"𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏" ❤︎ 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈
ᵒˡᶦᵛᵉʳ ᵐᵉˡˡᵒˢ ˣ ᶠᵉᵐꜝʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ
𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈 | 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Loving your lover should be easier. Loving Oliver Mellors by halves—that’s how you feel when you have him in your hands: in letters addressed to each other, in stolen moments during parties at your house, hidden among bushes and tall grass or in luxurious hotel rooms... You love and complete each other. To your husband, Mellors is nothing but a lowly servant, a handyman dedicated to making your singing career a success. But to Oliver, you are simply his everything; and to you... Well, he is the man who fills you, drives you wild, and provokes such intense reactions in you that you burn at the very sight of him. Loving your lover should be easier. 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: the first part of the fanfic <3 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: +18 ADULT CONTENT. ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE w/ canonical type-events (movie "lady chatterley lover's", 2022). period drama, misogynistic behavior, set in 1950, cheating behavior (the other man), occasional smut [dirty talk, pussy licking, ice play, blowjobs & handjobs, pussy fingering, light riding cock]; lots of dialogue, dramatic behavior; dreamlike passagesangst too. oliver mellors is sarcastic and a romantic fool; the reader is a confident and self-assured woman (despite her marriage to clifford). heavily inspired by lana del rey's born to die album, obviously the title track "blue jeans", so i kind of tried to bring that air of the album talking to the fanfic and this thing like "oliver mellors is written by lana del rey", cliché. reader is called by 'las' n' 'lassie' as nickname. 𝐖𝐂: 10.3k for whoever is going to read it, a great read! <3 likes, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)
OLIVER MELLORS PLAYLIST | 𝖬𝖠𝖲𝖳𝖤𝖱𝖫𝖨𝖲𝖳
"spotlight, bad baby, you've got a flair, for the violentest kind of love anywhere out there, mon amour, sweet child of mine, you're divine, didn't anyone ever tell you it's okay to shine?" (bel air, lana del rey)
𝐈.
𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏, 𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅.
𝑱𝒖𝒍𝒚 23, 1955.
My Love,
I hope all is well with you across the ocean. Today, I had the pleasure of meeting that singer I’d told you about—remember him? Polite and charismatic, I played him some of your demos, and he was utterly enchanted. Said he’d never heard a voice so powerful and resonant as yours—and praised your lyrics too, called them "rare poetic alchemy, both melancholic and sensual." In short… he’ll likely call in the coming days (or weeks?) to propose a duet. Accept it. This is your golden ticket to the UK. From these British Isles, we’ll conquer the world!
Now, business aside, let me be clear: Light of my gloomiest days, soul that completes me—I wither each dawn I wake without you. I know circumstances are unkind, but all I crave in this bitter life (bereft of your warmth, your kisses that make me feel halfway lucky—halfway, because I don’t have you wholly) is to cling to the fragments I do have. You are my wholeness. Don’t forget that. Don’t forget me. I write this hunched over the page, one hand gripping my head, under a sickly yellow lamp—so no one suspects us when this letter hides among the fanmail flooding your doorstep.
Kiss me through the ink. Wait for me. In weeks, I’ll chase you like the madman I’ve become for you.
P.S. I’ve enclosed three small photos: two of landscapes you’ll adore, and one of me—so you see how I fare. Reply swiftly, even if just a scrap of paper scribbled: "I know. I love you. I wait." Don’t forget.
Yours,
Olie
𝑳𝒐𝒔 𝑨𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔, 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒂.
𝑱𝒖𝒍𝒚 10, 1955.
Olie,
I’m so sorry for what happened there in England—truly. I lack the words for how your prolonged stay gnaws at me, but such is life. Even hearing you weep on the phone, raging, desperate, gasping how you miss me, how unfairly they’ve treated you (and I agree!)… I must confess this delay may be a blessing. Clifford has become insufferable—monitoring my drinks, meals, company, even my behavior. As if marriage made me his property! We fought viciously—screams, vile insults—until I threw him out. Now he sulks in Beverly Hills or some friend’s couch.
It exhausts me.
I’m no longer the woman who danced, sang, reveled with friends, or basked on beaches. Nothing stirs me—least of all this endless waiting for you. I miss you terribly, an ache that shadows me daily: your gaze on me, your encouragement, your hand in mine, stolen kisses in dark corners, your jokes at Clifford’s expense… I miss all of you. Sometimes I fear I might cry you out of me—whole, through my tears. When you return, hold me so tight I’ll believe it’s real. Stay longer this time. We’ll flee Clifford if we must.
Just come back.
I’ll wait. I always wait.
Your Lassie.
P.S. The photos—God, those places! I pictured us by the Thames, strolling that street… And you—you’ve cut your hair? Last we met, it was longer… Still beautiful, my love, just weary. Here’s a kiss on that boutique card from our escapade—remember? Where you dragged me into the back room and we nearly got caught with mouths in… unseemly places (laughing nervously now, but Christ, I miss your mouth on me, Olie). Let this kiss remind you who waits across the ocean. I love you.
𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏, 𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅.
𝑺𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 18, 1955.
Oh my Las,
Forgive my silence! Work has swallowed me—agency meetings, label negotiations, radio checks, vinyl pressings—until I realized weeks had slipped by. Shame on me! But I’ve devoured your new demos sent straight from the label, and darling… You’ve outdone yourself. That melodic, angelic power—and those lyrics? "But I lost myself when I lost you. But I still got jazz when I’ve got those blues"? Las, you wrecked me. Alone in my frigid Soho flat, I played it once, ten times, a hundred—until the record nearly scratched raw. I’ve begged the label for another copy under some flimsy pretext.
London’s cold. I miss California’s sun, the beaches… You. Irony: an Englishman repelled by his own homeland’s gloom. Yet every hot shower steams with memories of your smile, your gaze, your lips—my private sun.
P.S. I’ve kissed that card you sent so often, your lipstick’s ghost now lives on mine. Should I be ashamed? (I’m not.)
Your man,
Olie
𝑳𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒏, 𝑬𝒏𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅.
𝑺𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 30, 1955.
Las, where are you? No letters, no calls. My heart’s a clenched fist as I write this—bitter tears clotting my throat. You won’t abandon me… will you? Not like the others. Say something. Your song lives in me now, a second pulse. One word, my love—just one—so I might sleep.
Desperate,
Your Oliver Mellors
𝑩𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝑯𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒔, 𝑳.𝑨., 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒂.
𝑶𝒄𝒕𝒐𝒃𝒆𝒓 25, 1955.
Oliver Mellors,
When you arrive, meet us at the airport. Clifford wants to talk.
(Scrawled on the back, hidden from him:) My heart’s in my hands—he’s suspicious. I want you more than air. Wait for my smile at the gate; the embrace must come later. Kisses, my Olie.)
𝐈𝐈.
𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐢𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 (𝐋𝐀𝐗).
𝐌𝐢𝐝-𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟓.
𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐧.
When Oliver set foot on North American soil—specifically Californian soil—he felt his heart lurch violently, a mixture of joy and anguish that had been accompanying him for months until that day when he found himself amidst a crowd, a commotion that particularly displeased him. Holding his single suitcase, a rustic brown leather model, he was dressed as a proper Englishman: a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled up to the elbows, simple blue jeans, oxford shoes on his feet, his characteristic beret covering his copper-brown hair, while his blue velvet jacket was slung over his shoulder. On his left wrist, a silver watch—his birthday gift. Since then, it had become his lucky charm. As he breathed in the cold airport air, he thought of only one thing that truly mattered to him, one person—you.
His blue eyes, anxious to find you amidst the chaos, scanned every corner of that airport. Behind you, as always, like a guard dog loyal to its master. He was already approaching the exit doors when he heard his name being called:
"Hey! Mr. Mellors! Over here!"
When he turned abruptly, his eyes slightly wide, the suitcase held firmly between his fingers pressing against the thick handle and his palm, he caught sight of your figure next to your husband, Clifford Chatterley, an old-money British man who, like him, had decided to settle in American lands to experience the long-dreamed-of American Dream promised after the end of World War II. Clifford smiled tightly, his enormous mustache pointing like two index fingers around his thin mouth, his eyes very round, his nose very pointed, his chin sharp—he had a face that was far too typically British for Mellors' discerning gaze—raising his free hand in greeting. Free hand because, with a bitter taste in his mouth, Oliver was forced to see you in the other man's arms, holding you as if you were a trophy. He waved from afar, taking his steps toward the couple ahead, observing with all that sadness how real life could be cruel to the less fortunate; while Sir Chatterley had that starched and refined posture, Mellors felt like a clumsy oaf without any tact. While the other man had received the best education possible, Oliver had attended traditional school the hard way, enduring scoldings and slaps from teachers when he made mistakes, having to divide his time between studies and fieldwork, learning to fend for himself from an early age. And then came the war. Mellors was already halfway there, but with that sudden wave of thoughts, all he wanted to do was vomit out his sudden rage right then and there.
The war had arrived abruptly and caught him off guard.
He heard that it was exactly at that time that Clifford left England, more precisely from Wragby and his opulent family mansion, to go adventure in the city that never sleeps, in some upscale Manhattan neighborhood—he completed his studies between 1940 and 1941—while for Mellors' turbulent life, he was in the midst of the chaos of war, fighting to survive. He was only 25 years old when he saw the war end. Alive, but completely traumatized. Clifford followed the war's end from afar, through radios and newspapers, said he was immensely relieved, but had no intention of returning to the quiet life of Wragby—he had his feet firmly planted in that new America.
Such different worlds. And there you were.
Next to the other man, your hand with a solitaire wedding ring resting on your belly, finally watching him approach, smelling his scent after months apart, trying to keep up appearances because, for now, they were pretending what they had was merely professional. Oliver held back a sigh, flashed his characteristic crooked-toothed smile, looked at you deeply while politely switching his coat from one hand to the other, holding the suitcase and jacket with one hand to extend the other, overly polite:
"Madame, what a pleasure to see you again!" he said quickly, but gave your hand a slight squeeze, a secret signal between you two like an "I missed you so much," reciprocated with your own squeeze. His eyes saying the words their mouths couldn't say out loud. Not now.
"Finally, the man is among us!" Clifford echoed beside you, diverting Oliver's attention from you to himself, smiling from ear to ear as if they were old friends. With a certain brusqueness, Sir Chatterley gave Mellors a firm pat on the shoulder, saying: "Mellors, our best handyman for this venture! We have much to discuss, my dear... Shall we go?"
"Yes, I can't wait to stretch my legs..." Oliver's voice came out almost high-pitched, forcing a charisma he lacked when facing that rat-faced man. You smiled with your lips pressed together, observing with curiosity the dynamic between those two very different men with whom you shared your life: Clifford Chatterley, your husband, full of arrogance and twisted speeches, smelling of Tabac Original and dry cigars, wearing those tweed clothes in dull colors, always cutting you off in a passive-aggressive tone with presumptuous little smiles. On the other side, Oliver Mellors in his ethereal beauty, his blue gaze as comforting as looking at the sky in the middle of a quiet afternoon in the woods, smelling of the bittersweet sweat of his body mixed with a citrus cologne, notes of lemon with a hint of cinnamon, dressed casually, simply, just as he was.
The three of you laughed at the man's remark. Clifford let go of you to walk ahead, leaving you side by side with Oliver, shoulders almost touching, watching the back of Sir Chatterley's white neck with some regret, Mellors whispered:
"When will we have a moment alone?"
You held your breath when, at the last word 'alone,' Clifford looked over his shoulder—but it was just to see someone passing by him, turning back to look ahead, already near one of the exit doors, greeted by the intense movement of locals, given the less touristy time of year, catching their cars or taxis. Amidst the agitated voices, you murmured a response to the side:
"When he gets off our backs."
Mellors laughed lethargically, blinking, absorbing your words thrown to the wind.
Clifford stopped in front of a convertible that gleamed in the sunlight. He took the keys that jingled slightly from his pants pocket, his smile enormous:
"An Aztec Red Eldorado, my dear! White convertible top, built-in air conditioning, and wire wheels. All that with an impressive engine. It's our new baby, right my love?" he asked you, winking. Oliver stood still, unsure how to react to that, but Clifford didn't give him time to respond—he approached the man, extending the keys:
"Here, take it and drive this beast, my friend, you'll see what American engine power is all about!"
"But Clifford, I..." Mellors tried, but the keys were already in his hands. You rolled your eyes at Chatterley's audacity, waiting for the car to be unlocked so you could get in on the passenger side. The moment Oliver glanced at you and turned to sit in the driver's seat—something he wasn't entirely accustomed to with American car models—unlocking the door, placing the suitcase in the back seat to sit down and put his hands on the wheel, he felt miserable. This was the level of material comfort you were used to receiving from the other man. He gripped the leather steering wheel firmly, took the key with trembling hands to the ignition, starting the engine with a roar that vibrated through his entire body. He looked at you through the other window, the white top up. You opened the passenger door, about to sit next to Mellors when you were rudely cut off by Clifford, who said, "Excuse me and thank you," as he plopped himself down in the passenger seat.
You stood frozen for minutes, Oliver watching it all with his heart in his hands.
Eyes bloodshot with anger, he watched you go to the back seat, where you threw yourself down, crossing your arms, looking at him through the rearview mirror.
Restraint.
Clifford let out an expansive and irritating laugh, enveloping both of you with nervous hands, beginning to spew endlessly about business, cars and engines, investments, and how the music industry was faring for you, a rising young woman trying to fight what he judged to be "the rotting modernism of this wayward youth." He mentioned in passing some events like the death of a young Dean, the heatwaves of the past summer, how everything was so monotonous in Hollywood.
You rested your head against the window, nauseated by Clifford's voice and desperate to hear Mellors' voice, but he remained silent.
The ride would be long.
𝐈𝐈𝐈.
The Chatterleys' residence in Bel Air was stunning.
A neoclassical model with white plaster pillars, Roman marble floors, a huge pool in the outdoor area and a privileged view of Los Angeles painted with trees in yellow-orange tones by the autumn weather. When they arrived, it was lunchtime, so the staff was already setting the table for the couple and Oliver, who as always felt like the smallest man in the world when stepping into those pomp-filled spaces. Clifford wouldn't stop talking, Oliver's head was heavy from all the chatter in his ears, trying to discreetly glance at you from the corner of his eye as they proceeded to the large dining room where food was served in abundance.
Clifford sat at the head of the table as always, the King of the House.
You on his left, withdrawn from the man's expansiveness. Oliver across from you, reserved and tense, suitcase on the floor, anxious to return to his humble residence—a simple house in Inglewood, conveniently close to the airport, where he could very well already be. But he had obligations and as a man of services rendered, he had to be where he was requested. Maintaining a serene posture, Oliver then listened to every piece of nonsense that Clifford's somewhat disturbed mind threw at him, while his gentle eyes occasionally stopped on your figure, slowly eating some boiled eggs with peas and cooked carrots. A bland meal for an appetite as refined as yours. If Oliver could, he would offer you his best dish: a piece of meat, with well-made mashed potatoes, some colorful vegetables on the side like cooked beets with cubed carrot pieces, all well seasoned.
Clifford eyed you from the corner of his gaze, observing your appetite. But he wouldn't stop talking, leaving Mellors internally frustrated - very restless and nervous, tapping his fingertips against the glass surface of that enormous table. Looking at him with bitter harshness, judging him with all his inner demons.
"...what I mean to say Mellors, and listen well, is that our dear one here has tremendous potential to break out at any moment. All we need is to take advantage and go straight to the heart of it all..."
"And what exactly do you mean by that?" Oliver made himself heard after so long in silence, drawing a relieved sigh from you just to hear his deep, powerful voice filling the space. You didn't hide the small smile at the corner of your lips, covering them with the glass of orange juice before you. Clifford paid you no attention, completely focused on Oliver, eyes bulging as he announced:
"New York! You two will go to the marvelous city that never sleeps, straight to ABC-Paramount Records which was just founded there, I've already made initial contacts, now they want to meet our Lassie in person, hear her to give their verdict and then... Bang!" He gave a little clap of his hands that made you startle slightly, something so banal yet so unusual that it drew a small laugh from Mellors.
Clifford cleared his throat ignoring that detail, leaning toward Oliver, looking at him coldly in line with his engagement in all this, bloodshot eyes, dragging voice:
"I'm serious my dear. You will escort her and arrange everything so we come out well in this. With a signed contract, copies upon copies of a complete album, shows around the country and who knows, the world... We'll transform her into the new icon of this lost youth."
"Clifford... It's not that serious..." you began saying trying to lighten the conversation's mood, capturing the man's attention toward you, diverting all focus while simultaneously being the focus. Being heard. But Sir Chatterley was too focused on wanting some response, however vague, from Mellors, staring at him intensely.
Oliver cleared his throat, raised his oceanic eyes to you, seeing you.
"I think we should first know Lady Chatterley's opinion—"
"Ah, that's irrelevant! She's already fully informed about the whole matter, and agrees with everything, isn't that right my dear...?" He took your hand, rubbing it as one rubs an animal they somewhat dislike. Oliver observed it all with serious looks, silent.
Your eyes met across the table, you reflected in the stormy sea of his gaze while he saw himself through your resentful look.
"So, Mellors... Do you accept or not accept this new venture?"
𝐈𝐕.
There was a feeling of incompleteness lodged within you. Whether from dissatisfaction with your marriage to Sir Clifford Chatterley or the anguish of having to remain in that situation while your lover existed as the other man in your life—in secret—the void remained there, inside you. And no matter how much you cried out all that sorrow day after day, trying to claw out something to relieve the weight in your chest, nothing worked. Music now felt like an unhappy prophecy of a life so decadent, no matter how surrounded by luxury you were, no matter how Clifford shoved his gifts at you, thinking they would be enough to fulfill your needs. None of it felt sufficient.
It wasn’t.
The living room of your home was full of society ladies, businessmen, and the occasional artist—all well-dressed, holding their dry martinis or golden bubbling champagne, women in long silk gloves and hair styled in elaborate updos, men in tailored suits and cigars of various shapes, the ice in their whiskey clinking against glass. The scent of expensive perfume laced with vanilla clashed with the crisp autumn breeze drifting through open doors and windows. Classical music played softly in the background while you, in your corner, leaned against the warm wall at your back, your exposed skin in that full-skirted topaz-blue dress matching the eyes that never left you. You tried desperately to divert attention to the circle of women around you, flute in hand, feigning interest in their conversation.
You in one corner, separated by a few people and Art Deco decorations from Oliver, who stood much like you—propped against the opposite wall, one hand in the pocket of his navy-blue trousers, brown shoes, a light blue shirt beneath a vest matching the darker hue of his slacks, his hair neatly combed back, beard trimmed, raising his glass of amber liquor to his lips. The two of you in the same room, yet worlds apart.
The cruel irony of it all.
Blinking slowly, a phrase caught your attention, spoken by one of the women with a disgusted expression:
"I heard she left him to go live her life… with another man, can you believe it?"
"But if she left her husband, perhaps she had a valid reason, don’t you think?" Your voice cut through the gossip, sudden, drawing the women’s attention to you. Some looked at you with stern judgment in their eyes, others merely curious about your line of reasoning. Smiling nervously, you continued: "These days, times are different. Women are becoming more independent, and marriage isn’t everything… At least, it shouldn’t be in our lives."
"You say that, Lady Chatterley, because you’re very well married, I suppose… Unlike that other woman who caused the end of a long-standing marriage—now that’s a disgrace! A woman like me, like you, like any of us here, shouldn’t just be grateful for what she has but also respect above all the man who gives her his name—"
"I see…" You sipped your champagne, biting back the urge to roll your eyes, stealing a glance at Oliver, who seemed to sense the tone of the conversation, pushing off the wall.
His movements were almost rehearsed—nodding at the men, swirling his near-empty glass, smiling with perfect politeness in his best attire for such occasions: a navy-blue vest-and-trouser set, a white dress shirt beneath, a floral pocket square matching the darker fabric. By some miracle, he wasn’t wearing his beret, letting all his natural charm carry him.
He walked toward you, and for one mad moment, you swore he would simply take your hand and pull you away. A brief daydream, you’d say. But Mellors only passed by you, smiling at you and the other women with a brief nod before disappearing down the hall behind you.
As soon as he left, one of the women beside you couldn’t contain the lustful expression on her face, biting her lower lip and fanning herself theatrically—hardly the behavior of a respectable lady. She remarked:
"That Mr. Mellors is quite the devil, isn’t he, girls?"
A chorus of "Oh yes!" followed, though only you and the bold woman who had earlier condemned another’s divorce remained silent. Noticing your lack of reaction, she smirked boldly:
"Well, it seems only Lady Chatterley and I have the sense and character not to covet another woman’s man… Especially a mere employee of Sir Chatterley."
"That’s not—" Your voice cut in before you could think, curious eyes locking onto your face, stripping you bare. Flustered, you searched for words: "I mean, yes, I find him an admirable and very respectful man, ladies. But there’s no need for such… judgments just because he’s one of my husband’s best employees. That’s not something we complain about at all."
"Hmm, yes, no doubt Mellors is a jack-of-all-trades in this music venture of yours, dear…" She shrugged with an air of superiority. "But that has nothing to do with whether someone might want to tangle with a man like him. Including you—"
"If you’ll excuse me, I’m getting a dreadful headache from all this tedious noise. I’ll retire for now." Your voice sliced through her sentence, sharp-edged. You flashed a smile. "Have a lovely evening, darlings."
You exhaled loudly through your nose as you turned away, tense.
You walked in the same direction Oliver had gone, glass swaying in your hand, aimless.
The hallway was long—a grand staircase to the left, marble steps and solid wood railing, and to the right, a corridor leading to the kitchen at the far end, where the only yellow light was on. There were murmurs of people talking and hurried footsteps, contrasting with the ambient music and the cadenced voices from the living room you’d just left.
You wondered where Mellors had gone—perhaps out the kitchen door for air, for a cigarette. You decided to follow him, desperate for even a single minute alone with the man, a mix of anger at those gossiping harpies in their high heels, light makeup, and sly smiles, and the longing that hadn’t left you since you realized that even though you were (finally) on the same soil, you were still apart.
The ring on your finger was more an instrument of torture than a beautiful jewel you could flaunt up and down the streets of Los Angeles.
You were halfway down the hall, eyes fixed on the large painting ahead—a couple of lovers in a forest, vibrant colors contrasting with the dim blue-gray shadows of the hallway and the ocher-yellow glow from the kitchen. The scent of raw salmon carpaccio and fried arancini with meat mingled with sweet-and-sour sauces reduced in white wine and orange when suddenly, you heard a whisper beside you—your name.
Your body prickled—not from fear of ghosts (you were far too old for those bedtime stories) but from knowing exactly who it was.
A glance to the side revealed the man’s figure in the crack of the slightly open bathroom door, grinning like a child caught in hide-and-seek, already reaching for you just as a hurried waiter appeared in your line of sight. You quickly dodged, heart hammering in your throat, eyes wide—but the man vanished into the kitchen without a second glance. Mellors had withdrawn his hand and nudged the door nearly shut in reflex before opening it again, alert.
Safe and desperate, he pulled you in by the wrist.
"Come with me," he whispered, already laughing as you let yourself be dragged inside with mischievous giggles. The door clicked shut behind you, locked with a turn of the key—finally, God, finally—in his arms. He didn’t let you speak before kissing you, nearly making you drop your glass, though in one swift motion, he took it from your hand and set it on the marble counter by the sink.
Oliver’s lips were sweet whiskey with an alcoholic bite mixed with longing—a taste hard to describe but overwhelming as it filled your mouth, your saliva, the roof of your mouth, your tongue. Your free hands cradled his face, memorizing him: the soft skin, the stubble along his jaw, the slightly cold tips of his ears. You laughed when he nipped your lower lip, your heart swelling with love, forgetting everything around you—the tedious women, the even more tedious conversations, Clifford who was surely somewhere in the mansion showing off some dull part of his collection to friends. You even forgot yourself, the name you carried, because with Oliver, you were who you wanted to be: his Lassie, his lover, his woman, his friend, his favorite singer and poet, his everything.
"I couldn’t stand another second of those bitches yapping in my ears, Olie," you said between kisses, pressed against the sink, his hands firm on your waist, not letting you pull away for even a second. His eyes were a deep blue flame, pupils blown, lips brushing your cheek as he chuckled:
"I saw your face, Las—you were about two seconds from snapping."
"And why didn’t you save me?" Your hands gripped his narrow shoulders, pushing him back just enough to stare him down, breath mingling, his warm, liquor-laced exhale hitting your face like a summer breeze. Oliver smirked.
"Oh, sure, I’d love to—let everyone realize we’re together so I get thrown out on my arse while you become the laughingstock of every fifth-rate socialite in there!"
"And yet here we are now…" Your hand slid down his chest, between pulling him closer and pushing him away, his hips dangerously snug between your spread legs, the skirt of your cocktail dress granting easy access. Oliver looked at you, half-lidded, lips parted as if debating whether to speak or devour you.
When no answer came, you felt his warm hand slip beneath your nylon slip, seeking between your underwear and your heat. His mouth trailed along your cheek, slow, his palm pressing against your damp core, his voice rough in your ear:
"And here you are, dripping for me—ironic, isn’t it? Where’s all that propriety now, my love?" He teased, hiding a smirk as his fingers began circling you, the pleasure already coiling tight.
"But here, Olie? What if we’re caught?"
"No one at this godforsaken party gives a damn about us," he murmured, fingers pressing against your clit, making you bite back a moan. "That bastard husband of yours is probably off preening for some stuffed shirt… Just don’t scream." He winked, fingers working faster over the soaked fabric, the friction delicious.
In one swift motion, he lifted you onto the counter with a thud, his mouth claiming yours as his fingers teased your clit. When you tried to deepen the kiss, desperate for his tongue, he pulled back slightly, voice guttural:
"Look at me, love—just like this. I want to fuck you while I watch you." His hand left your heat, fingers glistening, the other hand sliding beneath your skirt to drag your panties aside, fingertips slick against bare skin. You drowned in those oceanic eyes as he positioned himself better, fingers stroking, massaging, making you writhe in genuine pleasure, one hand gripping his shoulder, the other hooking your leg around his hip, pulling him closer, moaning his name.
Oliver smiled proudly, fingers working your clit in a frantic rhythm, side to side, watching sweat bead on your furrowed brow as you fought to stay quiet, your cunt pulsing and burning with need, the shocks of pleasure nearly making you whimper. You felt like the happiest woman on earth.
"That’s it, my love, just like that—look at you," he laughed as your hips rolled against his fingers, "fucking yourself on my hand, so stubborn…" He pressed his forehead to yours, letting you ride his touch, the hand that had gripped your shoulder now holding your wrist. His gaze burned. "What do you want, Las?"
"Don’t stop, please Olie, I want you to fuck me."
He couldn’t refuse. His fingers returned to your clit, now dragging through your folds, teasing your entrance—just a sinful hint—before pressing firmly again.
His mouth reclaimed yours, more dominant now, whispering encouragement between kisses.
"Come on my fingers, Las. Come for me."
The wave of pleasure crested, overwhelming, tearful—guilt and ecstasy mixing as the world sharpened around you: voices outside, movement beyond the door, the strong male presence between your thighs, groaning roughly as he made you unravel.
Hands around his neck, face buried in the curve of his shoulder as if ashamed, you stayed like that for seconds—or minutes—breathing hard, recovering.
"Your body never lies to me, Lassie… The time we spent apart—Christ, it’s cruel." His voice was almost mournful, hands still beneath your skirt, now stroking your soft, warm thighs. Your faces met again, you smiling dazedly.
"This is what happens when you listen to Clifford instead of me…"
"As tempting as running off to France with you sounds, love, I’ve got bills to pay. You know this job’s the only thing keeping me afloat—keeping me near you."
"Pity. Sometimes all I want is to stay like this with you." You nuzzled into his shoulder, breathing in his scent—clean laundry and warmth. His hands squeezed your hips, his steady breathing lulling you.
"Me too, Lassie. Me too."
You stayed like that a while longer, indulging in the passion that seemed endless, reckless in the middle of a crowded house, locked in a bathroom while gossipmongers with sad lives and sadder marriages boasted of affairs with rising starlets. You knew there was so much ugliness and deceit around you, but in Oliver’s arms, the horror of your union with Clifford faded.
Oliver sighed, reluctantly pulling away, hands lingering on your face. You studied him, something unspoken on your lips.
"What?"
"Nothing… Just thinking."
"About what?" He helped you off the counter, straightening your skirt.
"Tomorrow, before our flight to New York, Clifford and I were planning to spend some time in one of those forests out there. A little leisure, you know? Maybe you could come with us—what do you think?"
"Me, tagging along as your chaperone?" He raised an eyebrow, amused. You laughed, smoothing his vest.
"No, no… We could make up some excuse, slip away, leave Clifford alone—have time for just us." Your eyes sparkled with mischief, leaving Oliver utterly disarmed.
"In the middle of a forest?" He kissed your forehead slowly. "That sounds risky even for a country boy like me, Lady."
You stifled a laugh, swatting him. "None of that ‘Lady’ nonsense—not with you, Oliver!"
"I know, I know… My Las. So tomorrow—a forest rendezvous?"
"Consider it a date, Mellors."
You both smothered quiet laughter, the thrill of passion and danger making the idea even more exhilarating.
𝐕.
Clifford made a theatrical grimace, clasped his hands together as he said:
“I truly am very, very sorry I can’t join you on this little adventure—most of all, I’m sorry for you, my love—but I’m just swamped with all these business papers, and as you know: time is money…”
“Hmmn, so you really can’t come?” Your voice was rehearsed, masked with false concern, a friendly hand on Clifford’s shoulder as he stood there in his rough moss-green tweed suit, while Oliver slammed the car trunk shut with a sharp thud, watching them curiously. He was dressed in his usual casual attire: a white shirt, blue jeans, comfortable shoes, and those blue eyes fixed on you—in your summer dress (in the middle of autumn), with buttons running from the bust down to the flared skirt, red checkered, low-heeled shoes the same color, lips shining with a glossy wine-red, and a silk scarf covering half your head.
You held your cat-eye sunglasses with black lenses and bright red frames.
Clifford puffed out his chest, proud of himself, and laughed heartily:
“No, my little flower, Daddy 's here has to mind the business while my little doll gets some fresh air… Who knows, maybe it’ll do you good and you’ll bring home some new compositions, eh?” You stood there, smiling stiffly at him, a bitter taste at the back of your throat. Oliver was already getting into the car, key in the ignition, when Mr. Chatterley called out to him:
“And you there, my good man, take care of her, won’t you? I want her back in one piece!”
He approached the car, opening the door for you. You thanked him with a nod, sliding in, enveloped by Oliver’s scent. Clifford smiled, closed the door beside you, and gave the car’s body two little pats. Mellors waved back as he started the engine, and the moment the car lurched forward, he couldn’t hold his tongue:
“That slimy little bastard…”
The trip was as smooth as expected. You sang along to the radio in unison, and every now and then, Oliver would take your hand to kiss it while driving, making you laugh and stealing your attention.
He parked the car at the edge of the forest, where ancient trees with thick trunks loomed, inviting you both down the trail. You waited for him to grab the picnic basket before falling into step beside him, keeping a safe distance.
“I don’t even know why he needs a ridiculously huge car like that…”
“You know exactly why, Olie, don’t make me say it out loud,” you replied, stepping aside to let a family pass. Mellors stifled a sarcastic chuckle, scanning the trail’s forks, considering where to go—this wasn’t his first time in these woods, so he had an idea of the more secluded, safe spots. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, then checked behind to make sure no one was around. Just the two of you, the high canopy of dry green and vibrant yellow leaves, birds singing, and that crisp autumn breeze carrying the scent of damp earth. Confident in your solitude, he took your hand and pulled you down a path.
“Go on, say it. I want to hear it,” he urged.
“Clifford has these megalomaniacal, overcompensating impulses to make up for what he lacks in size, girth, and function,” you finally said, winking at him. Mellors burst out laughing, pulling you even closer in a sideways hug. The two of you laughed as you wandered deeper into the forest.
“Here, this way—pull it over there—” you directed as Oliver spread out the picnic blanket, setting the heavy basket of food in one corner. You’d found a clearing, hidden among towering birches and smaller trees, dry leaves underfoot and grass tall enough to shield you from prying eyes. Finally alone. Oliver sat first, nearly lying down, and you joined him, legs crossed, peeking into the basket—fresh orange juice, warm bread, a container of cleaned grapes and strawberries, sweet biscuits… You sighed, pushing the basket aside, turning to the man who watched you with such tenderness. You noticed he held two deep purple flowers—chrysanthemums he’d picked nearby. Smiling, he sat up, handing you one and tucking the stem behind your ear:
“A flower for my flower.”
“How romantic!”
“I am! Very much so!” he shot back, making an almost cute face as he placed the flower behind his own ear. You laughed—the sight of this ruggedly handsome man, exuding raw masculinity, sitting in the middle of the woods with you, a little flower tucked behind his ear, was too much. Sometimes, watching him like this, half-close, half-far, gave you the faint impression he was like a wild red-furred feline—beautiful, dangerous by nature, yet tamed enough to coexist in some harmony with humans. You’d learned his temperament, how to handle his demanding nature.
Mellors’ fingers now traced idle patterns along your bare thigh where your skirt had ridden up, his other hand braced behind him as he thought.
“What’s on your mind?”
“A lot of things…”
“A lot of things is everything, Las. Be more specific, I’m curious…” he insisted lazily, scooting closer until your noses nearly touched. You giggled, made a face, cupping his cheeks gently:
“I was thinking about the life we could have together. A house with a porch and a backyard leading into a forest, or a grove, I don’t know—somewhere paradisiacal in the world… Kids, if you want them, running around while I hum some tune and you take care of things around the house, maybe carpentry, something like that…”
“Lovely hypothetical dream, absolutely lovely—” he chuckled, giving you a slow, lingering kiss: “—but why carpentry? Why not, I don’t know… gardening?”
“Because your hands are made for rougher work, Olie,” you replied simply, taking his hands—rough and calloused from labor. Mellors softened, his gaze piercing your soul:
“My hands were made for one purpose only, Lassie.”
“And what’s that?”
“To worship you.”
He kissed you deeply.
It was slow, his hands mapping your body—a tight embrace against his torso. His soft tongue seemed to whisper a secret message, the stolen I love yous he couldn’t always give. When you pulled apart, disheveled and breathless, Oliver’s sapphire eyes were the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen:
“Life without you is gray, colorless, meaningless. I just hope you adore me half as much as I adore you.”
“I do, I do…” you murmured, restless, something bubbling between longing and desire, offering your lips again. He obliged. Your bodies moved together on that blanket until you were straddling him, his hands firm on your hips, grinding slowly, desperately against his hardness. He groaned in anticipation, his touch raising goosebumps as his fingers traveled up your back, over your shoulders, arms, breasts—finally reaching the buttons of your dress.
"Wait, wait."
"What? Not comfortable doing it here?" he asked, lips swollen and red from kissing, his hair tousled softly by the breeze rustling the tall grass around you. His expression was almost sad at the thought of having to wait any longer—as if, in Mellors' mind, you truly only had this one isolated moment together, and after this, you’d never see each other again. Or worse! God forbid he be denied this—denied touching you. You laughed lightly, rising from his lap, watching as he slowly exhaled through his lips, his gaze pleading as he wrapped his strong arms around your thighs. With a firm press of your hands against his shoulders, you pushed him away, making him stare at you in shock.
"What is it?"
"Today, I’m returning the favor you gave me yesterday, Olie…" Your voice was a graceful perversion. Mellors arched his brows, bracing himself on his hands behind his back.
"Go on, I’m all ears!"
"Remember how yesterday you made me come just by touching me?" Your fingers played with the buttons of your dress, and a glint flashed in his eyes as he nodded, a roguish smile curling his lips.
"As if I don’t do that almost every time, Las…"
"Silly… Anyway, as I was saying—you made me come just by touching me, right? Right. But today, I want something different… Something more exhibitionist, I’d say—" The first few buttons of your dress were already undone, revealing your breasts, free of any bra. Oliver let out a low whistle, laughing wickedly at the sight, his cock throbbing even harder between his legs.
"—Today, I want you to come just from watching me touch myself, Olie. No touching me, got it? Or else I won’t let you fuck me for the next few weeks…" you whispered slyly, the dress now fully open, your body covered only by the thin layer of natural hair and the dark red lace-trimmed cotton panties with a little bow at the front.
Oliver groaned deeply, blinking slowly as his dominant hand moved to grip his cock between his legs, squeezing it.
"And what am I supposed to do while you torture me like this?"
"You’re going to touch yourself for me, too. I want to watch you come while you watch me touch myself, understand?"
"Fuck, yes… But I don’t know if I can handle seeing that without laying a single finger on you—" Mellors half-protested, already undoing his pants, pulling them down along with his boxers to free his hard cock—thick and veined, a bead of precum glistening at the tip. Your pussy clenched at the sight, something so beautiful and profane all at once, desire burning through you like wildfire. You stared at him with lust.
"You’ll have to manage, love. Or no fucking me until next week."
"Oh, bloody hell, Las…" he laughed, already stroking himself slowly.
You took a deep breath, feeling the crisp autumn breeze carry the scent of damp earth mingled with your natural perfume. You slid your panties down until they pooled at your feet, positioning yourself before the man—close enough that the tip of his sharp nose almost brushed against your Venus mound. Smirking, you let your dominant hand trail down between your legs, where the soft, warm, and wet cleft of flesh awaited.
When you opened your eyes to meet his gaze, Oliver was a simple man: all he truly desired was you. You were his entire world, and from that moment on, every move you made would fuel his own. Your fingers found your clit, and in that touch—charged with desperation and the adrenaline of nearly being caught—the pleasure was magnified, stealing the breath trapped in your lungs. With the urgency of someone craving release, your fingers rubbed your clit with firm pressure, sending shivers and sharp jolts of pleasure through you—each one heightened by the ragged moans you heard escape the man.
It was torture for you to see him so helpless and needy for you like that—something that only amplified your own pleasure. You reveled in the sight of the man seated before you, his large hand stroking his cock in precise pumps, groaning hoarsely, gazing at you with a lost, frantic look, desperate for your touch, intoxicated by your scent mingled with the musk of your wetness. He murmured:
"Let me have a taste, my love… Just a little…"
"N-no, Olie…" you dragged out your reply, spreading your legs even wider so he could see you fully exposed in your private little show, stoking in him a mix of raw desire and unbearable desperation.
Trying to restrain himself and play along with your wicked game, Mellors bit his lower lip, giving his cock a slow squeeze as he pressed his nose against your lower belly, breathing in the heady blend of your skin, sweat, and arousal. With lust and torment, he watched the movements you made against yourself. Eyes shut, you lost yourself in the sweet irony of the moment—imagining being taken by him from behind, on your stomach, on your side, riding him—while Oliver devoured the sight of you, fixated on watching you shatter into an orgasm that would finally release him from his own.
His mouth hung open, releasing irregular little moans as he drooled against your skin, his voice pleading:
“Las, please, please…”
“Oliver, I’m almost there—” Your voice cut him off. Oliver raised his eyes to you, drinking in the immaculate vision of your pleasure: eyes rolling back, lips parted, a faint crease between your brows—God, how I love you! The thought surged through him in a wave of ecstasy, mesmerized as you let out a long moan and shuddered atop him. The scent seemed to intensify, driving him wilder still, a guttural groan of pent-up desire echoing from deep in his throat.
You were sinking into the post-orgasm haze, relaxed and trembling, skin prickled with sweat, barely registering the sounds the man was making as he stayed pressed against you… Slowly, your wandering hand found his head, fingers tangling in the soft mound of his hair—surprising him. Reflexively, Oliver looked up at you, pupils blown, mouth slack, before you guided him back to your soaked slit.
Mellors buried himself in your scent, grinding mercilessly against your wet cunt as if it were his sacred elixir, the last lifeline to release himself from the prolonged agony of his own need. It was easy, lost like this in your flesh, to come: long, hot spurts of cum, your name whispered against you as he nosed through folds and pubic hair to bite your skin, drawing out a breathy laugh that melted the tension from your shoulders.
So—softening.
"I love you so much it hurts," you whispered suddenly, watching him undone by his own chaos—grinning, languid—your heart swelling beyond the confines of bone and flesh. Oliver, finally able to act, seized your hands and pulled you against him. You collapsed onto his chest, the half-soft weight of him nestled between your bare thighs, laughing at it all, as he kissed you tenderly and murmured back:
"I love you more, love you, love you, love you..."
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ❤︎ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
Lying there, recomposed on the towel, still in their clothes—sticky with sweat and disheveled (by now, you'd discarded your hair scarf after using it to wipe yourself down)—Oliver cradled you against his forearm, both of you on your backs, gazing up at the cloudless blue sky when he offhandedly remarked:
"Where the hell did this New York idea even come from?"
You shrugged, tracing the shape of a rabbit-like cloud with your eyes. "Dunno... Clifford and his megalomaniacal episodes. Probably got hooked after meeting one of those fresh-faced actresses making waves in Broadway musicals. Dug deeper, found some 'groundbreaking' label, and now he’s dead set on dragging us across the country. You know how he is."
"I do. But you’re already doing decently here. Is he... planning to move there?" The unspoken fear in his drowsy voice was unmistakable. Oliver’s anxious gaze burned into you as you studied the sky, until you finally turned to meet it.
"No. Even if he does, I won’t go. Not sure about you, though—" You propped yourself up just in time to catch the melancholy flicker in Oliver’s expression before he looked away, too pensive, too quiet.
Minutes bled into what might’ve been an hour—pointing at absurd cloud shapes, trading idle thoughts about life, your half-formed song lyrics met with his occasional hum of a forgotten melody buried in his mental drafts. Between stolen naps and devouring most of their picnic, they watched the sky dissolve into amber-red, a veil heralding the day’s end.
With a lazy stretch, you rose from the towel, shook out your skirt, and yawned out the words:
"It’s getting late... Let’s head back."
Oliver sprang up in one fluid motion, wrapping his arms around you from behind to press a kiss to your nape. "What if I just stole you away instead? Hmn?"
You laughed, wriggling free—but the moment your arms slipped from his, something flickered across his face: a quiet, unnamed ache. He stood frozen, watching you gather your things with amused exasperation, until you crouched by the basket, half-empty containers in hand, and shot him a look.
"Cat got your tongue, love? Or did you suddenly forget how to speak?"
Oliver blinked. The intensity in his gaze softened into something lighter, almost sheepish. He shrugged, shoving down whatever hollow feeling had gripped him—burying it deep where it couldn’t ruin this fragile, precious thing between you. Not over something as foolish as fear.
On the way back, along the long road flanked by enormous trees that kept the path cool and bathed in a vibrant hue of dried-leaf green and orange, you chattered incessantly about your high-society acquaintances—those petty, bitter women who judged God and the world alike:
"They’ve certainly never known what it means to truly enjoy themselves—with someone or even alone. That’s why they waste their time meddling in others’ lives instead of chasing their own happiness," you said, your voice rising above the radio’s murmur, hands gesturing wildly, eyes wide with conviction. Oliver laughed heartily at your theatrics.
When you finally arrived home, Mellors announced with a trace of bitterness in his voice:
"Here we are, safe and sound—much to Lord Chatterley’s delight."
"And to my displeasure. If I could, I’d go with you to God-knows-where…" you replied wistfully, bathed in the bluish glow of night, hidden beneath the raised hood of the convertible. Your hands found his, tense. He avoided looking at you, afraid someone might see, but answered honestly:
"Then just say the word, and I’ll drop everything. We’ll leave this place."
"Hmm… better not," you murmured, your sudden shift leaving him with a gnawing frustration. The whole situation was a double-edged sword: Oliver knew he was the other man in your life, that deep down, you wouldn’t leave with him without something concrete to secure your future—and he couldn’t blame you for that. But the emptiness of your hands slipping away from his? Too much to bear.
Still, his voice remained tender:
"At least we’ll have a few days in New York, just the two of us, my love. We’ll figure out the rest afterward!"
At that moment, Oliver looked at you, his gaze distant. You smiled as sincerely as you could, blinked at him playfully, and leaned in for a quick kiss—when suddenly, the exterior lights flicked on.
Clifford appeared, arms wide, eyes sharp.
"Finally, you’re back! I was just about to call the forest rangers and report you missing! My dear, how I’ve missed you!"
Affecting a theatrical display, he approached you, embracing you and kissing your cheek. Fighting back a grimace, you turned and stood stiffly beside him, silently willing him to release Oliver from this entire farce.
Clifford fixed Mellors with a long, scrutinizing stare, rubbing the tip of his mustache between his index and middle fingers as he studied the man who had just set the picnic basket down at his feet—posture rigid, gaze unyielding.
"Very well, very well, Mr. Mellors. I believe I shall take charge of our beloved songbird from here, hmm? I thank you for your services. I'll have the driver take you home tonight, just as he'll collect you at half past four tomorrow morning for our airport departure. Understood?"
Clifford gave Oliver a dismissive wink, turning on his heel without waiting for a response. Oliver remained rooted in place, hands shoved deep in his trouser pockets, his expression caught between that of a dog tossed from a moving truck and a wolf nursing a savage grudge against a rival.
You sighed. Clifford had already marched into the manor without so much as a proper glance your way, yet still summoned you like a master calling his hound. Defiant, you kept your feet planted, your heart laid bare in your hands, that desperate yearning surging through you—to leap into your true love's arms and let him whisk you away to any corner of the earth. Anywhere would be paradise, so long as it was by his side.
Oliver’s lips curled into a faint, weary smile.
You huffed as Clifford’s voice called for you again. Reluctantly, you bent to retrieve the picnic basket from the ground, flashing Oliver a look that said everything. With practiced civility, he murmured:
"Do rest well tonight, Lady Chatterley."
"You too, Mellors. Until tomorrow."
"Until..."
That farewell echoed in Oliver once again—memories of the two of you always parting like that, so cold and distant, wearing the false mask of those hiding something. It was slowly eating away at him. And beyond it all festered his visceral resentment toward the other man: Clifford Chatterley, perched on his golden throne beneath a glass ceiling, with that bloated, peculiar face always staring down at him as if he were nothing. Clifford treated Mellors the same way he dealt with a stranger who conveniently offered manual labor now and then. That bitter taste pooled in Oliver’s mouth like spoiled milk he’d been forced to drink—lest he starve to death.
Which is to say: if he were separated from you by his own inability to endure Clifford any longer, Oliver Mellors would wither away bit by bit.
Well. He already was. But you were a kind of cure—homeopathic, administered in drops—for his dying.
He dismissed the driver who’d brought him home, shoulders slumped, stepping into his cold, blue-lit house, tormented by memories… The past’s suffering on battlefields, recollections of his ex-wife Bertha, who’d brought him nothing but unhappiness and headaches, and then images of you appearing in his life—sweet and delicate as velvet-skinned fruit, yet with an intoxicating, addictive taste that left him suspended between languor and sudden, feverish passion.
He opened the built-in wardrobe in his bedroom, pulling out the large, square leather trunk and the smaller hand case he usually carried documents and shaving kits in. Tossing them onto the bed—a worn-out double mattress—the hand case hissed like dry leaves rattling inside.
He sat beside the suitcases, pulling the smaller one onto his lap and opening it carefully. Inside lay a dozen—if not more—letters, each rolled up and tied with a pale blue silk ribbon he’d once plucked from one of her translucent stockings on some forgotten afternoon together. A handful of envelopes, brown and white, pink and blue, spilled into his hands. He traced the stamps—tiny hearts, cherubs, delicate pastel flowers—before smiling and selecting one at random, letting the others flutter back down.
Bringing it to his nose, he inhaled the scent of paper and ink, the faintest trace of her talcum-powdered floral perfume still clinging to it. Then, slowly, he ran his fingertip along the curves of his own name in her handwriting before unfolding the letter. Inside, a postcard from Madrid slipped free—from earlier that year, another separation that had stretched fourteen endless days, leaving Oliver with nothing but headaches and a hollow chest.
He turned the postcard over, murmuring the words as if she were right there beside him, whispering:
"I miss you by my side every single day. I love you to the ends of this earth. Remember me today, for tomorrow I’ll be with you."
𝐕𝐈.
𝐋𝐨𝐬 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐀𝐢𝐫𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 (𝐋𝐀𝐗).
The sharp clicks of your heels echoed against the vinyl floor as you carried your scarlet velvet-trimmed carry-on, pushing your sunglasses up onto your head, eyes darting anxiously through the crowd for any sign of Oliver. You were dead tired—having stayed up far too late, torn between vivid daydreams of what you’d do with your lover in the coming days and the indecision of what to pack for the seven-day trip.
Seven whole days with Olie in the city that never sleeps. Musicals at night, dinners at The Odeon, strolling down Broadway Avenue, or escaping to Long Island—maybe even losing yourselves in Brooklyn’s bohemian pulse. By the time you’d realized it was past 1 a.m., Clifford had been asleep for hours, leaving you buzzing with the urge to call Oliver or your older sister, Hilda. But you stifled it; Hilda was somewhere in the Middle East with her husband, God knows which corner of Constantinople.
So you’d been left with nothing but your restless anticipation, finally collapsing into bed after zipping up the last suitcase (packed with your black mink stole and a hefty wine-red cotton coat). You’d sunk into the tub’s scalding water, letting your exhausted body unwind as memories of Oliver flooded back—his honeyed voice murmuring in your ear, the sight of him above you, the way he filled you with a pleasure so fierce it reignited your will to live. Love. Passion. Oliver was your man, ring or not. The one you craved.
Leaving Clifford still felt uncertain—less from fear than a wretched inertia, a refusal to think beyond yourself. But one thing was absolute: it was Mellors you’d die beside. You’d smiled into the bath sponge, imagining the scrape of his beard against your skin, shivering at the thought of having him to yourself, even if just for a handful of days ungoverned by the world’s rules.
Then—amid the chaos—you spotted the blue beret and that rigid posture, turned away from you. Your grin split wide. Without a second thought, you dropped Clifford’s hand and strode forward, heart pounding, toward Oliver, who was fixated on the arrivals board.
"Wait for me!" your husband called, scrambling after you, the chauffeur trailing behind with the heavy suitcases, face stoic.
"Oliver! So glad I found you!" you panted, slightly breathless, the impulse to throw your arms around him surging—until you were yanked back to reality by Clifford's grating voice behind you:
"Woman, what’s this bloody rush? Trying to get rid of me already?"
"Lord Chatterley..." Oliver tipped his beret, then removed it entirely to shake Clifford’s hand in feigned deference. Your eyes rolled so hard they nearly stuck, pivoting to face your husband as he dabbed his temples with a handkerchief, the chauffeur hovering with the luggage like a grim shadow.
"Now, Mellors," Clifford began, "before you two jet off on this... whimsical escapade, I’ve some instructions for handling affairs next week." He produced a white envelope from his suit, the Chatterley crest stamped in red wax, his flawless script addressed to Oliver. Leaning in, he murmured as you stepped away to check in:
"I’ve grown... uneasy about my Lady. As a precaution, I’d appreciate your keen attention on her—if it’s not too much to ask."
"Oh." Mellors felt a icy whisper at his heart—half fear, half irony. He bit back a smirk, schooling his face into gravity as he accepted the envelope like a state secret, tucking it into his jacket. "Rest assured, Lord Chatterley. She won’t leave my sight for a single moment."
"Excellent, Mellors. Truly excellent!"
Clifford's grin widened, his oval eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction as he gave Oliver’s shoulder two patronizing pats—like rewarding a loyal hound. Oliver nodded once more, the featherlight envelope in his jacket now a lead weight against his ribs.
▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓ ❤︎ ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓
"God, I thought he’d never leave…" You massaged your temples with a sigh, sinking into your first-class seat as Oliver settled beside you. The cabin hummed with the quiet arrogance of wealthy travelers, their noses tilted skyward, the air thick enough to choke on. Oliver twisted his beret between his hands, the unopened envelope in his pocket burning a hole through the fabric. He hadn’t dared read Clifford’s missive—partly out of respect for you (and the fear of what venom it might contain), partly from sheer refusal to dignify the man’s pompous directives.
His gaze flickered to you fidgeting with the ring on your left hand, another sigh escaping your lips before you caught his eye and smiled, whispering:
"A few more hours, and it’ll be just you and me in that giant city, my love."
Oliver mustered a warm half-smile and nodded. He scanned the cabin—no prying eyes, just strangers lost in their own worlds—then stole a quick kiss, pulling away to your muffled giggle, the kind that begged for more.
Settling back into your seat, you cleared your throat:
"So what did Clifford want with you?"
"With me? Nothing... Just wished us a good trip, that sort of thing." He shrugged, gaze deliberately calm as he stared straight ahead. You had the window seat; he sat in the aisle, the right corner. A flight attendant arrived with a cart offering champagne, chilled water, and buttery shortbread dusted with sugar. You both declined with polite smiles, waiting until she passed to continue:
"Really? With how insufferable he usually is—"
"Las, honestly?" Oliver tilted toward you, a sly grin lighting his blue-fire eyes as his fingers brushed your chin. "The last thing I want to think about right now is that bastard. Let’s just enjoy this moment, like you said..." His voice dropped to a whisper. "...as if it were our honeymoon."
He silenced any further questions with another kiss—this one slower, deeper, lips pressing insistently as if he could knead all your fears away. As the plane ascended and you curled into his shoulder to sleep, the two of you clung to a fragile, fleeting peace, the kind that felt like stealing breaths between storms.
𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒: see u in the 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐈𝐈 <3
Jack O’Connell fans where y’all at?!
I loved reading this ❤️
