s his skin you’re touching.

It’s been such a long time since you’ve had a friend, since you’ve had something to look forward to. Your life has been full of reality TV reruns, leftovers from your parents, crowded lecture halls, and Nietzsche.

You told your parents senior year of college would be different. It took them this long to get on board with your major. Your dad never understood it.

“Philosophy is a bunch of pretty words on paper. You’d be better off in business or marketing.”

You told him marketing was for soulless people, for people who didn’t think twice about lying and pulling money out of poor people’s hands.

“You shouldn’t have gone to such a liberal school.”

“You shouldn’t have voted for Bush.”

Your mom begged you both to stop.

Nonetheless, you promised you’d get a roommate. You’d go out more. You’d try. None of that happened. No one wanted to room with you, and no one wanted to go out with you.

You don’t know if Chris considers you a friend. Was it possible to be friends with a ghost? Did it make sense to consider someone a friend after they had spoken barely ten words to you?

Your fingers loop around the O again.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

Today.

Your arms ache with the weight of the vinyls, your legs with every step on the sidewalk. Cool October wind whips your hair across your face. Your nose burns, dripping snot. Fingers lock around the covers of the records.

You lost count of how many you bought. Lost count of the artists. It doesn’t matter. He wanted music. He said tomorrow. You’ll see him again today. He was silent this morning, no matter how many times you traced the letters until your eyes fluttered shut.

Scattered records lie across the floor. You want to pick a good one for him. You want to impress.

“You’ve Got Mail” chimes faintly from the living room — probably your professor, reminding you about the paper due Monday. But that doesn’t matter. Chris matters.

You pick Extraordinary Machine. Fiona Apple’s voice swells, and your heart stutters.

I certainly haven’t been shopping for any new shoes, and I certainly haven’t been spreading myself around. I still only travel by foot, and by foot it’s a slow climb.

“Come on, come on, speak.”

The record skips.

What is this shit?

The room slows.

He’s here.

“It’s Fiona Apple.”

The arm jerks. The next track begins.

My mom used to listen to “Criminal” by her.

“Your mom?”

My mom.

The room tilts further, pressure clogging your ears. You swallow, but it won’t clear. The smell of cinnamon stuffs your nose, thick enough to choke.

You cough.

And then your room peels away.

You’re planted on a kitchen stool. A woman in her mid-forties stirs a pot on the stove, steam fogging her glasses. Chili. Your stomach growls.

You jolt when an arm darts in front of you, reaching for the bowl of chips. But no one notices. It’s Chris—black hoodie, ripped-up jeans—shoving a handful of Ruffles into his mouth.

“You know me and your father support whatever you want to do, honey,” his mom says, voice soft but steady, “but we worry about you.”

“I dunno what you’re worrying about.” He mumbles around the chips, crumbs catching in his sleeve. “It only happened once. I don’t even know why Mrs. Kelton gives a fu—uh, why she even cares. She sucks as a teacher. Just wants us to fail.”

His mom sighs, sets the spoon down. “Thank you for correcting your language, Chris. Listen, you’re not going to like every teacher you have, or every boss you’ll have, but you still have to listen.”

“That’s bull, Mom—”

Her eyes cut sharp. He shuts up immediately.

“That’s life, Christopher.” She steps closer, wiping her hands on a towel. “I love that you’re passionate about your band. I’m proud of you. But you can’t be up all night and falling asleep in class.”

Chris shakes his head, looks away. “School isn’t gonna matter when we make it.” His voice dips quieter, almost pleading. “Don’t you think we’re good enough?”

“Of course I do.” Her smile is faint but real. “But class is important too.”

Chris sighs, long and drawn-out, shoulders slumping.

“Understood?”

“I understand.” He nods, eyes flicking back to hers.

“Good.” She presses a kiss into his hair, then gestures to the counter. “Now, think you can wash the potatoes for dinner?”

Chris is already up, moving toward the bowl. “’Course.”

Your room materializes around you again. Cat hair clings to the carpet. Fear Factor plays faintly from the living room, and Fiona keeps singing.

“Tell me about you.” Your voice cracks.

What do you want to know?

“How did you die?”

The record pops, loud static filling the room. Enoch hisses from the living room; you hear his paws skitter across the floor. You cover your ears.

“Were you in a band?” you shout over the static.

Fiona sings.

How did you know?

You freeze. He doesn’t know you can see his memories.

You shift on the floor. “I—uh—I just guessed because you seem really into music.” You shrug.

I was.

“What was it called?”

No Exit.

“No Exit… What did you do in the band?” Your fingers trace the wood of the record player.

Lead guitar and back-up vocals.

“Can I see you again?”

You change the subject a lot.

“Please.”

It makes me really tired.

You nod, but you’re disappointed. You want to see the pretty boy again. 

“How old are you? Or were you?”

Twenty-two. 

“I’m twenty-one.”

Where do you go every day?

“Sometimes I go to the thrift shop, or I go to my parents, or I go to school.”

I like when you’re here. 

You blush. 

Your cat doesn’t like me. 

You look over your shoulder, Enoch cleaning his paws on the other side of your bedroom door. 

“He’s afraid of everything.” You laugh.

Not like you.

“Not like me.”

A shadow flickers on the wall, dark and deep. Your stomach turns. Your heartbeat skips. Enoch bolts, claws clicking across the hall.

He’s almost here. He’s right there, if you could just reach out and—

Do you have class tomorrow?

The shadow shifts.

“Yeah, I do.”

I don’t think you should go.

“Why?” You tilt your head, eyes fixed on the shape pacing back and forth.

The shadow paces, back and forth, then stills.

I’ll miss you.

You freeze.

You’ve heard your parents say they’d miss you when you left after dinner.

You’ve heard professors tell you they’d miss you as a student when the semester ended.

You’ve read emails from your aunts saying your cousins missed you and wanted you to come over, to play dress-up again.

But you’ve never heard anyone else say it.

You’ve never had a boy tell you he’d miss you.

Alive or not.

[a/n: dare i say it seems like he has a crush on her or somethingggggg]

╋━TOMORROW

⚰︎ 𝔣𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱!𝔠𝔥𝔯𝔦𝔰 𝔵 𝔥𝔞𝔲𝔱𝔫𝔢𝔡!𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔯

⚰︎ 𝔱𝔞𝔨𝔢𝔰 𝔭𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔢 𝔞𝔣𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰

⚰︎ 𝔠𝔴: 𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔩, 𝔡𝔦𝔰𝔞𝔰𝔰𝔬𝔠𝔦𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫

Your shoulder blades dig into the hardwood floor. Your spine burns, ribs cramping. You should’ve just slept on your bed. You could have taken the record player with you, but it was so dirty; no matter how many times you wiped it, decay and rot clung to the surface. It wasn’t meant to be clean, to be pure.

Enoch didn’t sleep in your room that night. He nestled comfortably on your sofa on top of the red blanket you crocheted.

You roll up slowly, like how your mom taught you. “Vertebrae by vertebrae.” The player sits there quietly on the floor with the arm straight. No boy is leaning against your wall. Not today. Not in this morning light.

You tie your hair up, bandage the bite, and join Enoch in the living room with a cup of coffee. He snuggles into your lap, purring as if he didn’t attack you last night—and you let him. The TV plays low in the background, another rerun of Punk’d.

You swear you’ve seen every episode. You don’t find Ashton Kutcher charming. He’s stupid. The whole concept is ridiculous. Why scare people like that, even if it is for a joke? You didn’t think taking advantage of people when they were vulnerable was funny.

You found that out young. Bullied, made fun of, picked on. Always eating lunch with the arts teacher or praying for a miracle snow day in late September. You knew Ashton Kutcher didn’t have anything to do with the way you were bullied in high school. And maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy. Perhaps after the scene, those people really did enjoy the joke. You never got to. Maybe watching it gave you some control, even if you’d never admit it.

The laugh track buzzes, sharp in your ears. For a moment, it sounds like static, like your headphones yesterday, like the record player in your room. You turn the volume down, but the sound still lingers.

You move Enoch off your lap carefully—don’t need a rerun of last night—and tiptoe down the hall, in your own house. The bedroom door handle is ice cold and creaks when you close it carefully, as if to not scare whatever is lurking in your safe haven. The static continues. Choppy and scratchy. You don’t know where to look. Who or what to speak to.

“I heard you last night.” Your voice is quiet as you look down at the player.

Only static.

“I saw you too,” you whisper. You glance at the wall the boy was leaning against. “I—”

You take a deep breath.

“I know you want me to see you, to hear you. I’m not scared—”

The static rings louder, and you have to cover your ears. Enoch hisses from the other side of the door. He’s awake.

…need music…

The words are faint, breaking apart in the static, but you hear them.

Need music.

Your hands drop to your sides, away from your ears. The room feels different now. Like if you were to jump, you could float.

“I don’t have any records,” you say, almost apologetic. The static stops. The player sits there, stubborn and silent, filthy, needle arm suspended.

The static clicks once, sharp, high-pitched. Then nothing.

You sink to the floor in front of it, palms pressed flat to your thighs. Guilt settles on your chest, fear wrapping itself around your fingers, but it’s not your fear to hold. You should’ve just gotten the record last night.

On the other side of the door, Enoch scratches once and goes quiet. The house holds its breath.

“I’ll get you music.”

The same sign, still faded. The bell doesn’t ring right. The man sits behind the counter, glasses sliding down his nose. The boy wears a Rugrats sweatshirt and pajama pants that are too short on him, ankles bare against the cold tile.

“I knew you were gonna be back!” he blurts, running up to you. His nose is still raw, crumbs stuck to his chin, lips stained red from juice.

“What are you talking about?” It’s the third time you’ve spoken out loud today.

“Do you need music?” His sticky hand tugs at your sleeve, pulling you toward the crates of old vinyl. “That’s the only way he talks.”

“Enough of that.” His grandfather’s voice cuts sharp. He’s already on his feet, gaze heavy as it pins the boy in place. “In the back. Now.”

The boy ducks his head and scurries off, but not before flashing you one last grin—two front teeth missing. His grandfather adjusts his glasses and offers you a thin smile. “Records are in the back.”

It doesn’t matter what record you get, but still, you sift through the crates. Fleetwood Mac. Nine Inch Nails. The Smashing Pumpkins. Nirvana. Pearl Jam. Soundgarden.

“He likes Pearl Jam.”

The voice startles you. The record slips in your grip, almost clattering to the floor.

“Shit,” you hiss, whipping your head around. The boy stands behind you again, toothless grin wide.

“You keep sneaking up on me, little dude.”

He shrugs, shoulders thin under the sweatshirt, and runs off before you can ask how he knows.

The record is pressed to your hip in a brown paper bag.

“Sweetheart?” Your mom’s voice carries down the hallway.

Shit. The meatloaf.

You kick your shoes off before entering the kitchen. “Mom, how many times do I have to tell you not to just invite yourself into my apartment?”

Tupperware is scattered across the table. Meatloaf. Vegetables. Potatoes.

“I tried calling, but you didn’t answer.”

“Yeah, I left my phone.”

“Where were you? A date? Out with friends?” Her voice is hopeful. You recently said you’d try, but no one understood that you were okay being alone.

“I was at the thrift shop.” You set the bag on the counter. Your mom makes a face. “I really appreciate you bringing me food, Mom, but I have stuff to do.”

Her shoulders drop and she sighs, forcing a smile. “Okay, sweetheart. I also brought Enoch some treats.”

“Thank you. I love you, Mom.” You kiss her cheek. She gives the cat one last pet before leaving.

Your heart hammers as you slide the record from its sleeve. The vinyl gleams black, fragile in your hands. You set it in the tray, lower the needle.

The first chords bleed into the room.

Even flow, thoughts arrive like butterflies. Oh, he don’t know, so he chases them away. Oh, someday yet, he’ll begin his life again. Life again, life again.

“Please talk, please talk,” you whisper, eyes squeezed shut, praying into the music. “Come on.”

And then it comes—clear as breath, as if the words slip out between your own teeth.

I like this one.

Your ears muffle, like pressure on a plane. You swallow, but nothing pops. Your eyes sting, blinking against sweat. The smell of incense stuffs your nose—too sharp, too real. The music skips once—

And then you’re not in your room at all.

The boy.

He sits in a small garage, surrounded by boys his age. Guitar pick in his teeth while scribbling into a beat-up composition book. The lyrics bleed in.

Oh, someday yet, he’ll begin his life again.

“I don’t want to make corny shit, Billy.” The boy bounces the leg propping up his guitar. “We’re not gonna fucking sell out just to make it.”

The other boy, Billy, shakes his head, perched on a rotted couch. “Well, we gotta do something, Chris, because what we’re doing now is clearly not working.”

“Do you think Eddie Vedder sold out?” Chris raises his eyebrows. “Do you think he gave a fuck about what all the posers wanted to hear?”

“We aren’t Pearl Jam.” Billy’s lips press into a flat line.

“Says you.”

You jolt upright. The bite on your hand burns. Your gaze drifts to the wall where he stood last night. Arms crossed—blue eyes.

“Yeah?” Your voice cracks. “You like Pearl Jam?” You stare at the record player, not really knowing where to look.

I do. His voice is softer this time, almost tender.

“Who are you?” Your fingers slide against the record player. “What are you?”

Silence. Then a crackle.

Chris.

You whisper it back to the record player, almost reverent. “Chris.”

Another pause, like he’s deciding if he wants to speak again.

You weren’t scared.

You shake your head. 

Why?

He can see you.

“I don’t scare easily.” You whisper.

Live alone.

You blink.

Should be. 

The room cools. The bite on your hand throbs in agreement. You wrap your arms around your self.

Another hum, almost like laughter threaded through the needle. 

Your mouth goes dry. “What are you?”

Doesn’t matter. 

Your eyebrows knit together and you press your fingers against the cool wood of the record player. “It does matter.”

Silence. The a pop of static filling the air like bees. Play another.

You shift now, your ankle bones hurting from digging into your hardwood floor. “I don’t have any other vinyls, I-” You reach for the paper bag that once held the record. “I only bought this one.”

Silence again. The track skipping. The memory you saw looping in your head again. Garage. Guitar. Chris. Billy. Were you in the room? Does..did Chris know that you could see that? Should you tell him? Your mind spirals in the silence Chris has left you in.

“Chris?” you whisper, desperate for contact. 

No answer. Only the faint echo of Veddar’s voice, and a low hum under it–Chris, carrying the melody.

You prop yourself up against the bed; your eyes grow heavy, your eyelids pulled down by Chris’s voice. Your stomach growls. The meatloaf goes cold on the kitchen table.

You drift.

When you wake again, the room is still. The record has stopped spinning, needle resting in place.

But the lid—

The dust across it has been disturbed.

One word scrawled in a finger you know isn’t yours:

Tomorrow.

[a/n: spoooky spooookyyyy. swear there we will see and hear more from him in later chapters!]

╋━STATIC: AN INTRODUCTION TO GHOST!CHRIS AND HAUNTED!READER

⚰︎ 𝔠𝔴: 𝔰𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔩/𝔤𝔥𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔰, 𝔪𝔦𝔩𝔡 𝔟𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡

⚰︎ 𝔪𝔬𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔞𝔲 𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢!

You tugged at your headphones, but the wires were frayed. They hissed, static instead of music. You’d have to go to the store for more. You make a mental note.

The thrift shop sits between a Chinese restaurant and a seamstress. The sign above it is faded, and the bell above the door has never rung right. The same older man works at the counter, his grandson curled in the corner, always watching Scooby-Doo on the grainy TV. Your mom thought he was weird. You liked him.

He never said hi to you, but nodded. You didn’t mind. You’d rather not speak either. Sometimes you’d go whole days without using your voice and startle yourself when it cracked through your vocal cords, foreign and thin.

This thrift shop always had cool things—trinkets, chipped furniture, odd little paintings stacked against the wall. Your mom always made the comment that she wished this place would close down, so your apartment wouldn’t be full of junk.

She wished a lot was different about you.

Nothing is catching your eye. Books with their covers ripped off sag on a dusty shelf. Broken cups and dented metal lunchboxes beg to be bought, if only out of pity.

And then you see it.

Well—hear it.

Feel it.

A record player. Static swims in your ears again, like your broken headphones never left. It looks misplaced here, balanced between phones without cords and DVD players with no trays. Too heavy for the shelf, too alive for the dust.

You didn’t own any records, but you felt drawn to it anyway. You could always pick some up tomorrow. Or maybe it could just sit on your shelf, collecting dust the way everything else does.

It’s heavier than you expect when you carry it to the counter. Your chest feels heavy too, like something pressing down on your sternum until it might crack. You tell yourself it’s just lack of sleep, your body out of rhythm. You’ll fix it eventually.

The old man rings it up. Only ten dollars.

“That thing talks.”

The voice startles you. The boy—always cemented to the dirty tile with his cartoons—is standing close now, peering up at you. His nose is raw, teeth missing, a finger dragging through the dust on the record player’s case.

“I’m sorry?”

“I hear it sometimes. When me and Pappy are about to leave.” He doesn’t look at you when he speaks, only the machine. “It makes noises.”

Before you can answer, the old man cuts in.

“Kids.” He forces a smile, eyes narrowing at his grandson. “Some imagination.”

But you see it—the flicker of something sharp behind his face. Anger, or maybe fear. Gone before it settles.

It’s dark when you walk back, but you don’t mind. You’re not easily scared. People found you odd, off-putting. Your parents signed you up for every extracurricular under the sun when you were in school, but you had no interest. You liked being alone, in your own world; it was easier that way, you thought.

You actually read during sustained silent reading, and you’ve never been to a house party. Not one drop of alcohol.

Any other woman would be hesitant to walk late at night—hands clutched to their phone, 911 typed out just in case, a look over their shoulder. But not you. It’s like you knew you’d be okay. No one would bother you. Your energy sat heavy. That was something you learned quick.

The house is cool, and your arms ache from carrying the record player. Your palms sweat against the wood of it, and your nose is stuffy from the dust.

You set the record player down on your bedroom floor, your hands filthy with dust. You wipe them on your jeans, but the gray smears into the denim, clinging. The house is quiet, the refrigerator humming down the hall. Your cat is asleep on your bed; you watch his stomach move. Up and down.

You sit back on your heels, staring at it. The plastic cover is scratched, clouded with fingerprints that aren’t yours.

It hums.

Or maybe that’s just your ears ringing.

You reach to lift the cover; the hinges creak too loud, echoing through the room. Enoch stirs, stretches, then leaps down from the bed.

“Sorry, Enoch,” you whisper.

He meows back.

The needle arm hangs suspended in the air, like it’s waiting. You don’t own any vinyl, but the player clicks faintly, like it’s remembering to breathe again.

Your phone rattles against the nightstand. You flip the screen up. A text from Mom.

I made meatloaf tonight. I can drop some off tomorrow if you want. Love you.

Sounds good! Love you too, you type back quickly. You’d never give up free dinner.

When you glance up again, Enoch is crouched under the bed, teeth bared, fur standing on end—eyes fixed on the record player.

“What’s wrong, Enoch?” You reach for him, and he bites down hard. Pain flares through your hand; you yank it to your chest. Tiny teeth marks bloom red against your skin. He bolts from the room, claws skittering down the hallway.

“What the fuck…” you mutter, eyes drawn back to the record player.

It feels colder now. Like someone opened your front door and October air is flooding in. You can almost hear dead, decaying leaves piling up across the floor, filling the room, filling your lungs. Until you’d have to claw yourself out. Until your fingernails snapped, black with soil. Until you suffocated beneath it all.

The record player hums, then clicks. Out of nowhere, static blooms like a radio tuning. Your pulse picks up. Enoch meows down the hall. For a split second, words form in the white noise—rough, male, young:

“..it’s not that far..”

But then it cuts out.

Your head jerks up. The room is still. Heavy. The player is dead silent, like it never spoke.

You should run—Enoch in your arms, claws snagging at a sweater as you descend the stairs for the front door. But you only sit there, heart thudding once, twice. You’ve never been one to scare easy. Always sensitive but welcoming to energy.

“Okay,” you mutter. The bite stings. “I believe you.” You don’t know why you say it. You don’t know who you’re talking to. Are you talking to anyone? Or is the lack of sleep finally making you crack? You don’t even know what’s “not that far.” You do notice how your voice sounds strange in the air, louder than it should.

The record player stares back, the needle arm raised, completely silent now.

“I said I believe you,” you repeat, whispering. It stays quiet, pretending nothing happened—as if you didn’t just hear a boy’s voice through the hiss.

You make a bed on the floor. Fluffy blankets and pillows litter the mattress, stuffed animals lined against your pillow, but you lie on the hardwood with a pillow beneath your head and your eyes on the player. You will it to speak again, but it doesn’t.

Maybe it was all in your head. You saw things when you were little—shadows. You heard things when you were little—voices. You felt things when you were little—touches. Your parents always said it was in your head, that ghosts and spirits weren’t real, that you watched too much TV. They started limiting it.

As your eyes begin to close, you see him: a boy leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Black hoodie, ripped jeans, Converse. Brown shag hair. Blue eyes. He watches you as darkness pulls you under.

You hear Enoch’s muffled meow—low, drawn out. He sees him too.

[a/n: i am sooo excited for this au ahhhh..this one is a little short but trust the next parts will be longer! just kinda wanted to introduce them. also! to my taglist, lmk if you don't want to be tagged in this series.]

𝐎𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐀 𖤝 20. pisces. night gowns and candles. quiet. eerie. always told she’s different from everyone else. sensitive to the otherworldly. walks like she’s in a dream. lonesome. fragile but unsettling. carries a shadow with her. liminal. magnetic in a way that makes stomachs turn.

⤷𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭!𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬

𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𖤝 ghost. forever 22. aries. late 90’s death. stuck in between. shows up in mirrors and flickering lights. record player static follows him. avoids talking about how he died. flirty but scared. doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, just lingers. trickster. died too young. boyish and tragic.

⤷𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐚𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Chris has everything he’s supposed to want, but his relationship has gone cold. his way of coping is escaping to a stripclub, paying for the attention and intimacy he can no longer find at home.

the lighting remained a permanent bruised purple, casting long, distorted shadows that swallowed the edges of the room, turning every guest into a silhouette of their own desire.

Chris sat in the furthest booth, leaning back with ease. he didn't look like a man falling apart; he looked like a man who owned the room. but behind the confidence, there was a void. for months, he had been living in a house that felt like a museum. beautiful, quiet, and dead. he and his girlfriend had reached a point where the silence between them was a physical wall. he was starving for something he couldn’t explain. something raw, and something that didn't require the exhausting effort of emotional honesty.

then he saw you.

the spotlight hit you, and for a moment, the noise vanished. you were dressed in champagne-colored silk that clung to every curve of your hips and chest, the fabric so thin it looked like liquid poured over your skin, shimmering with every breath. a delicate gold chain draped across your waist, catching the purple light and throwing sparks across the room. your heels were towering pillars of clear acrylic that made your legs look endless. your hair fell in heavy waves, and your makeup was sharp, a dark smoky wing that made your eyes look distant and dangerous.

you didn't just dance; you manipulated the air around you. you gripped the pole with slow deliberate strength, sliding down on it so controlled. you arched your back, your spine a perfect taut curve, you let your head fall back, exposing the long line of your throat. you weren't just performing; you were commanding. there was a weight to your presence, an aura that made the other women on the stage seem like static.

Chris watched you, his gaze heavy and focused. he didn't lean forward; he didn't need to. he let his eyes roam over the line of your thighs, the sway of your hips, the way your fingers trailed over your own skin—starting at your collarbone, sliding down the valley of your chest, and pausing at the edge of the silk. he felt a sharp, sudden prick of spark pierce through him. it wasn't just lust. it was the hunger for a distraction that could drown out the image of his girlfriend’s disappointed face.

you noticed him. it was a flicker, a momentary lock of eyes across the haze of cigarette smoke. you saw a man who looked composed, yet his eyes were screaming. you saw the hunger, the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he wanted and exactly how much it cost.

you didn't smile. you didn't blow a kiss. you simply held his gaze for three seconds too long, a silent invitation that cost more than most people earned in a month.

you slide off the stage, the heels of your stilettos clicking against the polished floor. you move through the crowd, the men parting for you like a tide. they want you, but they fear the coldness you radiate. if you let them in, you become just another girl in a costume. you need to be the one in control.

you stop at the edge of the booth. he’s leaning back, watching you with a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes. he looks like he’s playing a game, and he’s very good at it.

"you’ve been watching me non-stop for twenty minutes," your voice is devoided of the rehearsed sweetness the other girls use.

Chris lets out a short, dry laugh, his voice smooth and confident. "hard not to. you’re the only thing in this room that looks real."

you lean in but you don't touch him yet. you let the anticipation do the work, letting the heat from your body radiate against his. "real is expensive," you murmur.

"i’ll give you all i got, ma," he replies, the term of endearment sliding off his tongue with a casual, gritty confidence. "the question is, do you have enough time for me?"

he reaches into his jacket and pulls out a thick roll of bills, sliding them across the table without a second glance. the amount is obscene. he isn't bargaining; he's buying a sanctuary.

you look at the money, then back at his eyes. the confidence is there, but underneath it, there's a tremor- a crack. he isn't looking for a dance; he's looking for a place to disappear.

"follow me" you command.

the private suite was of crimson velvet and dim amber lamps. the door clicked shut, sealing out the thumping bass. the silence here was heavier and more intimate.

Chris stood in the center of the room, his hands in his pockets, watching you. he looked composed, but the way he was breathing- shallow and fast betrayed him. he wanted to maintain the upper hand, to be the customer in control, but the atmosphere of the room was designed to strip that away.

you didn't go to him immediately. instead, you stepped back into the center of the floor, the light catching the gold dust on your collarbones. you began to dance for him, and this time there was no pole, no stage, no audience but him. you moved slowly, your body swaying to a rhythm only you could hear. you let the champagne silk slip slightly off one shoulder, your arms rising above your head, fingers curling like smoke. you spun slowly, the fabric fluttering around your hips, your eyes never leaving his.

you dropped low, your knees bending as you hovered just inches above the plush carpet, your hips rolling in a circular motion that seemed to draw all the air from the room. you arched your back again, a slow stretch that complimented the curve of your waist and the swell of your breasts against the silk. every glance you threw him was a calculated strike, a promise of a pleasure that was just out of reach.

you began to move toward him, and as you approached, you didn't stop the dance; you brought it to him. you circled him once, your body grazing his back, the silk of your outfit a fleeting touch. you could hear his breath hitch, the sound of a man losing his grip. you paused in front of him, your chest rising and falling in time with the muffled beat of the club outside. you let your hands roam over your own body, trailing from your hips up to your throat, your eyes locked on his with a gaze that was both inviting and distant.

finally, you closed the gap. you climbed into his lap, your movements fluid and feline, the acrylic heels clicking softly as you settled. you didn't just sit; you molded yourself to him. you could feel the tension in his thighs, the hardness of his body beneath you, and the way his heart was now hammering against his ribs.

you leaned back, creating a sliver of space between your chests, and began to roll your hips. it was a slow grind, a friction that pushed the boundaries of his control. you watched his expression shift from confidence to something desperate. your movements were hypnotic, a slow-motion that mirrored the bass of the club, each roll of your hips a silent demand.

you leaned in, your lips grazing his jawline. you didn't kiss him yet. instead you drifted toward his ear. you felt him shiver, his breath coming in jagged gasps. then you sank your teeth into his earlobe.

"mmm..." Chris groaned deep, his hands snapping to your waist to hold you in place. he gripped you with strength, his fingers digging into the silk.

you pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, "still feeling confident?" you whispered.

he didn't answer with words. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling you as if you were oxygen and he had been drowning for years. the confidence was gone, stripped away by the friction and the heat. he pressed his forehead against your shoulder, his grip on your hips tightening.

"you're shaking," you murmured, your voice softening.

"m’ not," he lied, "i’m fine."

you pulled back, looking into his eyes. you saw the lie instantly. you saw the heartbreak, the relationship that had probably torn him apart, the addiction to a pain he couldn't quit. you shifted your weight, pressing the curve of your thigh against him, molding your body to his until there was no space left between you.

"you're not fine," you whispered. "you’re falling apart."

Chris closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours. "just for an hour," he whispered, his voice finally breaking. "just make me forget everything. forget who i am, forget where i have to go back to."

you wrapped your arms around his neck, your fingers tangling in the hair at the base of his neck. you began to kiss him, not with passion, but with a calculated tenderness designed to soothe. it was a professional intimacy, polished and precise. you tasted of expensive lip gloss and a hint of mint.

he groaned again, a sound of agony and relief, and gripped your waist. "please," he gasped.

he pulled back, his eyes wide, searching yours for something that wasn't there. the desperation had peaked, overriding the confidence, overriding the money. he didn't want the dance anymore. he didn't want the physical friction. he wanted the lie.

"tell me you love me."

you froze. the request was a classic. the most expensive request in the book. it wasn't about the words; it was about the shield those words provided. he wanted temporary affection to protect him from the cold reality of a home where he felt invisible.

"you know i can't do that," you said softly.

"i don't care that it's fake," he pleaded, "i know you don't. i know this is what i’m paying for. but just... just say it. tell me you love me, even though you don't."

you look at him and for the first time, you see the shattered pieces of a heart that has been handled too roughly. you feel a flicker of something… not love, but aching empathy. you know what it is to pretend. you spend your entire life playing a role, carving yourself into an actor every night so that no one sees the human underneath.

you are both frauds in this room. he is pretending to be okay, and you are pretending to be untouchable.

you reach up, cupping his face in your hands. your thumbs trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble, the heat of his skin. you lean in, your breath warm against his lips.

"i love you," you whisper.

he shudders, a tremor that racks his entire frame. he clings to you, sobbing silently into your shoulder. the words are empty, devoid of truth, but to him, they are a lifeline. he drinks the lie like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

"again," he chokes out. "say it again, with my name, Chris"

"i love you, Chris."

"again."

"i love you."

you continue to whisper the lie, over and over, a mantra that lulls him into a state of peace. you hold him while he breaks, your hands stroking his hair. you don't feel the love, but you feel the weight of his need, and for a moment, that is enough.

as the minutes tick by, the tension begins to bleed out of him. the frantic grip on your waist loosens. the sobbing stops, replaced by exhausted silence. he pulls back, his eyes red and swollen, looking at you with a mixture of gratitude and sadness.

he knows the clock is ticking. he knows that the moment he steps out of this room, the words will vanish, dissolving like sugar in rain.

"how much more time do i have?" he asks.

you glance at the clock on the wall. the session is almost over. "ten minutes."

he leans back against the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. the numbness is returning, but it's different now. it’s not the sharp, jagged void from before; it's a dull, heavy blanket.

"i can't go back there," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the door.

"you have to. that’s the game."

Chris feels the cold air of the club hit him the moment he exits the suite. the transition is jarring. the purple lights feel harsher, the bass more intrusive. he feels stripped bare, the fake warmth of your words already evaporating from his skin.

he stops at the edge of the exit, looking back. you’re standing in the doorway of the suite, the light behind you casting you in a golden glow. the empathy is gone, replaced by serene distance. you aren't the woman who held him while he cried anymore.

"will you be here next week?" he asks, his voice hollow.

you don't smile. you don't promise anything. you simply nod once, a professional acknowledgment of a returning client. "i’ll be here."

he turns and walks out. the city air is freezing, smelling of exhaust and rain. he gets into his car and sits in the silence, the echo of your voice still ringing in his ears.

he closes his eyes and leans his head against the steering wheel. he knows it was a lie. he knows he is addicted to the lie. and as he starts the engine, he knows he will count every second until he can pay to hear it again.

you watch as his car pulls away from the curb through the tinted glass of the club's window. you feel a strange lightness in your chest, a residual hum from the intensity of his breakdown.

you think about the way he clung to you, the way his heart hammered against your ribs. he was a broken man, and you were the glue made of money and performance.

"you’re up next," the floor manager calls out. you straighten your posture. you slide your mask back into place, the eyes turning distant, the expression becoming a void. you step back onto the stage, the purple lights swallowing you whole.

the following week, Chris is shaking again, but this time it's a hunger. the numbness has returned, and it's clawing at him, demanding to be silenced.

he enters the club and doesn't even look at the other girls. he doesn't look at the drinks. he walks straight to the booth, his eyes searching yours.

when you see him, you feel a tightening in your throat. he looks worse. there are dark circles under his eyes, and his clothes hang off him as if he's shrunk. he looks like he’s haunting his own life.

you approach him, the click of your heels the only sound he cares about. "back so soon?" you ask.

he doesn't answer with words. he simply slides a larger stack of bills across the table. his hand is trembling violently.

"i can't breathe," he whispers. "i can't breathe out there."

you don't say a word. you take his hand, your fingers interlocking with his, and lead him back toward the suite. you know the cycle. you know the desperation. you know that you are the only thing keeping him from sliding completely into the dark.

he doesn't wait for a dance. he doesn't wait for grace. he collapses into you, his face burying itself in your neck, his breath coming in jagged, panicked gasps.

"tell me," he sobs. "tell me again."

you wrap your arms around him, pulling him in. you feel the familiar weight of his misery, you know that this is a slow-acting toxin that makes the real world unbearable. but as you look at him, really look at him, you realize you don't want him to leave.

you like the way he needs you. you like being the only person who knows how broken he is.

"i love you, Chris," you whisper, and for the first time, the lie doesn’t feel as heavy.

ella’s notes: tysm for the request anon! i hope i lived up to expectations :s to be continued….??

𝙲𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍

⁀➴ 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚋𝚏!𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜 𝚡 𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚊!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

⁀➴ 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜

⁀➴𝚌𝚠: 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚙, 𝚖𝚍𝚗𝚒

Chris knew he was getting older. He knew his joints ached more when the weather turned cold, that he needed reading glasses to make out menus and the morning paper, and that gray had begun to crowd his hair. But that didn’t mean he felt old. He’d always waited for the day he’d magically wake up and feel the switch from teenager to adult, but it never came. Maybe he’d grown more mature, but deep down he still felt like the bright-eyed kid he’d always been, and he figured he always would—even when he was eighty.

The one thing that had changed, though, was hangovers.

In his early twenties, he could stay out until five in the morning, have a beer when he woke up to level himself out, and do it all over again that night. Not anymore. Now they felt like a death sentence—shaky hands, a pounding head, leaning over the porcelain bathroom sink while promising himself he’d never drink again.

This morning was no different.

He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dark circles beneath his eyes, one hand gripping the edge of the sink.

But it wasn’t the whiskey that kept replaying in his head.

It was your lips.

The way you’d looked at him when he kissed you back.

And the way you’d looked at him when he pulled away.

He wasn’t drunk when he kissed you. Maybe tipsy, but not drunk. There wasn’t an excuse waiting for him at the bottom of his beer bottle. But he knew he wasn’t in the right headspace when it happened. He was kissing his best friend’s daughter while a ghost from his past haunted the wedding venue a few feet away from him. 

He didn’t see you for the rest of the night, and he made sure of it.

He slipped back inside while he was sure you were still outside with your parents, watching the fireworks burst across the Virginia sky. Chris made a beeline for the bar and ordered three shots.

One.

Two.

Three.

None of them went down smoothly. They slid down his throat and settled heavily in his stomach, burning against the lining of his stomach. He figured he deserved that.

Chris wandered toward the stream behind the venue. He figured the newlyweds had probably taken pictures there after saying their vows. It was a good spot, he thought.

He wondered if he’d ever have a spot.

His eyes closed for only a second before he heard it over the water slipping across the rocks.

 It sounded like a dream. 

Like a nightmare. 

“You’re drunk.”

Chris kept his eyes on the stream, focusing on keeping the whiskey where it belonged.

“How could you tell?”

She stepped closer.

“You always sway a little. And you purse your lips like that.”

He let out a humorless laugh.

“Shit, Marissa. It’s almost like you’ve known me for ten years or something.”

She laughed. 

The sound hadn’t changed a bit. 

It took everything in him to turn his head and look at her again after all these years.

She looked the same.

Older, of course, but the same.

The same freckles scattered across her nose. The same red hair, only shorter now, framing her face in a way that made her look more mature. And the same eyes.

The eyes that had always told him what she was thinking, even when her mouth refused to.

“You look good.”

“I should’ve told you I’d be here.”

“You don’t owe me that anymore.”

The words came out easier than he expected.

Easier than they felt. 

“You look good, too.” 

It was quiet then.

Familiar.

Uncomfortable.

It wasn’t like that with you.

“How long ya in town for?”

“Just until Monday. Gonna visit my parents.” She glanced over at him. “You still in the same place?”

Still in the same place?

As if she hadn’t helped him pick out the hardwood floors.

“Yup.” He nodded. “Place is holdin’ up. How ‘bout you? New York treatin’ ya nice?”

“It is.” She smiled. “You would’ve hated New York. Too many people. Too much walking. Too much everything.”

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

“Fuckin’ absolutely.”

“So… how’re you getting home? No way you can drive like that.”

“I’ll figure somethin’ out.”

“Chris.”

He sighed.

“Probably just catch a ride.”

“I’ll take you.”

He looked over at her.

“Pretty sure I still know where you live.”

“Hm.” A small smile found him despite himself. “Still funny.”

“Got it from you.”

The cold water against his face snapped him out of it.

He needed to wake up.

Face this.

Marissa had brought him home. Her car still knew the way to his house without a GPS. She’d pulled into the driveway, waited until he got to the front door, and left.

She didn’t come inside.

She didn’t linger on the porch.

She didn’t kiss him goodnight.

Neither of them wanted that anymore.

He wanted you to bring him home.

He wanted you to linger at his front door. 

Instead, he had to call you and ask you to meet him at the diner he’d first taken you to. The one where you made fun of him for ordering a patty melt.

God, how he wished he could go back.

Maybe he would’ve stayed away.

Maybe he wouldn’t have.

You sounded…different on the phone.

You didn’t tease him for calling instead of texting.

You didn’t ask if he was buying.

You just agreed to meet him.

The diner didn’t feel like the warm, welcoming place it usually did.

Chris didn’t bother asking Mary how she was or how her grandkids were. He ordered a black coffee and toast.

Too hungover for anything that wasn’t bland.

Too distraught to eat much else.

He could do this.

He could tell you this wasn’t appropriate.

That the kiss was a mistake.

A fleeting moment that had to end.

He wasn’t going to be a coward.

Coward.

A word he’d called himself more times than he could count.

A word that had slipped from Marissa’s lips a few weeks before she left him.

He was a coward for refusing to start somewhere new.

A coward for burying himself in familiarity.

She apologized a few hours later. Said she didn’t really mean it.

But the word had stuck.

Maybe she hadn’t meant it.

Maybe she’d only said it because she was hurt.

Maybe it was still true.

Maybe he was a coward.

Maybe he still is.

The bell above the door rings, and he has to grip the edge of the booth so he doesn’t float away.

He watches as you glance around the diner, searching for him.

He should call your name.

Wave you over.

Instead, he finds himself hoping you won’t see him.

That you’d give up.

Turn around.

Walk back out the door.

He wouldn’t have to face this today.

Or maybe…

Ever.

Coward.

Your eyes finally land on him.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Chris swears even Mary freezes behind the hostess stand.

You offer him a small smile.

It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He holds his breath as you cross the diner with slow, measured steps before sliding into the booth across from him.

“Hey.”

All the air leaves his lungs.

“Hi,” he says, clearing his throat. “Uh… thanks for comin’ on such short notice.”

You nod.

“’Course. Not a big deal.”

Another silence settles between the two of you.

“You hungry?” he asks. “We can order somethin’. I know it’s early, but I’m sure Mary’ll make you a milkshake, and ya probably oughta eat.”

“I’m okay.”

He waits for it.

A smart-ass comment about how he’s weird for drinking his coffee black.

Or that he looks like hell.

But it doesn’t come.

Chris’s fingers drum against the table.

“Guess we should probably talk.”

You nod again.

“Look…” He exhales. “We can’t do this.”

You don’t say anything.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you.” He swallows. “I can’t do this to your old man. I should’ve known better.”

His eyes fall to the table.

“I’m older.”

“I’m an adult, Chris.”

“I…” He shakes his head. “I know.”

Another pause.

“We just can’t.”

“Okay.”

Chris opens his mouth, ready to explain himself further.

But you said okay.

Okay.

“I get it.” You smile at him and give a small nod.

Chris wipes his damp palms against his jeans.

He should feel relieved.

He should be thanking whatever God that might exist that you agreed.

That you understood.

But…

He doesn’t understand.

A part of him hoped you’d fight him.

He hated himself for that. 

“I–”

“I’ll see you around, Chris.”

He watches you slide out of the booth.

He should stop you.

He should ask what you meant by okay.

He should ask if you regretted kissing him.

If you’d been drunk enough to mistake him for something he wasn’t.

If you’d meant any of it.

But he doesn’t.

He watches your car disappear from the diner’s parking lot.

Coward.

The steering wheel feels too hot beneath your hands.

You keep lifting them, holding them in front of the air vents.

You keep cranking the A/C lower, but it doesn’t matter how cold the air is.

You still feel like you’re going to pass out.

You knew what he was going to say the second your phone lit up with his name.

You knew it so completely that you almost drove to the diner the night before just to sleep in the parking lot.

You imagined waking to Chris knocking softly on your window.

Telling you the kiss was a mistake.

That he didn’t want you.

You spent all of last night trying to convince yourself you were wrong.

Maybe you were drunker than you remembered.

Maybe the alcohol had left holes in your memory, and your mind was just trying to fill them.

But you knew it wasn’t.

You knew it the second you got home.

Your mom looked over at your dad, still slipping off her heels.

“I can’t believe he went home with her.”

It was like you could still smell the smoke from the fireworks.

So much so that, for a second, you convinced yourself you were having a stroke.

You knew you weren’t.

It was just a hangover.

And a man telling you kissing you was a mistake.

The combination had turned your brain to mush.

You took a slow breath and tightened your grip on the steering wheel.

It didn’t help.

The memory came anyway.

Everyone cheered as the fireworks burst across the sky.

But your eyes weren’t on them.

They searched the crowd for him.

Your lips still felt heavy with his kiss.

You figured you’d give him a little space.

It was a lot to take in.

But you knew what you’d felt.

He’d been so warm.

So inviting.

His lips had been impossibly soft, and somehow, despite everything, you’d felt safe.

You’d always noticed how big his hands were.

They’d felt even bigger cradling your face.

It felt right.

It felt good.

It felt dangerous.

Then you spotted him.

He was making his way toward the stream.

You would’ve recognized that walk anywhere.

You took a step forward.

But then…

…you saw red.

Bright red.

Hair.

Your stomach dropped.

You watched the woman disappear toward the stream after him.

 The drive home from the wedding was spent trying to convince yourself it could’ve been anyone.

Chris knew everyone.

It could’ve been a cousin.

A family friend.

Anyone else.

But at home, your dad replied,

“Marissa?”

And your mom said,

“Yeah.”

And your dad followed it up with,

“I just hope he’s thinking straight.”

You had told them you were tired after that.

That you were going to bed.

Your mom asked if you wanted to take any medication because you looked like you were going to be sick.

She always knew.

Your feet felt like sandbags carrying you up the stairs to your bedroom. You peeled off your dress, slipped your heels off, and set your earrings down on your vanity. You were hoping that it’d make you feel lighter.

It didn’t.

You stood in your bathroom staring at the makeup that had taken you an hour to do.

Now your lipstick was just a little smudged where he’d kissed you.

You closed your eyes and begged for the feeling back.

The way he held your head in his hand.

The way his thumb brushed against your cheek.

His lips had tasted like beer.

You’d wanted to kiss him again.

His face when you kissed him, and he pulled back.

And his face when he leaned down to kiss you again.

You caught yourself smiling.

It disappeared the second you saw the red again.

Marissa.

You couldn’t be mad at her.

You couldn’t even be mad at him.

But you could be mad at yourself. 

You scrubbed at your lipstick until your mouth hurt.

As if you could wash him away, too.

You had watched him get into her car without looking for you even once.

That was all the confirmation you needed.

This…

Whatever this was…

Was over.

The sun was bright when you woke up, almost as if it were punishing you.

You watched as Chris’s name lit up on your phone. 

That time you hadn’t wondered if he’d be asking you to go fishing.

Or the flea market.

Or to the store. 

Or just a ride in his truck.

This time, you had wondered if maybe this would be the last you would hear from him.

And now, leaving this diner…

You guess it is.

in which .. fratboy! matt & chris want to hit goldies vape for the first time & things go south

warnings ⚠︎ : smoking (obvi) , making out, hickeys, suggestive content.

word count : 1.5k (also not proofread oops sorry !)