mello

𝙰𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚑

⁀➴ 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚋𝚏!𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜 𝚡 𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚊!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

⁀➴ 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜

⁀➴𝚌𝚠: 𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚐𝚊𝚙, 𝚖𝚍𝚗𝚒

Something you learned early on from your mom was to keep your finances separate.

“You never know when you’ll need to pick up and leave. I love your father, but I won’t risk it all for him.”

That always stuck with you.

It wasn’t like you were ever in a situation with a man where you were talking about bank accounts.

But you knew.

Always have a separate one.

You weren’t going to allow yourself to drown beneath your comforter, with the only company being the crumbs from the chips you’d eaten or whatever reality show happened to be on that day. That would’ve gone against everything you were.

You were strong-willed. Resilient. Independent.

But instead, you found your arm snaking out from beneath the blankets, your mind almost willing it to stretch farther.

Far enough to reach the basement.

Far enough to reach the scrapbooks your mom kept.

You wanted to see him again.

His smile.

The way his eyes creased when he laughed.

You found yourself getting angry.

Angry at him.

Especially angry at yourself.

You hadn’t felt this kind of catastrophic heartbreak since you were a teenager. Back then, everything felt like life or death. Your heart would pound so hard you swore it was going to beat out of your chest. Your vision would blur.

It was dramatic.

Visceral.

You felt ridiculous for it.

You weren’t even dating Chris.

But God…

He had felt like a safe place.

Like home.

Maybe you were lucky to feel something this deeply again.

Maybe, you thought, you should thank Chris for that.

For reminding you that you were alive.

Alive.

Alive in Richmond, Virginia.

Alive and young and able.

You hadn’t spoken to Chris in over a week. He didn’t come around the house, didn’t come over for dinner anymore, or offer to help your dad with projects around the house. If your dad saw him, it was because your dad went to him.

It was clear to you that Chris had made his choice. You’d overhear your dad telling your mom how torn up Chris was over Marissa. It made you sick.

You knew you didn’t deserve to feel this way. Marissa didn’t deserve the white-hot heat that spread through your chest every time her name was mentioned. Of course Chris would pick her over you.

He almost married her.

You had a choice, too, though. You didn’t have to live in the shadows of a woman you didn’t know. You didn’t have to feel like a young, stupid girl.

You weren’t one.

You knew that.

You refused to forget it.

The Virginia sun feels good on your back. 

Warm.

Increasingly familiar.

Maybe it wasn’t Chris who made the sun feel so good.

Maybe the sun shone the same no matter what.

Maymont Park was a place Chris had mentioned once. He’d said he’d take you there someday. It had been in passing, but you’d remembered. You’d looked it up that night when you got home and spent far too long scrolling through pictures of gardens and walking trails.

You’d been excited to see it with him.

It’s different now.

It was much bigger than you’d imagined, and he hadn’t been lying.

It was beautiful.

You make yourself at home on a grassy little spot underneath a tree.

Home. 

This was home now.

Your home. 

You watch a father on the phone talking to his daughter. You can tell he hasn’t seen her in a while.

Maybe she’s away at college.

Maybe she moved away and started a family of her own.

A woman sits on a bench throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons, despite the signs that clearly say:

DO NOT FEED ANIMALS.

She doesn’t care.

You admire that.

A girl sits alone on a blanket like you. Headphones over her ears, a tattered copy of Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus resting in her lap.

That makes you laugh.

You wonder if she’s here for the same reason you are.

Maybe she’s trying to find herself again, too.

Maybe you’re both just doing the best you can.

Chris holds his phone in one hand, one eye still closed against the morning sun spilling through the curtains.

“How long can hangovers actually last?”

He knows the answer.

He knows hangovers don’t last an entire week, no matter how old you are. But he can’t shake the feeling. The looming dread. The shaky hands. The upset stomach that won’t go away, no matter how much antacid he chews.

He could admit something to himself.

Look at it head-on.

Stop looking at it from the corner of his eye.

He missed you.

Chris still had all the same things.

The same truck.

The same fishing boat.

The same booth at the diner.

But something was different.

Off.

You weren’t in the passenger seat anymore, talking entirely too loud even though you were sitting right beside him.

He wasn’t wiping mud off your legs after you’d wiped out because he’d forgotten to check the weather.

You’d laughed so hard that day your stomach hurt.

Then you spent the rest of the drive making fun of him for not checking the forecast.

You weren’t ordering a milkshake and fries, trying to convince him to dip them together.

Chris knows he’s not lonely. Not technically.

He knows practically the entire town. He could call up just about any buddy of his to go fishing or head down to the lake with a cigar and a beer.

But it had been nice having you.

He hadn’t really let anyone in like that.

Not in a long time.

Chris knows this was for the best.

That phrase repeated over and over until he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to form any other words.

This was for the best.

It was.

Nothing about the situation had been ideal. Falling for his best friend’s daughter, a woman fifteen years younger than him.

He owed your dad more than he could ever repay. He wasn’t sure he would’ve survived Marissa leaving if it hadn’t been for him.

He did the right thing.

He was doing the right thing.

But one word kept creeping back into his head.

“Okay.”

You hadn’t cried.

You hadn’t argued.

Your face didn’t even change.

You’d just said…

“Okay.”

You’d said it like it didn’t cost you anything.

Like you didn’t care that he was ending whatever this was.

That had to be it.

Of course you didn’t.

You were young.

Beautiful.

You lit up every single room you walked into.

You had so much more life to live.

So much more to offer.

Of course.

A loud knock at the door startles Chris.

He’d promised your dad he’d help him change the oil in his truck. Your dad’s back had been bothering him lately. He couldn’t bend the way he used to.

Chris might’ve been miserable, but he wasn’t about to leave a friend hanging.

He lets out a humorless laugh as he pushes himself off the couch.

Wouldn’t leave a friend hanging…

But he’d kissed his daughter.

He catches his reflection in the hallway mirror. 

He looks tired.

Hopefully, that’s all anyone else sees.

Hopefully, no one can tell you’ve been the thing keeping him awake.  

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“Chris!”

“Hey, man.” Chris’s smile is tight.

Unconvincing.

“Truck’s by the garage.” Your dad jerks his head toward the driveway. “‘Preciate you doin’ this for me.”

Chris follows him outside. “‘Course. You know I never mind helpin’ an old man out.”

“Watch it.” Your dad laughs. “You’re gettin’ up there too.”

Chris smirks, rolling his eyes as he starts laying out his tools.

“Haven’t seen ya around in a while, Chris.”

Chris slides the oil pan beneath the truck and loosens the drain plug with his wrench.

“Yeah…”

He clears his throat.

“Been busy.”

“Saw you leave with Marissa after the wedding. Not sayin’ it’s my business, man… I just…”

He shrugs.

“I don’t know. You haven’t been actin’ right.”

An easy way out.

Marissa.

Not…

I kissed your daughter.

But…

Marissa.

Chris slides out from under the truck.

“Yeah… uh…”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“Kinda shocked me.”

Another pause. 

“I’m alright.”

Your dad studies him for a long moment.

“You sure, Chris?”

“Yeah, man.”

Your dad claps Chris on the shoulder, looking relieved.

“Glad to hear it.”

Chris goes back to work beneath the truck, checking the oil filter before reaching for the fresh oil. He hopes your dad doesn’t notice the way his hands shake.

Or how he can’t seem to look him in the eye.

“My kid’s doin’ good, too.”

Chris’s wrench stills for half a second.

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm.” Your dad smiles. “She’s finally gettin’ out there. Meetin’ people. Seems a lot happier than when she first moved.”

Chris nods.

“That’s good.”

“Think you helped with that, honestly.”

Chris’s stomach turns.

Your dad's hands should be around his neck.

He shouldn’t be here thanking him. 

“She, uh… she seein’ anybody?”

Chris can’t help himself.

“Oh, you know…” He chuckles. “I don’t get involved with any of that stuff.”

He wipes his hands on an old rag.

“Can’t think about that shit. She’s still my little girl.” 

His little girl.

The quiet settles back in as your dad’s truck disappears down the driveway.

He should be able to breathe now.

Everything was working itself out.

Right?

Your dad didn’t suspect a thing.

You’re happy.

You’re exploring the town he first introduced you to.

You’re happy.

You’re happy without him.

Of course you are.

Of course.

You had to be.

…Right?

 Chris listens to your dad tell a story he’s heard a hundred times while he flips burgers.

The sky is clear today.

Impossibly blue.

His neighbor throws this picnic every year and invites practically the entire neighborhood. It’s not like Chris could’ve skipped it. He lived a few houses down.

Someone would’ve knocked on his door.

Someone always needed help with the grill.

He listens as people shout their orders at him.

“Cheese!”

“No cheese!”

“Y’all got any Beyond burgers?”

Chris blinks.

“The fuck’s a Beyond burger?”

A few people laugh.

Chris adjusts his baseball cap, scratching at his scalp as sweat trickles down his temples.

He’d asked your dad where you were.

Your dad had shrugged.

Don’t know if she’s comin’.

Chris had wanted to say…

Well, you have to know because my sanity depends on it.

Instead…

He’d just nodded.

Chris can finally feel his shoulders begin to relax.

He feels his feet on the ground again.

Then he hears you laugh.

Bright.

Loud.

Free.

His head turns before he even realizes he’s looking for you.

He spots you immediately.

Of course he does.

Of course.

You’re making your way toward him.

No.

Probably your dad.

Your dad was standing right beside him.

A smile spreads across his face before he can stop it.

There you are.

Chris’s smile disappears almost immediately.

A man falls into step beside you, reaching for the cooler you’re carrying.

No.

Not a man.

A boy.

His head turns toward your dad.

“Who’s this?”

“Oh yeah,” your dad says with a shrug. “She mentioned maybe bringin’ a friend if she stopped by.”

Chris feels like his stomach drops.

“Hey, Dad!” You lean in to hug your dad before meeting Chris's eyes. “Chris,” He watches you give him a polite nod like you’re strangers. “Uh, this is Miles. Figured one more person here wouldn’t hurt.”

Miles extends a hand toward your dad before offering Chris the same polite smile.

“Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Good to meet ya, son.” Your dad gives Miles a rough shake.

“Seems a little early for ‘son,’” Chris mumbles.

Everyone looks at him.

Chris clears his throat.

“Uh…”

He rubs the back of his neck.

“Hungry? I could throw somethin’ on the grill.”

“Oh, no.” You wave him off with a smile. “We’re good. We already ate.”

Already ate.

A date. 

“Alright, well, we’re gonna go find a table.”

Chris watches as Miles leads you toward a picnic table beneath one of the big oak trees.

You’re still carrying that damn cooler.

He turns back to the grill.

He thinks he’s sweating even worse now.

“So…” Chris flips a burger. “You know this Miles character?”

“Nah.” Your dad shakes his head. “The kid’s mentioned him once or twice, but that’s about all I know.”

“Hm.” Chris nods, trying to sound casual. “So… this is new then?”

“Must be.” Your dad reaches over and steals a hot dog off the grill. “Gotta hit the bathroom.”

Chris watches him disappear before turning another burger.

His eyes drift back to you anyway.

At that table.

With that boy.

Miles was clean-cut.

Well-dressed.

Baby-faced.

Chris knew he was attractive, too.

But it wasn’t about that.

It was the way his knees ached when he climbed out of bed some mornings.

The reading glasses sitting in the center console of his truck.

The gray hair he swore multiplied every time he looked in the mirror.

This was good.

This was the right choice.

Miles could keep up with you.

Miles was your age.

Miles wasn’t your dad’s best friend.

It made sense.

This was the right choice.

Miles was sweet.

You’d only met him a couple of days ago on some dating app, trying to get yourself back out there.

You figured there wasn’t a safer place for a first date than surrounded by half the town.

You didn’t completely trust men.

Not yet.

Miles hadn’t questioned it.

You appreciated that.

You allowed yourself to pretend to be surprised when you walked in and saw Chris standing by the grill in his khaki shorts, baseball cap, and those fucking white sneakers.

Of course Chris would be there.

Of course he would.

You could admit something to yourself.

Maybe…

Maybe a small part of you had wanted him to see you with someone else.

To show him you weren’t just some soft girl waiting around for him.

You could move on, too.

You watch Miles’s mouth move, but you aren’t really hearing him.

Your eyes keep drifting back to Chris at the grill.

Those stupid white sneakers.

You tear your gaze away every time it wanders.

It’s hard to keep it on Miles.

“So, yeah, I grew up with three sisters.”

You should probably say something.

“Oh.” You clear your throat. “I’m an only child. It’s been all about me since I can remember.”

Miles laughs.

He keeps talking as the sun beats down on your back, but you can’t focus.

You don’t want to be rude.

You like Miles.

He was sweet.

Your eyes drift back to him.

He’s looking at you like he expects you to laugh.

So you do.

Maybe a little louder than you normally would.

Maybe you glance over his shoulder to see if Chris heard.

“Food’s ready!” your dad hollers.

“I’m actually gonna grab something.” You stand from the picnic table. “I’m hungrier than I thought.”

Miles follows behind you.

Chris is handing out everyone’s food with that smile.

That smile is too big. 

“Change your mind?” His eyebrows raise.

“Uh, yeah, I’m a little hungry.”

“Ain’t feedin’ her enough, Mike?”

“Chris, it’s Miles–”

“Right.”

Miles laughs and shakes his head. “Guilty.”

“Cheeseburger, right? No ketchup, just mustard, yeah?”

“Uh… yeah.”

You don’t remember telling him that.

A hand reaches into your line of sight, holding a paper plate toward Chris.

A delicate wrist.

A thin gold bracelet.

“Hot dog, please.”

Your eyes follow the arm upward.

And you swear the color drains from your face.

Red.

“How is it I haven’t seen you in years, and now you’re everywhere, Marissa?”

Chris’s lips twitch into a smile.

Your stomach drops.

Suddenly…

You aren’t hungry anymore.

“Oh, I don’t know.” Marissa smiles. “You could consider yourself lucky.”

Her voice is mature.

Sultry.

Effortless.

She sounds sure of herself.

She sounds like the kind of woman who wouldn’t bring a first date to a neighborhood picnic hoping to make a man jealous.

“Lucky,” Chris laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah… that’s one way of lookin’ at it.”

He drops the hot dog onto Marissa’s plate.

Then he winks.

You turn so quickly you’re surprised your burger doesn’t slide right off your plate.

There it was.

The reminder.

You hate that you can still see them talking.

You hate that your mom and dad slip so easily into conversation with her, standing beside Chris like no time has passed at all.

And you hate…

That she seems nice.

Personable.

Easy to talk to.

Like she’d always belonged there.

“Everything okay?” Miles asks around a mouthful of food.

“Yup.”

You pick at your burger.

For so long, this was what Chris thought he wanted.

Your parents.

Marissa.

Everyone back in the same place.

Where he thought they belonged.

But every conversation around him sounded muffled now.

He had to keep dragging himself back into them, piecing together what people were saying from the last few words he’d managed to catch.

Seeing Marissa again had brought back memories.

A lot of them.

It had shaken him.

But now…

He couldn’t have cared less.

He knows he’s over Marissa.

He’d known it that night at the wedding.

He almost feels bad thinking it.

But he wishes she’d stop talking.

Because you look upset.

Across the yard, you were picking apart your burger.

You’d barely said two words to Miles in the last few minutes.

Chris frowns.

Why weren’t you eating?

“Who wants to play cornhole?” Someone shouts from the yard.

Chris doesn’t know who says it.

Doesn’t care who did.

He’s just thankful that people are starting to clear out.

Maybe he’ll get a chance to clear his head.

Your parents excuse themselves to play, but Marissa stays behind.

“You not playin’?”

“No, don’t really feel like it tonight.” Marissa sighs, flopping down in a seat near the grill.

Chris decides to sit, too. Too tired to play.

He watches you and Miles make your way toward the grass.

Miles’s hand settles at the small of your back.

Guiding you.

Like you couldn’t find the yard that was ten feet in front of you.

Marissa glances across the lawn.

"Is that his daughter?" She gestures toward your dad before nodding in your direction.

"Uh..."

Chris scratches at his stubble.

“Yeah. That’s his kid.”

“She’s a pretty girl.” Marissa takes a sip of her beer.

Chris clears his throat.

He doesn’t know how to respond.

What would be an appropriate response to that?

“Yeah… she’s uh… she’s a good kid.”

Chris’ attention drifts back toward the lawn.

Toward you.

Marissa follows his gaze and then looks back at him.

“You okay, Chris?”

“‘Yeah, ‘m fine.” Chris’s eyes meet Marissa’s again.

“Hm.”

Marissa stands up from the lawn chair and pats his shoulder.

She smiles.

“Sure, Chris.”

Marissa wanders off toward the house, and Chris lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding and rubs a hand over his face.

“Shit, I got a flat.”

Chris’ eyes drift up, and of course, it’s your car.

Of course it’s you. 

Of course.

He doesn’t have to get up and help.

Miles can do it.

He’s with you now.

Sit down.

“Fuck,” You stand there, cooler in your hand, and Miles at your side. “Swear to god, I’m like always have issues with this car.” You bend down, to inspect the tire. “Yeah, there’s no way I’m even getting home on that.”

Your dad walks over now. “God kid, I swear you drive the shit outta this car. Gotta be a spare in here,” he grunts as he opens up the trunk, pulling out the donut. 

“Miles, you mind changing this? I would, but I've been having trouble with my back.” Your dad says.

“Actually, I don’t know how to change a tire.” Miles shrugs.

Chris is walking over before he can stop himself.

Cursing himself with every single step.

“You don’t know how to change a tire?” Chris scoffs suddenly behind Miles.

“I usually just call roadside.”

“Roadside.”

“Yeah.”

“You call roadside for a flat tire?”

Miles shrugs. 

“Shouldn’t be takin’ her anywhere if you can’t get her home.” Chris bends down and gestures at your dad for the donut and the jack.

“I’ll just take this opportunity to learn.” Miles laughs lightly, clearly embarrassed.

“Nothin’ funny here, bud.”

“Chris.” You say through gritted teeth.

“Alright, let’s cut the guy some slack.” Your dad shifts awkwardly. 

Chris changes the tire in silence.

The air feels different.

Nobody seems able to put their finger on why.

Chris stands up, brushing his hands off on his jeans, and his eyes meet yours.

You’re standing there.

Holding the cooler.

“Give me the cooler.” He gestures to you.

“What?”

“The cooler.”

“I’ve got it, Chris.”

Chris doesn’t answer.

He simply takes the cooler from your hands.

“Nice to meet ya, Mike,” he says before walking off. 

Silence.

Nobody speaks.

“Thought your name was Miles?” Your dad turns his head towards Miles.

“It is…” Miles squeaks, arms around the cooler, not as confident as before. 

Chris walks back toward the picnic, dragging a hand over his face.

What the fuck was that?

Chris tosses his keys onto the kitchen counter before making his way to the sink.

He scrubs the grease from his hands, staring at the water as it disappears down the drain.

He was being reckless.

Acting recklessly.

But what was he supposed to do?

He couldn’t just stand there pretending it was alright that Mike—

Miles.

Whatever his name was.

Didn’t know how to change a tire.

What if it happened in the middle of the night?

What if you were alone?

He needed to know you’d be safe.

That you were with someone who could take care of you.

That was all this was.

Making sure you were safe.

Maybe he had crossed a line, but he couldn’t help it.

It was like he was making decisions before even thinking.

He’d been doing it for weeks.

Getting jealous over some random guy.

Causing a scene at a neighborhood picnic.

Kissing you.

Falling for you.

Fuck.

He was falling for you.

Chris looks over at his phone lying on his kitchen counter.

He wipes his hands on his dish towel.

He picks it up.

Puts it down.

Picks it up again.

He presses your name.

Miles seemed visibly embarrassed on the ride home.

And you were fuming.

Confused by Chris’s behavior.

Then…

Miles asked,

“So… was that your uncle or something?”

Which somehow pissed you off even more.

Your uncle?

That wouldn’t even make sense.

Was this guy really looking at Chris and thinking he could be your uncle?

And he didn’t know how to change a tire.

Maybe you were looking for a reason not to like him.

Or maybe you were just angry.

Maybe being sweet wasn't enough.

If you decided you weren’t interested in Miles…

That was your decision.

Chris had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Right?

You flop backward onto your bed.

Your phone buzzes beneath your pillow.

Probably Miles.

You reach underneath it and pull your phone free.

You have to read the screen twice.

Christopher.

You shouldn’t answer.

You watch it ring.

Once.

Twice.

“… Hello?”

daydream

in which . . . dilf!chris and babysitter!reader fantasise about each other.

⚠︎ age gap, male masturbation, icky thoughts, sexual guilt, edging

chris knew you’d be trouble the moment you walked through his front door. 

not in terms of your job, no – you instantly and effortlessly bonded with his seven-year-old daughter as if the two of you had grown up sisters by blood. no, you’ll be a good babysitter.

the problem lies with… well, a number of things, really. the way your teeth peek through your plump glossy lips each time you flash chris that pretty smile of yours, and the cloying sweet scent of your perfume every time you brush past him, and the bouncy curls in your hair, and your tight–fitted jeans. and the fact that you’re eighteen years younger than him.

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….??

the one where chris, the duke, has you, his wife's lady-in-waiting and his mistress, face the consequences for misbehaving (6.1K words)

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.

HE KNEW I WAS ABOUT TO START A DILF!CHRIS AU HE'S FUCKING SICK FOR THIS

also i FULLY thought this was matt at first 😕 beard threw me off