Archive of Our Own

So maybe that’s why tonight feels so off.

In the darkness of the club, he catches flashes of you between the strobes—light glancing off your skin, framing you like something unreal. Like a dirty angel in his eyes as you sensually grind into your friend, lost in the music. Every movement feels deliberate, even if it isn’t meant to be. Especially to him.

He watches you, mind blissfully blank, his mates saying some bullshit behind him. 

“Just talk to her, Chris.” George pushes at him. Chris snaps out of his lust-driven trance and spins around.

“What? Talk to who?” Chris questions, playing the fool. He can’t let them know. Not about you. Not about the way his attention keeps drifting back, no matter how hard he tries to look anywhere else. You’re his friend, safe, familiar, off-limits; the secret he doesn’t even know how to name.

George just gives him a look and turns to join the conversation again. Chris tries to think about anyone, anything else. The neon flashing lights. The firm pounding of his heart. The quickening bass of the music in his throat. But his eyes are drawn magnetically to you.

Your friend shakes your shoulder, tells you she's off to the bathroom. You nod, unfazed as you keep moving. Your hair fans out as you gyrate scandalously, shaking in your skimpy white dress. You turn - for a fraction of a second - and catch him staring. Chris, who’s always been safe, familiar. Except there’s nothing safe about the way his eyes are locked on you now. Nothing familiar about the hunger there. Filthy in the way it lingers. In the way, he doesn’t flinch when you notice.

You don’t look away.

Instead, you keep moving. Slower now. More intentional. Your hips swing in time with the bass, rolling just a little deeper, a little heavier. You tilt your head, eyes still on his, daring him to break first.

He doesn't. Instead, his jaw tightens. You see it even through the strobe. His grip tightens around the glass, knuckles whitening, like he’s anchoring himself to the spot.

You turn halfway, giving him your back, glancing over your shoulder just long enough to make it unmistakable; this is for him. The dress rides up when you move, the lights catching bare skin, the music pounding low and relentless.

He stands there, just watching.

And something electric is ignited within the pits of your stomach, a feeling that makes you shiver despite the heat of the moment.

You smile and tilt your head, challenging him. 

And that’s when Chris knows the night isn’t ending in this club.

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. Chris mumbles something to his friends about getting fresh air. He walks out the door, without looking back. The bass stays with him. 

You follow a minute later. Your heels click with urgency, lust driving you forward.

Cars line the wet road, the moon's reflection bright on the asphalt. A lone streetlight blinks. Chris sees you walking towards him, looking like a dream in that tiny white dress. The moonlight paints you, bare legs shining. Fuck. He pushes off where he was leaning against his car. 

“You came,” Chris muses, trying not to let his nervousness seep into his tone. His heart is in his throat at the sight of you. You walk a little closer to him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. You can feel the warmth of him, smell his cologne, and see the way his chest rises just a little too fast. 

“Thought I would give you a head start. Let you set the tone,” you say suggestively.

Chris lets out a breath that’s half a laugh, half something darker. 

“Dangerous thing to say to a friend.”

“Oh?” You step closer still, close enough now that there’s no pretending this is accidental. “And what’s a friend supposed to do when someone they’ve known forever suddenly looks… like that?”

His eyes drop, just once, to your mouth, then back up again. He doesn’t touch you. That restraint feels deliberate, like he’s testing himself.

“Oh, a friend?” he murmurs, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. “A friend tries not to look at you like that… but I’ve been failing all night spectacularly.”

You slowly saunter over to the backseat side of the car, finger trailing over the exterior. Chris’s eyes follow your fingertips. 

“And now? Still trying hard?” you question, trying to rile him up.

He turns with you, following you to the other side of his car. He walks towards you, as you walk backwards until the cool metal hits your legs. You look up at him. His hand rests on the door, just next to your hip, caging you in. 

“This is a bad idea,” he murmurs, though there’s no conviction in it.

You tilt your head, meeting his gaze. “Then why haven’t you walked away?”

His eyes flicker, jaw tightening. The streetlight overhead sputters, briefly illuminating the tension etched across his face—conflict and want warring openly now.

“Because,” he says quietly, “I don’t think I want to anymore.

All you do in response is slide your hands down, down, down, feeling the hard planes of his built abdomen, stopping right before his waistband. He exhales harshly. His semi is growing at an embarrassingly rapid rate, and his heart is going faster than a car down the highway. It’s like he's a teenager all over again. 

And then you kiss him. It’s hot, it’s filthy, it's exactly what you’d expect from two people who’ve known each other for years but are discovering each other anew. He reacts instantly; his hands grip your waist with urgency, pulling you closer. He kisses you back with a desperate, aching hunger. Your lips crave him, nipping and sucking. He bites the shell of your ear, the curve of your jaw, he’s everywhere. It’s too much and not enough at the same time. When you pull back for air, albeit unwillingly, his lips are swollen pink, and traces of your lip gloss are evident everywhere.

“Get in,” he yanks the door open. “Now, before I fuck you on top of my car for all of London to see.”

You bite your lip, feeling heat pool in between your thighs. You oblige at the hot tone of his firm voice.

The expensive leather of the backseat groans as you slide inside. Chris follows, and the car door is shut hastily. He gently pushes you down so he can hover above you. The sight of you beneath him sends his brain into overdrive, eyes blown wide, flushed cheeks and parted lips.

Fuck. Chris’ heart is pounding - he can practically feel the rush of blood flowing further down. 

"Tell me you want this." His voice is rough, barely restrained, fingers hovering at the hem of your dress; close enough to tease, but waiting for permission. 

The streetlight outside flickers, casting fleeting gold across his sharp jaw, his darkened eyes. He’s giving you one last out, one last chance to call this what it is: reckless, intoxicating, inevitable.

Your breath hitches as his knee presses between you, the heat of him undeniable. The city hums outside, indifferent, while the tension inside the car coils tighter.

"Say it, y/n," A challenge, a plea, his thumb brushing your thigh. "Or I walk you back inside like a gentleman." The smirk on his face says he already knows your answer.

“I want this. Chris, please!” You whine softly, desperate and breathless.

Chris lets out a breath you can feel more than hear, eyes dark and unreadable as they flick to yours. His chest lifts in a shaky breath, green eyes locking on yours. “Okay,” he says, voice tight, a mixture of relief and disbelief. “Okay.”

He leans down slowly, as if savouring the moment, capturing your lips with his in a kiss that’s soft at first, testing, then hungry. Your hands curl into his hair, tugging him closer. He groans into the kiss, a sound that’s half frustration, half need. Every brush of his lips, every press of his body against yours, sends sparks shooting through you.

The leather seat creaks beneath him when he shifts, caging you in with his body, one hand braced against the window behind you. Outside, a car speeds past, headlights briefly illuminating the sharp angle of his cheekbone, the hunger in his gaze. He dips his head down, capturing your lips heatedly. Your legs lock around his waist to pull him impossibly closer. 

Chris growls low in his throat, his free hand reaching behind you to undo your dress, and it falls to the floor of the car. You’re bare beneath him, flushed and aroused. He guides you to straddle him, hips instinctively moving, grinding, desperate. Hands grip, voice rough.

"No bra? Christ, you're killing me," he mutters, lips leaving a trail of hot kisses down your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

Chris shifts, carefully, almost reverently, so you can straddle him. Your hips move instinctively, grinding against him, teasing, desperate for contact. He grips your hips tightly, a low growl escaping him as if he’s been holding back all night.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice rough. “You feel… incredible,” his hands flying to grip your hips.

You frantically unbutton his shirt, popping a few in the process, revealing Chris’s taut, tan chest. You run your nails up and down his abs, and he shivers at the sensitive touch. He strips off his shorts and boxers, revealing himself,  thick, already slick with need. 

You blanch at the sight, mouth dry. When he notices why you’ve gone quiet, he smirks smugly.

“Feeling intimidated? Have you ever fucked anyone bigger than me?” he digs. You roll your eyes, and are about to make a snide remark before he thrusts 2 fingers inside you.

“Fuck, Chris,” you whine, caught off guard by the stretch.

He pumps in and out, maintaining a steady pace. Lewd sounds fill the car, windows fogged up. When he speeds up and circles your clit with his thumb, you hiss with pleasure. The car fills with sounds of lust, moans, whispered names. He tilts his head, lips grazing your shoulder, down your chest, as his hands roam your sides, memorising, grounding, claiming. You press against him, pliant and needy, and the sound of your combined breaths, low growls, and soft moans fills the space around you.

“Cum for me, y/n,” he coaxes, guiding you to your orgasm. With a final clench around his fingers, you cum with a load cry.

He’s twitching, vein-thick, needy. “Want me to fuck you?” you tease. “You’re a tease,” he groans. “Yes.”

You lower, sinking onto him. Tight, wet, perfect. He groans, thrusting, hips snapping, nails digging into your waist. Faces pressed, mouths roaming. Your eyes flutter shut at the immense feeling of being so full. Chris’s flushed face is buried in your neck, licking and sucking. Both of you find your rhythm, and your hips move in tandem. Your walls clench around Chris’s dick, making him dizzy. 

Chris snaps his hips up deeper to the hilt, fastening his pace. Your back arches as you let out a strangled moan. Chris digs his nails so hard into your waist that you are sure there will be marks the next morning. 

“F-fuck, I’m close, Chris…” you roughly pleaded, the words barely making it past your lips, swallowed by the cramped heat of the car and the way he’s holding you like he might never let go.

That does it.

Chris stills for half a second, forehead dropping to yours, breath shaking. His hands slide up your back, featherlight touches on your spine, anchoring you. Like he’s trying to memorise you like this. Like this might be the only time.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now, grounding you. “I’ve got you.”

You stop thinking, surrendering to the heat as your body tips over the edge. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, nails tracing along the taut planes, his scent filling your senses.

“Cum for me,” he whispers. Chris feels every shiver you give him, every tremble of your hips, the frantic rhythm of your heartbeat. His own release builds, the slick warmth pooling impossibly inside him, the tension coiling tighter with every breath and every desperate moan escaping your lips. He follows a heartbeat later, breath stuttering, forehead dropping to your temple as a low, shaken sound leaves him; less desire now, more relief, more surrender.

He stays there for a second longer than necessary, grounding himself in you, in the heat and the quiet aftermath.

Afterwards, he drives you back to his flat because neither of you says it out loud, but there’s no chance he’s letting the night end anywhere else. You end up tangled in his bed; his sheets smell like him, warm and familiar in a way that feels different now, intimate in a way you didn’t realise you’d been craving.

Chris rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed, thumb tracing slow, absent patterns against your hip like he’s reassuring himself you’re still there, and this is still happening.

“Hey,” he says softly, thumb brushing beneath your cheek. “You okay?”

You nod, swallowing. Your chest still feels tight, but because of how scarily intimate this is, even more so than the car sex.

“Yeah,” you answer. “Are you?”

He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head once. “I don’t know yet.”

That honesty hits harder than anything else tonight.

He shifts, careful, almost reverent now, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. When he finally rests his forehead against yours again, it’s steady and stable, just like the Chris you know.

“We should probably talk about this,” he murmurs.

As he lies down flat on his back, you lie on his chest, the steady beat of his heart grounding you.

“And how this night has brought devastating complications to our friendship?” you whisper tiredly. Chris just laughs at you and brings you closer. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, absentminded, instinctive.

“You know,” he says after a moment, voice low and thoughtful, “I think this might’ve been inevitable.”

You lift your head slightly, just enough to look at him. “Oh?”

He nods, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I just… didn’t realise how long I’d been lying to myself.”

He turns his head to look at you then. His green eyes are full of vulnerability and honesty.

“I don’t want to pretend this didn’t happen,” he says. “And I don’t want to lose you trying to figure it out either.”

You nod slowly. “Me neither.”

His arm tightens around you, protective without being possessive.

“Maybe,” he says carefully, “we just… take it slow. See where it goes.”

You smile into his chest. “Are there some benefits in the meantime for us too?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I think I could live with that.”