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gullemec · 1 month ago

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Lion's Den

Golden Cage - Chapter Three

ao3

Pairing: Billy Butcher x f!reader

Summary: A late-night stake out with Butcher turns into something unexpected. You and Hughie embark on your highest-stakes mission yet.

Warnings: mentions of death, depictions of grief, language, alcohol use, smoking, Homelander is his own trigger warning, needle injection, body horror/gore, blood, murder, explosions

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7k

A/N: This chapter contains one of the first scenes I ever came up with for this fic and I'm super proud of how it turned out. Thanks for reading <3

Your chest heaves in fits of laughter, the sound escaping in gleeful bursts that ripple through the warm summer air. Hair floating behind you like the tail of a comet, catching the light as it swirls and dances. The soft fabric of your dress billows around you, its folds fluttering with every swing. Your toes stretch forward, daring to brush against the edge of the sky. For a fleeting moment, a hint of fear creeps into your belly.

Too high, too fast.

But then there are hands at your back, firm and steady, guiding you. A gentle push, a quiet assurance. The embrace that follows is warm and full, carrying the familiar floral scent of comfort, safety, and love.

Nothing can hurt you now, not while I’m around.

Your high school prom. A shimmering haze of hairspray and perfume, your gown a vibrant turquoise that catches the light like sunlit waves. Awkward poses frozen in the flash of cameras. Corsages pinned with trembling hands. Laughter and whispers shared between girlfriends as music thrums faintly in the distance.

And then her voice, soft yet full of pride, as she peers at you from behind the lens. Her eyes crinkle with warmth, her smile radiating maternal joy.

So beautiful. So special. I love you so much.

Later, a university acceptance. The email you read over and over, half in disbelief, and the student visa that followed. A one-way plane ticket tucked carefully into your carry-on. At the airport, the crowd swirls around you in a blur of movement and sound, but all you feel is her arms wrapping tightly around you, her lips pressing a kiss to your temple. You promise to call every weekend, visit every holiday.

You're so smart. I'm so proud of you. You can do anything you set your mind to.

And you believed her. You always believed her.

The fatherly absence always stung. The missed recitals, forgotten birthdays, the empty chairs at family dinners. He was a phantom presence, his love expressed through impersonal checks and extravagant gifts, always with a neatly written card promising: Next time. When things aren't so crazy at work.

But she was enough. More than enough. Her laughter, her warmth, her unwavering belief in you filled every void he left behind.

Until the night it didn’t.

A phone call at 1AM, shattering the quiet of your dorm room. Your heart lurching as you fumble for the phone, squinting against the harsh glow of the screen. The voice on the other end is jumbled, nonsensical, the words bleeding together.

There's been an accident. I'm so sorry.

Mourners clad in black gather under a colorless sky, their umbrellas dotting the cemetery like wilted flowers. The rain is steady but light, just enough to soak through the fabric of your dress and chill your skin. A closed casket sits before you, a hollow, unyielding box you can’t bring yourself to approach. You really shouldn’t see her like this. It’s for the best, the funeral director told you. The six foot deep trench yawning before you, her new home. Your father stands beside you, his hand resting awkwardly on your shoulder. His touch feels foreign, unwelcome, but you don’t shrug him off. You don’t have the energy.

It's okay. You'll be alright. Don't cry.

But how can you not? How can you not cry when the one person who made the world feel safe, who saw the best in you even when you couldn’t, is gone?

You stare at the grave, your vision blurring as raindrops mingle with tears, and you wonder if you’ll ever feel whole again.

~~~

The sticky heat of the laundromat clings to your skin like a second layer, oppressive and inescapable. The hard plastic of the school chair you’re perched on digs into your thighs, leaving faint indentations every time you shift your weight. You adjust your tank top, its damp fabric sticking stubbornly to your back, and glance at the clock for what feels like the hundredth time.

The rhythmic hum and occasional clang of the washers and dryers should be soothing, but it only grates on your nerves. Across the aisle, an elderly woman works on a crossword puzzle, her lips moving soundlessly as she taps her pen against her chin. She’s utterly oblivious to the undercurrent of anxiety rolling off of you.

You’ve been here nearly half an hour.

Where the fuck are the Boys?

Your mind begins to spiral. Had they changed their minds about bringing you into the fold? Decided it was too risky to work with someone so closely tied to CytoGenix and Vought? It wouldn’t make sense—Starlight works with them, after all. Starlight, who comforted you when you were on the verge of breaking, who fought on your behalf, who insisted you call her Annie.

No, they hadn’t forgotten about you. They were just being cautious, you reason. But the nagging thought lingers. Maybe they’ve written you off after all.

You’re startled out of your reverie by movement behind the abandoned front desk. A familiar head pops up. It’s Frenchie, grinning and offering a quick wave to follow.

You jump to your feet, abandoning the chair with such urgency that the crossword woman glances up, giving you a sidelong look. You don’t care. You follow Frenchie through the hidden doorway and down the creaking staircase to the basement.

The Boys are gathered in their usual disorganized fashion. MM leans back in a chair with his arms crossed, Hughie paces idly, and Kimiko sits cross-legged on the floor, her sharp eyes scanning the room with quiet intensity. Butcher, as always, is the picture of brooding discontent, his trench coat draped over the back of the couch.

Annie is the first to notice you, her face lighting up as she waves you over. “Hey, you made it! Just in time for the riveting sixth hour of our surveillance party. So far, the highlights include... absolutely nothing. But hey, fingers crossed for the next six.” Her words are drenched in sarcasm, but her grin is infectious, and you find yourself laughing despite yourself.

“Ah, don’t listen to her,” Frenchie says, gesturing grandly as he flops into a chair. “It is not nothing. We are detectives, uncovering the truths of the universe!”

“Yeah, well, the truths of the universe are boring as hell,” Hughie mutters.

Butcher throws him a sharp look. “You’d think babysitting a couple of blinking dots was rocket science, the way you’re whining about it.”

Your attention shifts to the screen dominating the far wall, where two red dots move steadily across a digital map of Manhattan.

“Who are we watching?” you ask, curiosity overtaking your nerves.

“Your dear ol’ dad and his ball and chain,” Butcher says without looking at you, nodding toward the screen. “Been swannin’ around the city all bloody day. No idea where they’re off to next.”

You squint at the map, noting the dots’ meandering paths through Manhattan. “Yeah, they’re networking,” you say, rolling your eyes. “That’s what they call it when they spend hours sipping $500 bottles of wine with their friend and patting each other on the back for being obscenely rich. My dad swears it’s ‘essential for business,’ but it’s just an excuse to indulge.”

Butcher huffs out a low chuckle. “Sounds about right. It’s all bollocks, anyway. Rich pricks just finding new ways to circle jerk each other.”

You snort, caught off guard by the crude but accurate assessment. “Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

Butcher starts filling you in on the day’s surveillance. You sit beside him on the couch, leaning in as he explains the patterns of movement they’ve been tracking, the occasional stops your father and Monica have made, and how they’ve been prioritizing intercepting conversations with the bugs. His voice is low and steady, and for a moment, you forget everything else, your nerves, your exhaustion, even the slight embarrassment of sitting so close to him.

For the rest of the evening, the group takes turns monitoring the screen, scribbling down notes about the movements of the little red dots. The mundane nature of the task feels a little silly considering the high-stakes world you’ve stepped into, but you don’t mind. You feel like you’re contributing, even if only in a small way.

At one point, Hughie grumbles, “You know, we don’t have to watch this in real time. Everything’s being recorded. We could just check back later.”

Butcher doesn’t even look at him. “And if they do somethin’ worth jumpin’ on? You wanna miss it, do ya?”

Hughie mutters something under his breath, and Annie shoots you a knowing grin. “He’s been like this all day. Hyper-focused and grumpy as hell. Don’t take it personally.”

You glance at Butcher, his jaw tight as he studies the screen, and feel a pang of understanding. It’s not just determination driving him; it’s something deeper. Something raw and unresolved. You’ve seen that look before—in the mirror.

The grief radiating from him is palpable, even if he hides it well. You don’t know the details, but you can sense it. Loss has a way of marking people, leaving a shadow that never fully fades.

It draws you to him.

Misery loves company, you suppose.

~~~

The clock reads just past midnight, and the room hums with the kind of stillness that makes every creak of the old laundromat basement feel loud. The dim light casts long shadows over the haphazard mess of wires, surveillance monitors, and makeshift furniture. It’s just you and Butcher now. The others have drifted off to sleep or left for the night.

MM had slipped out hours ago, muttering something about tucking Janine into bed. Hughie and Annie left together not long after, their quiet farewells fading into the night. Frenchie and Kimiko are sprawled together on a cot in the next room, limbs entangled in quiet comfort.

The audio transmitters have been silent for hours. The dots on the tracker map haven’t moved, signifying the cars have both come to rest at the CytoGenix office. Your father and Monica must be asleep in the office quarters. You glance at the dormant monitors, feeling the weight of the lull settle in your bones.

“Think you’ll stay awake much longer?” you ask, stretching to ease the stiffness in your back.

Butcher, leaning against the armrest of the couch, shrugs. “Suppose so. Don’t usually sleep ‘til mornin’.” He watches you with a detached air, like he’s trying to gauge why you’re still here. “You can head home if you like.”

You nod absently but don’t make a move to leave.

The truth is, you don’t want to go. The long hours of surveillance have been uneventful, sure, but there’s something about the waiting, the anticipation, that grips you. Every crackle of static, every blip on the tracker, feels like it could be the moment everything changes.

And the alternative? Returning to your empty loft, with its hollow silence and the weight of your own thoughts? No contest.

You hedge your bets with William Butcher.

“Mind if I stay?” you ask, careful to keep your tone light.

He gives you a sideways look, one brow quirking upward. It’s a look that says, Why the hell would you want to do that?

You respond by flopping back down on the couch next to him, pretending the blank computer monitor is the most fascinating thing in the room. You can feel his stare lingering on you, his skepticism practically radiating.

“So,” you say, assuming an air of casualty about you, aloof and haughty. “How many people have you kidnapped?”

Butcher snorts, leaning back with his arms crossed. “That’s usually a second date kinda question.”

You smirk, meeting his dry humor with your own. “So you make a habit of kidnapping young women, then?”

He rolls his eyes. “No.”

Feigning shock, you gasp and place a hand on your chest. “I’m your first? I’m flattered.”

For a moment, his face contorts into genuine bemusement. “Hardly,” he mutters, shaking his head.

Your laughter bubbles up, filling the room with a warmth you hadn’t expected. There’s something oddly satisfying about getting under Butcher’s skin, peeling back layers of his gruff exterior.

When your laughter subsides, he shifts the conversation. “How long you been workin’ for your dad?”

“Six months. Six long months.” You inhale deeply. “I moved home after graduating university. Cambridge, actually. Started interning at his company pretty much right away. It wasn't really my choice, you know? But I do it because…”

Shit. What do you say? Because having your father's approval means regaining some small shred of self-confidence? Because Monica's preoccupation with your wardrobe, despite her infuriating mannerisms and less than ten-year age gap with you, feels just enough like motherly love that you're willing to entertain it? Because you're so goddamn desperate for love and belonging that you'd lick it off a knife at this point?

“Because it's the right thing to do,” you say finally. And really, is there a better answer than that?

He nods, his expression softening slightly, though his eyes remain sharp. “And how’s that workin’ out for you?”

You hesitate, tempted to spill everything—the suffocating expectations, the desperate need for approval, the resentment simmering beneath it all. But you settle for a noncommittal shrug.

“What about you?” you counter. “How long have you been in the Supe-killing business?”

His grin is slow and wolfish, the kind that sends a ripple of unease down your spine even as it intrigues you. “Too damn long.”

Shit, he's charming.

The two of you fall into an easy rhythm, swapping stories that seem to stretch the hours until they blur. You tell him about your time at Cambridge, the interns at CytoGenix who annoy you, the monotonous ways you fill your free time. He lets you in on how the Boys were first formed, telling you all about a remarkable sounding woman named Grace Mallory. He offers you an abridged version of what happened to his late wife, Becca. The conversation, which began light and easy, takes a quieter, heavier turn as the night stretches on.

Butcher leans back, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the walls of the room. He swirls whiskey in a glass, the sharp lines of his face softened by the dim light. “You ever love someone so much it felt like they were the center of your whole bloody world?”

The question catches you off guard. You pause, searching his face. “Yeah. My mom.”

He nods faintly, the corner of his mouth pulling into a bittersweet smile. “Becca was that for me. She was my whole world. Smart, stubborn as hell… too good for the likes of me, if I’m being honest. But she had this way of makin’ you believe in yourself, y’know? Like you were worth somethin’, even when you knew you weren’t.”

There’s a softness in his voice, a vulnerability that makes your chest tighten. You don’t interrupt, sensing how rare these moments are for him.

“I thought I’d done it, beaten the odds,” he continues, his voice quieter now. “Found somethin’ good, somethin’ real. And for a while, I had it. We had it. Then one day, it’s just... gone.”

You don’t know what to say, how to respond to this sudden vulnerability in the stoic man.

“What happened after she was gone… it weren’t just grief. It was like someone ripped my bloody soul out and left me with nothing but rage. I didn’t know how to function without her. I still don’t, most days.”

His jaw tightens, and he looks away, as if the memories are too much to face. You see his fist clench, knuckles turning white.

“I couldn’t save her,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “She needed me, and I failed her. And after that, I had nothin’ left to lose. So I made it my mission to take down the bastards who took her from me. All of ‘em. Vought. Homelander. Every Supe who thinks they can play god.”

You reach out hesitantly, your hand brushing against his arm. “Butcher… none of that was your fault. What happened to Becca… it wasn’t on you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe not directly, but I didn’t exactly make it easy for her, did I? I put her in the crosshairs just by bein’ me. She deserved better. Better than me, better than this whole bloody mess.”

You sit in silence for a moment, letting his words settle between you. “She loved you, though,” you say softly. “It sounds like she really loved you.”

He exhales sharply, his expression hardening as if trying to shake off the vulnerability. “Yeah. And look where it got her.”

You don’t know what to say to that, the weight of his pain pressing down on you. For all his bravado, for all his rage and resilience, there’s a part of him that’s still broken, still carrying the ghost of Becca with him everywhere he goes.

“You’re not just fighting for revenge, Butcher,” you say finally. “You’re fighting because you want to make sure no one else has to go through what you did. That’s worth something.”

He looks at you then, his gaze softening for a fleeting moment. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “But it don’t bring her back, does it?”

You shake your head, your throat tightening. “No. But it means her loss wasn’t meaningless. You’re doing something with it. And that matters.”

For a while, neither of you speaks. The silence feels heavy but not uncomfortable, as if the words that needed to be said are enough to fill the space between you. Butcher just sits there, his expression unreadable, and you wonder if there’s anything more you can say.

So you offer him stories of your mother, warm pockets of safety and love tucked away in the otherwise chaotic mess of your childhood. You tell him about the way she’d hum old jazz standards as she folded laundry, the soft, lilting tunes filling the house with a strange kind of peace. You remember how Sunday mornings smelled of pancakes and maple syrup, her insistence on cooking breakfast herself rather than letting the kitchen staff take over. Those moments were hers, small rebellions in a life that otherwise wasn’t her own.

“She wasn’t perfect,” you admit, picking lint from the couch. “But she tried. She did her best to give me... something good. Something that wasn’t him.”

Butcher leans back, watching you with a quiet intensity. “Your dad?”

You nod, your lips twisting into a bitter smile. “Mom stayed with him for years, not because she wanted to, God knows she didn’t, but because she was terrified of what would happen if she left. He would’ve dragged her through every court in the state if she tried to take me. And with his money? His connections? She didn’t stand a chance. So she stayed. For me.”

Butcher nods, his expression guarded but attentive. “Sounds like she had some steel in her.”

“She did,” you admit, a small, bittersweet smile tugging at your lips. “But steel can break, too. He wore her down, little by little. Made her feel small, worthless, like she was lucky to even be in his orbit. And then…” You hesitate, swallowing hard. “Then there was Monica.”

Butcher curses under his breath at the mention of her name and you can’t help but laugh.

“My dad didn’t even wait six months after my mom died before marrying her,” you say, your voice laced with bitterness and resentment. “She’s this perfect little trophy wife. Perfect hair, perfect nails, perfect clothes. She treats me like I’m some stray dog she’s graciously let into her perfect little world. Every look, every word, it’s like she’s reminding me I don’t belong. God, I can’t fucking stand her.”

“She sounds like a right piece of work,” Butcher says, his tone laced with disdain. “For the record, I’d never confuse you for her. Frenchie and Hughie are just idiots.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Thanks, I guess?”

It's comfortable, this dialogue between the two of you. He's sarcastic, sure, and rough around the edges, but he listens to you when you speak, never cutting you off or zoning out mid-sentence. But above all, you realize, you feel safe with the man.

The two of you are engrossed in a heated discussion about just how deep the Vought rabbit hole goes when the crackle of the audio transmitter cuts through your banter like a blade, and you both snap to attention. Your father's voice hums through. You glance at the computer clock: 4AM. It's not unusual for him to get up this early to start his work day; his associates know to remain on standby to accommodate his erratic working hours.

“Henry, it's Stanley.”

Your ears perk up at the name. You know Henry, having worked alongside him throughout your internship.

Your stomach knots. You mouth quality control to Butcher, who nods, his expression sharpening.

“Listen, my wife wants to bring her friends down for a presentation on what you’ve been working on. I told her she could bring them Monday at ten.”

There’s a pause, then a heavy sigh from your father, the kind you’ve come to dread. A sigh that meant dissatisfaction, and god help the man who dissatisfied Stanley Morgan. You ground yourself, remembering that you are here in this laundromat basement with Butcher, safe.

“Look, Henry, I'm tired of you complaining about cutting corners. You're already way behind schedule, so just do whatever you have to do, and give my wife and her friends a good show, alright?”

You hear the phone receiver land in its cradle with a satisfying click.

You turn to look at Butcher, finding a devious smile on his face. You return it, beaming at him. Finally, a lead.

“Monday at ten,” he repeats, his voice practically dripping with glee. “How’s that work for you, sweetheart?”

You can’t help it. You beam back at him, the thrill of finally having a lead coursing through you. For the first time in a long time you no longer feel like you’re treading water. You’re moving forward.

~~~

Sunlight filters through your eyelids, prying you from a restful sleep. You squirm against the intrusion, desperate for a few more minutes of oblivion. Your hand reaches instinctively for your alarm clock, searching for the familiar plastic edge atop your side table. Instead, your fingers meet only air.

Your eyes flutter open, and the world comes into focus. You’re not in your room. The chipped paint on the walls and the musty smell of the basement remind you of where you are—the couch, the monitors, the remnants of last night’s vigil. And then it hits you.

You freeze, gaze snapping to the far end of the faded floral couch. Butcher.

He’s sprawled out awkwardly, face mashed into the armrest, one arm hanging limply over the side. The other, to your horror, is resting on your leg, his large hand curled protectively around your calf.

Shit.

The memories flood back. You’d celebrated the breakthrough, the first solid lead since you joined. There was laughter, more than you’d ever expected to share with Butcher, and a quiet, companionable silence as the adrenaline faded. Somewhere in between, exhaustion had claimed you.

You’d promised him you’d stay awake. Promised you’d call a taxi as soon as the sky started to lighten. But here you are, wrapped in a scratchy blanket you don’t remember asking for, with Butcher asleep next to you like you’d both done this a hundred times before.

Heat floods your face, embarrassment unfurling in your chest. Embarrassment that you'd fallen asleep on the job, despite your protests that you were fine. Embarrassment that you'd let Butcher see you so vulnerable. But more than that, you feel embarrassed at how deeply and comfortably you’d slept, nestled on a decrepit couch with a man already too large for the shabby piece of furniture, more comfortably than you'd ever slept in your King-size memory foam bed at home.

But you're clearly not that embarrassed, because you give yourself several long, lingering moments to let the warmth soak into your bones.

With great effort, you shift, slowly extracting your leg from beneath his hand. The warmth lingers as you pull yourself upright, and you let out a soft sigh of relief. The motion is enough to wake Butcher.

He jerks upright with a sharp inhale, eyes wild for a split second before they focus on you. His hair is a tousled mess, and his expression shifts from alertness to something resembling guilt.

“What’s all this?” he mumbles, his voice gravelly with sleep. His gaze flicks to the abandoned blanket, then to you hastily shoving your things into your bag. “Where you off to in such a rush?”

“I, uh…” You avoid his eyes, too flustered to form a coherent excuse. “I just—I need to get going.”

Realization dawns on his face. He glances back at the couch, then down at himself. “Ah, shit,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t mean to... y’know.” He gestures vaguely, his expression unusually sheepish. “Thought you might be cold, that’s all.”

You freeze mid-step, one hand gripping the doorframe. His tone is softer than you expect, less of the brash bravado you’ve grown used to.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly, your voice tight. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

“Doesn’t seem that way,” he counters, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees. His dark eyes are sharper, scrutinizing you even in his groggy state. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I just… I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep,” you say, a bit too fast. “I should’ve gone home last night.”

He snorts softly, leaning back against the couch. “You and me both, then. Not like I planned to kip here either.”

You glance at him, your rush to leave faltering at the casual way he shrugs it off.

“Don’t worry about it, love,” he continues, voice dropping into something softer, almost teasing. “Not like you drooled on me or anythin’. Far as disasters go, I reckon this one’s survivable.”

A small laugh escapes you before you can stop it. He smirks, pleased with himself, and the tension in your shoulders eases.

“Thanks for the blanket,” you murmur, glancing down at it again.

“Don’t mention it,” he replies, waving a hand dismissively. “You looked knackered. Figured it was the least I could do after you went an’ pulled a late one with me.”

You nod, unsure of what to say, the warmth from his small gesture still lingering. You glance toward the stairs, bag in hand, ready to leave but no longer feeling the need to escape.

“Monday,” you say, breaking the silence. “We’ll need everyone ready. Let Hughie know?”

He nods, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “Got it. You take care, yeah?”

With one last look at him, still sprawled on the couch, already reaching for his phone, you head up the stairs. The door creaks as you push it open, sunlight spilling into the hallway.

As you push the door open and head up the stairs, you hear him mutter something under his breath, probably a jab at your dramatics. You don’t turn back. The slam of the door echoes behind you, but his gravelly voice lingers, like the warmth of the blanket you left behind.

~~~

It's Monday.

The air outside the laundromat is brisk, carrying with it the faint metallic tang of the city morning. You lean against the brick wall, one hand stuffed into the pocket of your coat while the other holds a cigarette between your fingers. The cherry glows faintly as you inhale, the smoke curling into the cold air like a soft exhale.

You really don’t try to make a habit of smoking, but your nerves are buzzing under your skin like live wires and the cigarette between your fingers feels like the only thing tethering you to reality right now.

The faint squeak of boots on pavement announces Butcher before you see him. He rounds the corner, a thermos in one hand, his coat hanging open like he couldn’t be bothered to button it up against the chill. His eyes land on you, and his brows jump just slightly, surprise flashing across his face like a flickering bulb.

“Didn’t peg you for a smoker,” he says, voice thick with that familiar edge of mockery. “What is it? Bit of rebellion against Daddy’s company policy?”

You exhale a stream of smoke, turning your head so it doesn’t blow in his direction. “Something like that,” you reply dryly. “Don’t tell HR.”

He snorts, stepping closer. “Secret’s safe with me.” He gives you a once-over, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Though I’ve gotta say, not exactly the picture I had of you. Thought you were more the yoga-and-juice-cleanse type.”

“I contain multitudes,” you say simply, flicking ash from the end of the cigarette.

“That you do,” he murmurs, his tone quieter now, less biting. He digs into his coat pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of smokes, shaking it slightly to reveal one lone cigarette. “Want another for the road?”

You glance at the cigarette, then back at him, arching a brow. “Didn’t think you were the sharing type.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he says with a crooked grin, lighting it with a battered silver lighter. He takes a long drag and lets the smoke curl out of his mouth slowly. “Just figured it might take the edge off before you head in.”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Alright.” You take the offered cigarette, lighting it with your own lighter. The shared silence that follows is strangely companionable, the kind you wouldn’t have expected when you first met him.

“You nervous?” he asks after a beat, his voice softer than usual.

“Would it matter if I was?”

He studies you for a moment, his gaze sharper than you’re comfortable with. “It’s good to be nervous,” he finally says. “Means you’re payin’ attention. It’s when you stop that you get sloppy. Or worse, dead.”

“Comforting,” you say wryly, taking another drag.

He smirks, tilting his head toward the laundromat. “Come on. Hughie’ll start wringin’ his hands if we’re out here much longer.”

You stub out the cigarette on the brick wall, tucking the butt into a pocket so it doesn’t litter the street. Butcher watches this with a faintly amused expression but says nothing.

As the two of you head inside, the air between you feels lighter, the tension from earlier diffused into the cold morning. Hughie looks up from the monitors, his face a mix of relief and nervous energy.

“Ready?” he asks, glancing between you and Butcher.

Butcher claps him on the shoulder, all mock bravado. “’Course we are. Let’s get on with it, then.”

You follow Butcher and Hughie out, a small ember of calm glowing within you.

~~~

Exiting Butcher's discreetly parked van, you nudge Hughie down the narrow alley, leading the way toward your old smoking spot. It’s quiet here, and the less attention you draw, the better. You swipe your ID pass through the scanner, tossing a glance down the fluorescent-lit corridor. The hall stretches in that sterile, clinical way it always does, but today, it feels like a goddamn maze. It feels like you’re on the other side of a mirror, like you're not supposed to be here.

You bite back the urge to whisper “All clear!” to Hughie, but you quickly swallow the words. It’s too risky; you know Butcher’s listening. One slip-up, and he’ll be all over you like a fucking rash, reminding you of your amateur status. You bite your tongue just in time to avoid the barrage of shit he’d throw at you later.

Inside the building, you inspect your new “intern.” You ditched your monogrammed designer lab coat in favor of a plain, CytoGenix-branded one, lifted from a storage closet. Nothing flashy. Hughie’s got one on too, also stolen, one of the last clean ones in the closet. You’ve opted for business casual today, trying to blend in as best you can. In an effort to obscure yourself further, you'd styled your hair differently and worn fake glasses. You want to look like just another office drone. Like you belong.

“You good?” you ask Hughie, keeping your voice low. He nods, trying his best to look confident, but you catch that little tremor in his fingers as he adjusts the collar of his borrowed lab coat. Poor guy’s barely keeping it together, and you’re not doing much better yourself.

The mission, should everything go to plan, is simple. You and Hughie disguise yourselves as nameless interns puttering around in the lab, eavesdropping on Monica's tour. Once you figure out what it is they're working on in the lab, you quietly slip out and report back to Butcher in the van parked outside. Butcher who you've been avoiding since your makeshift sleepover. Butcher who, in turn, has seemingly rebuilt the cement walls of his gruff exterior that he let slip that night. Today feels just as much like a test as it does a reconnaissance mission.

Here goes nothing.

You guide Hughie to the Quality Control lab. Thankfully it's only three floors down into the basement, as Hughie blanches when you explain just how deep into the earth CytoGenix’s headquarters go.

When you get to the lab, you spot the small group of VIPs that’s gathered for the tail end of the tour. Perfect timing.

“So, as you can see, thanks to the cutting edge technologies at our fingertips, CytoGenix is leading the way in pharmaceutical breakthroughs,” says the chipper tour guide. Monica stands with the group, preening under Homelander and Ashley Barrett’s attention. The gooseflesh on your arms prickle at the sight of the evil Supe and corrupt CEO.

The tour guide gestures toward a large window at the back of the lab. “Now, if everyone could follow me,” she chirps, her voice grating, “we’d like to give you all a demonstration of V2’s first human test subject!”

Your stomach twists. Human test subject. You weren't sure what you were expecting from this tour, but it wasn't this. The lab’s always been about gene splicing and advanced therapies, but this? This is something else. Something darker. Was your father’s company involved in testing on people, or was this just the tip of a very fucked up iceberg?

The crowd gathers around the window, tittering with excitement. You and Hughie hang back, miming preoccupation with the lab supplies laying around.

A light flickers on, illuminating the dark window. A two-way mirror. Inside, the room is featureless and blindingly white, save for a young man curled up in the corner, his face drawn and terrified. As the light flickers on, he jerks upright, eyes wide with panic. You feel your gut twist.

A woman enters the room, clad in the same branded lab coat that you wear now. She carries a syringe filled with green liquid that seems to emit a glow from within. She murmurs something to the young man, who hesitantly rolls his sleeve up, offering his arm to her. She injects the liquid, taking a long step backward.

Then the screaming starts.

Purple veins spread from the injection site, skin rippling unnaturally, his body contorting in ways that aren’t human. Suddenly the arm that had been injected begins to elongate, stretching into a grotesque tentacle. You can hear the faintest squelching sound as his body twists. The man stares at his arm in horror, mouth gaping, before his face suddenly goes slack, vacant eyes lolling toward the female lab technician.

The woman is scrambling toward the door she came in through, but it's closed now, flush against the wall with no handle for her to grasp. She bangs and thrashes against the door, begging for someone to open the door and let her out.

Then the tentacle shoots across the room, faster than you can react. It wraps around her head and jerks back. The sound of skin tearing from bone echoes in the sterile white room as her face is ripped off like peeling wallpaper. Her face hits the two-way mirror with a wet slap before her body collapses to the floor.

The tour guide quickly steps forward, flicking a switch on the wall. You hear a soft hiss as the room begins to fill with gas, the man's eyes rolling backward as he loses consciousness, slumping against the wall. The locked door is suddenly thrust open, and this time a man clad in biohazard gear enters. He makes a wide arc around the faceless lab tech, reaching down to grab the tentacle man around his armpits, dragging his limp body out of the room. The lights finally, blessedly, go out.

The tour guide smiles like it’s all part of the show, like she’s done this a thousand times. The group is dead silent, some swaying with lightheadedness. Monica's eyes flit around the crowd, desperate for a reaction.

You can feel the tension in the air. Your hand clenches at your side, but you don’t dare look around. Not yet.

Then, slowly, the applause starts.

Clap. Clap. Clap.

Homelander starts clapping slowly, grinning like a predator.

“Bravo!” he says, his voice rich with mock sincerity. “Truly remarkable.” He’s fucking giddy, practically glowing at what he just witnessed.

You, on the other hand, feel ill. There's no way that woman can't be dead. And the man… He seemed so afraid. There's no way he knew what would happen to him once he was injected. Was he dead now?

But then the crowd picks up, clapping, cheering. It’s all a fucking spectacle to them. Monica beams, her fake smile stretched to the limit.

“Everyone, V2!” she says, as if she’s introducing the next big thing at a tech expo.

More cheers.

“More potent than Compound V alone, V2 more reliably gives recipients powers in the A-tier or above,” she announces, spinning the whole thing like it's some kind of miracle drug. “It also inhibits the prefrontal cortex, meaning the Supes it produces will be more... suggestible. Easier to control.”

Homelander chuckles darkly. “So, a Supe lobotomy?” His voice is casual, but the tension in the air spikes.

Monica blinks, taken aback, but then her smile returns—brighter, more fixed. She can’t afford to offend him.

“Exactly what we need if we're going to make a Supe army,” Homelander agrees. “Excellent work, Monica.”

The crowd erupts in cheers again, and you feel like you're suffocating. The air is thick with their sick excitement, and you’re drowning in it.

There was so much blood, so many little pieces of muscle and tissue painting the paper-white room, like a fucked up Rorschach. The man looked like he could have been younger than you. There's no way he knew what was going to happen to him, no one would ever agree to that.

Monica's inhumanly white veneers are bared in a painful smile, beaming like a mother at what she'd help create. Was this how your mother died? Had she spent her last moments in fear and pain? It was a closed casket… Was that to hide the damage? Your heart starts to race. The air feels too thick, too hot.

You catch yourself just as your vision darkens, hunching over a utility cart carrying empty test tubes. The tubes jostle, glass clinking, drawing the crowd's attention to you. Your hair, having fallen around your face, acts as a curtain separating you from the prying eyes. Still, you can feel the laser eyes on you, watching, only a moment away from thinking, Doesn't she look familiar? Is that Stanley's daughter? What's she doing here, with that guy?

The woozy feeling in your body is immediately replaced with intense, soaring adrenaline. Before you can think, you make a break for it, keeping your head down to continue obscuring your face. Hughie follows, his steps frantic behind you.

The crowd hesitates before you hear quickening footsteps and yells.

The frantic voice of a lab tech rings out “Homelander, no! No lasers in the lab!”

“Fuck!” You yank Hughie forward, forcing him to move faster.

The sound of lasers tearing through the air is unmistakable, the pops of small explosions echoing out. You dive into the stairwell, barely avoiding the beams as they scorch the air around you. The heat on your back makes your skin crawl.

You hear the security team yelling, but you don’t stop. You push forward, practically pulling Hughie up the stairs, praying like hell that the explosions Homelander triggered are buying you enough time. The sound of blood rushing in your ears deafens you to the metal clattering your steps make as you race to reach the ground floor.

You burst out of the stairwell back into those fluorescent lights, not bothering to look upward on the chance that an errant glance might get caught on security cameras. You head straight down the hall, not breaking speed, not letting go of Hughie until you're both careening down the alleyway. Butcher's white van is waiting exactly where you left it.

Only, the door you just exited out of slams open, a chorus of feet smacking the cement twenty paces behind you. They're close, too damn close.

The van is so close you can see the flecks of rust around the wheel wells, can almost read the vulgar bumper sticker barely clinging to the back door. But they're too close. You'll barely be able to close the doors behind you before the posse at your backs clamor around the vehicle, blocking Butcher's escape.

You make a split second decision and pray to whatever greater being might be listening that it's a good one.

You're vaguely aware of the van in your periphery as you speed past it, unable to see Butcher in the driver's seat, but knowing he's there nonetheless. What you don't see is his panic, the frantic foot on the gas pedal, the mental math trying to determine what the fuck you two dimwits are doing as you descend into the New York subway system.

@bluemerakis

@mystic-writings

@imherefordeanandbones

#billy butcher #fanfic #fanfiction #theboys #billy butcher fanfic #the boys fanfic #william butcher #the boys #homelander #the boys tv #the boys amazon #hughie campbell #billy butcher x reader #billy butcher the boys #billy butcher x you

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urperfectcinnamonroll07 · 10 months ago

Text

Carnival

requested?: no pairing(s): shuntarō chishiya x afab!reader genre: smut warning(s): pure filth, smut, piv sex, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it bubs), multiple orgasms, squirting, oral (f&m recieving), hair pulling, degradation, nipple play, not proof read, fluffy towards the end, not proof read, lmk if i missed anything summary: 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘺𝘢 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘫𝘰𝘣 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘭𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 word count: 2.5k a/n: smut for my lovely man right here, hope ya'll had a lovely day/morning/night/evening/afternoon love yas all, mwah! -Cilla

"thanks" you say, panting harshly. this game was harder than any other.

it was a spades game, quite evidently, and chishiya had just saved your life. the tag game. chishiya was about to enter a room, when you ran by, about to get shot, when he grabbed your waist and pulled you into him and locking the door, saving you.

he says nothing, but gives you a simple nod, his hands in his usual occupied space in his hoodie's pockets. he lent against the wall behind him with a nonchalant expression painted on his face.

"friends do what friends do i guess" he says with a simple shrug. just then you both got the notification that the game had been cleared. you let out a sigh of relief when the screen showed how many days you got to extend your visas.

you both exit the room, heading straight out of the game venue and back to the beach.

the walk was silent for the most part, a few glances here and there, but nothing much. the sound of stones rolling, creating a crunchy sound as you both walked side by side, was the only thing to show that you were both still there. chishiya didnt look over at you at all on the walk, whereas you were sparing quick glances here and there.

you both got back to the beach in one piece, luckily, and you invited chishiya into your room as it was closer. as you were both still awake, and it was night, chishiya insisted he make you both tea to try and help you sleep.

he was stood in the kitchen area of your room, waiting for the kettle to boil with two mugs and tea bags inside of them. you couldnt help but notice the veins in his hand bulge as he held the kettle and poured its hot contents into the cups in front of him. chishiya was undeniably attractive to say the least, but you didnt really think that he liked you back. but it was quite hard to tell, he barely showed any emotion after all.

"what're you thinking about?" he asks as he places a cup down on the nightstand before him, sitting on the small armchair facing the bed that you were perched on the side of. he held his mug in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward so that he was closer to you.

"do you like me?" you ask hesitantly, he looks at you with a questioning look in his eyes.

"like... as a friend?" he asks, you nod. its not what you meant, but it will do for now. "well, yes. of course i like you... as a friend" he answers finally.

you nod, understanding what he meant.

"so i wouldnt ruin our friendship if i did this?" you say, slipping off from the side of the bed and going to kneel on the floor in front of him.

you gingerly took the cup from his hands and placed it on a table somewhere. you rested your hands on his knees, parting his legs slightly. you did feel something when you were staring at his hands, a warmness spread to your core, making you rub your thighs together. he swallowed thickly but stared down at you with not an ounce of emotion in his eyes.

"by doing what, sweets?" he asks emotionlessly, placing his hands on top of yours that were stationed on his knees.

"i wanna thank you for saving my life, shiya" you look up at him through your lashes.

"by sucking my dick?" you nod in response, moving your hands up his thighs to get to his swimming trunks.

you undid the strings that were tightening the waist, and tugged at the waistband. he complied by lifting his hips, allowing you to pull his trunks down, releasing his hardened dick. it slapped against his stomach at it's release of the tight confinement. you were almost drooling at the sight.

his tip was red with desire and leaking with pre-cum. you swiped your thumb over his tip, earning a low groan from chishiya. he didn't strike you as a man to be very vocal in bed, if he even did have sex.

you smirked softly at the sound, wrappimg your hand around his shaft, pumping him a few times before you felt his hand travel to your hair and tug it into a ponytail, shoving your face down so it was closer to his dick.

"stop teasing sweets, or i won't be so gentle with you, hm?" he says lowly, you nod slowly before moving your hand back to his knee and moving your head down.

you opened your mouth and took his dick inside of it. chishiya groaned as he shoved your head down onto him, your nose touching the bottom of his stomach. tears pricked in your eyes as you struggled to take all of him in your mouth. his tip his the back of your mouth and you gagged, your throat contracting around him which earned another groan from him.

he threw his head back in pleasure as you started bobbing your head on his cock, his fist tightening around the ponytail he had a grip of. his stomach was starting to tighten and his groans were getting louder, a sign that he was close to his oncoming orgasm.

his dick twitched in your mouth as he came, hot liquid spurting down your throat. you moved your head off of him, swallowing his seed. he grabbed a hold of your chin, using his thumb to open your mouth to check you had swallowed properly. he smiled lightly when he saw you had.

he stands you up with him, taking his hoodie off. he then moved to you, taking off your shorts and swimming bottoms, pulling them down your legs and leaving them to pool at the floor. you stepped out of them, kicking them across the room. he then moved towards your bikini top, untying the strings keeping it together and throwing the flimsy material across the room to god knows where.

he then crashes his lips to yours, pushing you back so you fall onto the bed. you lay there and look up at him, your legs spread, showing your dripping cunt. he smirked as he kneeled down. you rested back on your elbows.

your pupils were dialated, your huge doe eyes piercing through the darkness of the room into his eyes.

"pass me your pillow, sweets" he says gently, you do as he says, grabbing your pillow and passing it to him.

he harshly grabs your hips and lifts them up, pushing the pillow underneath them. you rest your hips on the pillow, as he sinks back down to his knees, spreading your legs slowly.

he gets close to your pussy, so close that you can feel his warm breath against your wet cunt. he smirks as you shudder, before grabbing your thighs and bringing you to his mouth.

your taste invades his mouth as he laps at your hole, thrusting his tongue inside of you, his nose hitting your clit in the most delicious way. he eventually brings his tongue out of your pussy and attatches his mouth to your clit, sucking and licking it, practically making out with it.

you moan out in pure ecstacy, seeing stars as you feel pleasure and nothing but.

you bucked your hips but chishiya pulled them even closer to his mouth, reaching a new amount of pleasure for you. you tried to roll your hips against him to get more pleasure, but with a harsh hand, he kept your body down, moving his mouth away from your clit and ruining your fast oncoming orgasm. you whined loudly at the loss when he delivered a harsh slap to your cunt, making your whole body jolt.

it wasn't expected, and nor was your lewd moan that came with. he slapped your cunt again, and the same outcome.

"better stop moving sweets, otherwise i won't let you cum at all tonight hm?" he scolds with a nonchalant look in his eyes. you nod eargerly. he lands another harsh slap on your cunt.

"i promise! i'll be good shiya, i swear!" you whimper out.

he smirks at your desperatness, attatching his mouth back onto your clit and got back to sucking and licking it. the feeling of your lost orgasm soon came back as he kept going at a fast pace.

you reach down and tangle your hands in his hair, making his blonde locks all knotty and tangled, but it was karma for him making you feel so good. you would help him untangle his hair afterwards.

the knot in your stomach was quickly tightening, a sign of your oncoming orgasm, and it was coming quick. your moans started to become more loud and needy, signalling to chishiya you were about to cum.

he kept going, but at an even faster rate. he kept it up, occasionally thrusting two fingers into you and curling them towards your stomach. that was enough to throw you over the edge with a loud moan. he left kitten licks on your clit, riding you out of your high.

he eventually pulled away again, standing up and crawling towards you, bringing your arms up to either side of your head. he kissed you gently before flipping you both over so you were straddling his lap.

"here's what you're gonna do" he says, pushing a strand of hair out of your sweaty face "you're gonna ride me until the both of us cum as many times as i say and afterwards i'll take care of you, yeah?" he cups your cheek and strokes it as you nod gently, he smiles.

you lift your hips up and move his dick so his tip positioned at your enterance, before sinking down onto him. you both make sounds of pleasure as you fit all of him inside of you snugly. your walls clenched around him as you wiggled your hips to get into a more comfy position before you start riding him.

chishiya's hands fly to your hips as you do this. you start bouncing on his dick wildly, throwing your head back as you moan loudly. you yelp when you feel chishiya's mouth wrap around your hardened nipple, massaging the other one in his left hand.

with his right hand he rubbed circles on your clit harshly, your bodies moving together as he met you halfway, thrusting upwards when you came down, making his dick hit the spongy spot inside of you. your walls clenched around him, all you could hear is your skin bouncing off of his and the squelch of your wetness taking him so well.

you orgasm started to approach again, and fast. your hips started to falter, but not that much as you rode chishiya's cock like a carnival ride.

"shiya gonna cum" you moan out, he rubs your clit faster.

"not yet, cum when i say sweets wanna cum together" he says, stopping his movements on your clit, making you whine out in protest.

he didn't bring his hand back until his orgasm was approaching, and then he said:

"i'm gonna count you down okay?" he cirles your clit roughly "okay, three... two... one..." on one, you cum harder than you ever have in your whole life. your legs tremble as you try to keep yourself up, your sight blocked with a white haze, almost blacking out at the intensity of your orgasm. you felt his seed fill you up.

when your sight returns back to normal, you saw chishiya staring at your pussy with amazement in his eyes.

"that was... so hot sweets, you squirted all over my dick hm?" he looks up into your eyes, his gaze full of seduction and lust.

he flips you both over so that he is on top of you, his dick still buried inside of your tight cunt as he rolls his hips back into yours.

"fuck sweets, so tight f'me, gonna make me cum again in no time huh" he groans, rocking his hips into you.

you moan loudly and he pulls your hands on both sides of your head, intertwining your fingers. he fucked you long and hard into the materess, the backs of your hands into it aswell.

he then moves both of your hands above your head and holds them there with his left hand before travelling his hand down to your clit, rubbing soft cirles there again. the overstimulation had you almost screaming as he made you feel pure ecstasy.

"let's see if you squirt again as my dick splits you open hm? you want that?" he husks.

you can feel another knot tighten in your stomach again, until the knot snaps, barely giving him much warning as you cum.

you let out an almost porno rated scream as you cum again, not caring who will hear as he finishes inside of you not long later.

you both sit in silence for a few minutes before chishiya pulls out of you, leaving you on the bed before going to get a towel.

when he comes back, you are laying on your stomach, with your left leg pulled up, your foot resting on your knee of the other leg.

he couldn't help but get hard again at the sight, pulling his pants down again before crawling on top of you and forcing your legs apart.

he shoves his dick inside of you again, earning a yelp from you.

"shiya" you whimper out "s' too much" you moan as he slams his hips into yours, his balls hitting your ass over and over again, he reaches towards your front to rub circles into you again.

your hips jerk into his at the feeling, the overstimulation making tears gather into your eyes and down your cheeks as you were so close so soon.

you let out a lewd moan as you came for the fourth time that night.

chishiya pulls out of you before pulling his pants back up. he grabbed the damp washcloth and wipes up your folds, cleaning you up.

"you need to pee, sweets" he says softly, you nod at his words, your eyes half lidded and full of tiredness.

he stands up from the bed and goes to the bathroom. you heard the bath being ran, and he comes back, picking you up and taking you to the bathroom, sitting you down in the bath before climbing in behind you.

"i do like you, romantically, by the way" he blurts out, you look at him over your shoulder. he looks at you "and i know you probably don't like me the same, so i wanted to tell you now because we could both die anyday now" he says with no emotion, nor expression.

you smile at him as he keeps talking, memorizing every feature of his face. you grab his face, turning around in the bathtub and kissing him sweetly.

there was no tongue in the kiss, just pure love and nothing but. you both pull away and stare into eachothers eyes.

"i like you too"

#alice in borderland #chishiya smut #chishiya shuntaro x reader #chishiya shuntaro

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verspia · 1 year ago

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—𝐢 𝐠𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭

You frown in thought as you cradle a warm cup of hot chocolate in your hands, huddling a little close to the heat emanating from the fire place, which you’re seated in front of.

Christmas is one of your favorite holidays of, and this year, you celebrate it with your boyfriend, Oscar. Normally, with the end of the season, he would be in Australia with his family, spending the holiday under the blazing sun, not under frosted snowflakes and the biting cold of London with you.

The thought makes you pout a little, guilt eating at you for keeping him away from his family during the holidays, as if he isn’t apart from them for most of the year anyway.

Originally, you both were meant to go together, but with christmas being near, the visa application process had taken a lot longer than you’d both expected and that meant that you were only eligible to travel to down under after New Years.

You had insisted that Oscar leave without you, urging him to spend the christmas holiday with his parents and sisters, but he had resisted, arguing that he would make it up to them and it was far too late to book a flight, what with the rush that came during winter break, and you had reluctantly agreed.

That didn’t stop you from feeling guilty though, but you refrained from thinking about it more, knowing that there wasn’t much you could do about it.

Instead you wondered what you could gift your boyfriend for your first christmas together.

You knew that Oscar wasn’t much of a material person, and that he was happy with anything you would give him, but you wanted to do something meaningful.

Given the fact that gifts were your love language, both giving and receiving, it was important to you that you find the perfect gift for Oscar.

You worried your lip between your teeth as you pondered, when your eyes lit up with an epiphany, and you stood up abruptly, abandoning your hot chocolate on the kitchen top, grabbing your keys and heading out to the store immediately.

You payed no mind to the snow that nipped at your face, staining your cheeks a rosy red as you hurried out, charged with excitement for the gift that you had in mind.

When Oscar awakes on Christmas morning, you are not where you’re supposed to be, cuddled up in his arms, and the loss of your presence next to him startles him awake.

He steps into the living room, rubbing away any trace of bleariness from his eyes and finds you there, still in your pyjamas and with one of his hoodies on, Home Alone playing on the tv screen.

Your smile is radiant, and your zealousness for christmas is almost childlike. His heart warms at the sight of you and he smiles widely, trudging over to you.

“Why aren’t you in bed, love”

You turn around at the his voice, beaming impossibly wider, and your eyes sparkle with delight as you spot him.

“Oscar!” His name on your lips always makes him giddy, but the exhilaration in your tone today is tremendous, and vastly contagious, to the extent that Oscar begins to wear the same excitement you do.

“It’s Christmas! I was waiting for you,” You grab Oscar, pulling him on to couch with you, “We gotta open the gifts, Oh you’ll love what i’ve gotten you!”

Oscar stares fondly at you, “I’m happy with anything you give me, baby, you know that.”

You nod at him, not really paying attention, as you stand up and pull him along towards the direction of the christmas tree that you both had decorated together, weeks prior.

He happily lets you drag him along, and soon, both of you have unraveled the presents from your friends and family.

You open the gift that Oscar has gotten you, and gasp in elation, throwing yourself at Oscar, Thank you’s and I love you’s falling from your mouth as you pepper his face with kisses.

He laughs as he holds on to your waist, and then finally, both of you turn to the last present, that is inside a conspicuous bag, glittered golden.

You move over a little, eyes fixed on Oscar as he opens the bag, pulling out a cardboard box that is too, shimmering golden, with a red ribbon holding it together.

He unwraps it, and the sides of the box fall flat in five sections, each have attached a packet of Tim Tams on it, and another box stands proud in the middle.

Oscar uncovers the lid, and another lid appears, the words Merry Christmas on it and much like the first time, the sides fall into sections, each holding polaroids of you and Oscar.

The pictures are of monumental moments of your relationship, His first sprint win and you congratulating him with a kiss, his first podium as he smiles brightly, you wrapped up in his arms, smiling equally as bright. There’s photos of Oscar surprising you at your graduation ceremony, and kissing you when you win a debate’s competition, as well as a few pictures of your first date, and first kiss.

He pulls away the last lid, and finds a heart shaped letter inside, which he picks up and discovers a keychain for his car.

The keychain is shaped as a heart, and he examines it closely, accidentally clicking it open and finds both his and your initials together in a smaller heart inside.

He breathes softly, a little baffled at the thoughtfulness of the gift, and looks up at you, adoration clear in his eyes.

He’s a little breathless as he whispers I love you to you, and you smile shyly at him.

“Do you like it?”

Your eyes glimmer with hope and a little uncertainty, and Oscar pulls you into his lap, kissing you softly.

He’s not good with words, so he hopes to show to you just how happy you make him, pulling you closer than you’d ever thought possible, kissing you deeper to convey his appreciation to you.

You both are enveloped in a warmth that contrasts the dreary weather outside, but it’s clear that you both have a jolly christmas, under the shimmering pine tree.

This was inspired by this

didn’t proofread so pls don’t mind any errors

#formula 1 #f1 fanfic #lando norris x reader #carlos sainz x reader #max verstappen x reader #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri #mclaren #christmas #fanfic #papaya #fandom #oscar x reader #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri x yn

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honeygrahambitch · 2 years ago

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One day Hannibal is organizing his drawings. As he is flipping through the papers, he pauses when he comes across a bright yellow sticky note. There's a doodle of a dog, clumsily done in pencil. In a speech bubble above the dog there is the following sentence: "i woof you, cunt".

Hannibal smiles and sighs deeply. Since then he keeps that sticky note in his wallet.

A few months later Hannibal is doing some online shopping. He is trying to choose a meat grinder. When he is finally decided he asks Will to bring his visa card from his wallet so he can complete the order.

Will mumbles something about wasting money on another meat grinder when we already have like 17.

He takes the wallet and as he opens it, he stops in his tracks when he finds the little note. He had not expected Hannibal to treasure his silly doodle like that. At the same time it wasn't very surprising either. When he comes back to the living room he is having a stupid smile on his face, genuinely melted.

"Did you...did you keep the little doodle i made?" He feels like a 5 year old but Hannibal moves his gaze away from the screen and smiles right back at him.

"Obviously." He says as he can't take his eyes off Will's humbled expression. It's rare. "I treasure everything which is done by your hands."

Will comes closer to his armchair and touches his face gently. "That doesn't change the fact that you are a cunt."

#some fluff #hannibal #hannigram #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal nbc #hannibal series #hannibal fanfiction

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everlxndd · 24 days ago

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THE END • SUNDAY

Summary: #𝗚𝗡! 𝗥𝗘𝗔𝗗𝗘𝗥 𝗫 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗔𝗬 (𝗛𝗦𝗥) ✧ in which all it takes for life to have meaning is to be thrust into a world of survival and death games (and maybe an attractive rich guy)! (𝗔𝗟𝗜𝗖𝗘 𝗜𝗡 𝗕𝗢𝗥𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗔𝗨) # minimal/no use of [y/n] # graphic depictions of violence

previous chapter // next chapter // prologue

CHAPTER FIVE ;

A day or two had passed since that fateful day. Your leg wound had started to scab, and the bruises on your neck were pretty much faded, albeit still quite tender to the touch. The slash on your hand, however, didn't seem to want to close. It was deep, to say the least.

Your nose wrinkled in disgust. It probably needed stitches, but you had no way to do that and didn't want to risk an infection. Keeping it bandaged and rinsed seemed to do the job. Thankfully, you had full movement of your hand, though it still hurt quite a lot.

Speaking of rinsing, bottled water was starting to decrease steadily. You had started to ration it—some to drink and some to wash with. You weren't sure whether risking an open wound with rainwater would be wise. So now, here you were leaving the apartment's safety to go to the small supermarket that was a few blocks away.

It was dark and a little frigid. You opt to put the hood of your hoodie up to protect yourself. You were yet to figure out what a visa meant. In the ‘normal’ world, once a visa expired, you weren't permitted to stay in that country, right? So… would they kick you out? Whoever ‘they’ are? No, that seemed too merciful for a place that literally made you kill a person to survive.

You went to turn a corner when a screen caught your eyes. The same style arrow that led you to the botanical garden pointed to an apartment building.

Another game? In an apartment building? You eyed it cautiously, watching as an unfamiliar figure entered—it was still open.

It was a dilemma—typically speaking, it would probably be smart to just ignore it and wait for the visa to be on its last day and then do another game. What would happen on the last day, though? What constituted the end of the visa? What time? Did it end on day six or day seven of the visa?

Thinking back, you remember Jade, Swan, and Gallagher. Ignoring the ragged look of Gallagher, Jade and Swan looked pretty well put together—no traces of blood or scars, not even a bruise. Could it be that not every game was a physical one? One where you fight to the death?

You inhale sharply. You would have to enter a game either way if you wanted to stay on top of visa days and not find out what would happen when you were ‘no longer permitted in the country.’.

One foot in front of the other, you make your way up the steps of the apartment entrance and come to an open room; a number of people stood inside—some were in groups this time. You glance at the table in front of you, no goggles thankfully, but more phones. You pick one up.

FACE RECOGNITION IN PROGRESS, PLEASE WAIT FOR A MOMENT.

Swan was right about the facial recognition, which probably meant you couldn't back out of the game now either—something told you didn't want to know what would happen if you attempted to do so.

PLEASE WAIT UNTIL THE GAME COMMENCES. THERE ARE CURRENTLY TEN PARTICIPANTS. ONE MINUTE UNTIL REGISTRATION CLOSES.

Ten was a lot—a good chunk of them were teamed as well, at least over half of them. If it was anything like the seven of hearts, you would be one of the first to go.

You shook your head slightly to rid yourself of such (harrowing) thoughts. You definitely wouldn't win if you had that mindset—though the way you could hear them talk amongst themselves and eye you made you a little scared. They probably had a mindset that would put you six feet under.

You looked to the ground and leaned on the wall; maybe if you looked unsuspecting, they'd leave you alone.

Two pairs of footsteps, and then another. Three people.

The pair were women; you could tell from their voices. One was more high-pitched than the other, something about needing to do a coffee run when this was done. The other seemed to be pretty uninterested in the situation they were in too—talking about how they hoped they wouldn't need their baseball bat because they had forgotten it.

They were confident; if they weren't, they wouldn't be bickering the way they were.

You seemed to come to your senses when the familiar voice of the system (is that what it was?) reverberated in the room.

REGISTRATION HAS CLOSED; THERE ARE A TOTAL OF 13 PARTICIPANTS. THE GAME WILL NOW COMMENCE.

Thirteen? But you had only heard—

Your eyes drifted to the left; a new pair of shoes stood not far from you. Combat boots. You felt a little hesitant as you tilted your head slightly to get a better view.

White hood.

Your mouth felt dry, and your soul felt like it had sprinted away from you. White hood, combat boots, you could even see silver hair pooling at the figure's shoulders and escaping the food's confines.

DIFFICULTY, FIVE OF SPADES

Your head left the familiar figure as you looked at the phone you had unknowingly started squeezing the life out of. Spades? Five? From common sense and past (traumatic) experiences, the name was the amount of visa days you would be rewarded.

“Physical,” the all-too-familiar voice came from the side of you, though it sounded less than impressed. You would've replied, had it not been for the voice again.

GAME, TAG

RULES: AVOID WHOEVER IS “IT”

You raise an eyebrow slightly at the phone screen. They sure liked using kids games.

CLEAR CONDITIONS: DISCOVER AND TOUCH THE SYMBOL HIDDEN IN ONE OF THE BUILDING'S ROOMS WITHIN THE TIME LIMIT. YOU CLEAR THE GAME WHEN THE OBJECTIVE IS FULFILLED. THE TIME LIMIT IS 20 MINUTES. AFTER 20 MINUTES, THE TIME BOMB HIDDEN IN THE BUILDING WILL EXPLODE.

You almost cried. The rules presented the game to be less of a death game; however, the threat of a literal bomb seemed to completely change that.

THE GAME WILL COMMENCE IN TWO MINUTES.

People started to pour out of the room into the rows of doors. Out of instinct, you started to follow them until a sharp pain shot through and up your arm. You quickly swivelled and pulled your hand from a vice grip.

“What the hell!? Do you have a problem!?” You practically shrieked as you cradled your injured hand. You could see blood start to seep through the bandages. Looking up from the gruesome sight, the culprit with that damn hood retracted his hand.

“Joining a game so soon is a waste of bandage.” You could make out the almost meek mumble; you couldn't help but stare in disbelief.

“You serious? Who cares about a damn bandage? Do you know where you are right now?” You point accusingly in his direction; he doesn't seem to care or even acknowledge it.

“Yes, do you?”

He was good, you'd give him that. You had no idea where you were to be honest, but going with the flow seemed to be the only thing you had right now.

He filled the awkward silence with the sound of heavy boots meeting the concrete floor.

“Spades are physical games,” he stated as he continued walking, and you didn't have anything better to do but follow him. “Diamonds are for intelligence, clubs are teamwork, and hearts are for playing with feeling. I'm sure you're already aware of that, yes?”

He turned his head to the side to catch and answer.

“Er, no? Why would I?” You asked suspiciously, narrowing your eyes and looking him up and down. He had started to attempt to open doors of apartments.

“Considering you emerged victorious from the seven of hearts, I assumed you would be familiar with their nature. I seem mistaken; however, my apologies.” He sounded sarcastic as he said those words, and your eyes widened slightly.

“How the hell do you know that?”

“When you hit the ground, so did the card in your pocket,” he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a familiar, bloodstained card. It made you nearly gag with its appearance—

“Hang on a minute, how'd you get that!?” You barked, going to swipe it out of his hand, but he held it out of reach.

“Like I just said, it fell from wherever you put it when you fainted.” He hesitantly held it out again slightly so you could take it without taking his hand off in your stupor. “That's why I came back. I must've pocketed it when I was working and forgotten to give it back.”

He continued to try and open doors, and you looked on in surprise. It was an oddly noble thing to do; after all, it was just a card, and you had threatened him previously. You took it from his hand awkwardly at the embarrassing memory of flopping to the floor like a fish.

“Oh, uh... thanks.”

You heard a slight hum in response and saw him nod from beneath the hood. You wanted to ask something, anything—

THE GAME WILL NOW COMMENCE; THE TIME LIMIT IS 20 MINUTES. COMMENCE NOW.

THE TAGGER IS ON THE MOVE.

previous chapter // next chapter // prologue

as you can see, I've taken some liberty in regards too the actual plot/canon events in the actual AIB series. hopefully it isn't confusing to anyone :P

☆ reblogs / hearts are very much appreciated!! (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) ☆

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cheesy09 · 9 months ago

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[CN] Kiro's Wrapped in Silk Date

🌸 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date that hasn't been released on the EN server yet! 🌸

Note: This date explores some very suggestive themes, so if you do not meet the game's recommended 17+ age rating, I'd suggest to avoid reading this date.

——*:･ﾟ✧——*:･ﾟ✧——

[PART 1]

The clear night sky seems to have been washed by spring water, and the stars are akin to diamonds against the dark blue gauze.

[MC's Company Name] has recently discussed collaboration with LEEZY, a well-know foreign fashion brand, and therefore I personally made the trip to come to their headquarters in West Asia.

The first reason being because they attached great importance to this collaboration, and second one being because Kiro too was filming in this city.

It's been three months since Kiro came here to film a movie. During this time, all we could do was accompany each other through the tiny screens of our mobile phones every day.

So when this opportunity to "visit work" presented itself, I immediately applied for a visa and flew over.

After several days of meetings and visits, the contract was successfully signed. The other party hoped that we could promote the latest season of their clothing.

I was also invited to attend this charity dinner party being held by the lake tonight.

In my drunken stupor, a slight sense of dizziness floods my head. I lift the shawl of my dress, shake the wine glass in my hand and look at the figure standing close by--

Kiro smiles and talks to the person in front of him, his golden hair shinning brightly in the darkness of night.

Seemingly noticing my gaze, he turns his face slightly, and his blue eyes catch my sight.

I raise my glass, smile at him, and take another slow sip. His eyes flicker for a moment and he calmly looks away from me.

Not long after, he smiles, nods, and comes to me with a glass of wine, lightly touching it to mine.

Kiro: I'm back!

MC: Was that the producer who invited you to the dinner just now? Why don't you chat for a little longer?

Kiro: We've already chatted for quite a bit. He even asked for my autograph for his little daughter.

Kiro: So, from now on, my time is all yours, MC.

Kiro: That being said... how much have you had to drink?

He seems to have noticed the unyielding warmth on my face. He raises his hand and gently touches the side of my face with the back of his hand.

That familiar body temperature departs as soon as it touches, leaving me feeling a little disappointed. I simply pinch his fingertips and take the opportunity to slip my fingers into the gaps between his.

MC: Not a lot, maybe... five or six glasses.

Kiro: That's not a lot...?

He lowers his head slightly and draws closer to me, the glimmer of expectation in his eyes quietly falling into mine.

Kiro: MC, should we run away?

MC: Now?

Kiro: Well~ You're going back to Loveland tomorrow afternoon, and I won't be back in China for another three weeks.

Kiro: There are less than 15 hours left. I don't want to waste another minute.

That reluctance tucked away in my heart is outlined by his words and tugs at my heartstrings.

All the work that needed to be discussed has been taken care of, so I nod. After paying our respects to the organizer, Kiro takes my hand and leaves the venue.

The taxi takes us all the way back to the hotel. After getting out of the cab, I stop, shake our intertwined hands and look at him eagerly.

MC: ...My feet hurt.

A smile seems to flash across those blue eyes. The next second, my body grows light and I'm being held in his arms.

Kiro: [chuckles indulgently] Hold me.

Amidst the cool night breeze, the embrace I am nestled in is particularly affectionate. I put my arms around his neck, and from time to time I run my lips across the side of his face, which is now slightly cooled by the night wind.

After entering the room, he bends down and gently places me on the small sofa.

The warmth that came from being close to each other seems to escape. Just as I am about to reach out and hug him, I suddenly feel my clothes tighten. Seemingly pulled by something, he too, falls towards me--

Those slightly wide blue eyes suddenly close in within my field of vision, and a warm softness unexpectedly falls against the corner of my lips.

——*:･ﾟ✧——*:･ﾟ✧——

[PART 2]

The bright moonlight falls on the tip of his slender eyebrows, creating a faint white circle, akin to a piece of fallen snow.

His blue eyes appear deeper than usual. Through the moonlight, I can clearly see myself reflected in that clear spring.

The tenderness lingering at the corner of my lips stays for a moment, then departs slightly.

Kiro: Sure enough, you still smell like champagne.... I'll get you a glass of water.

I don't let go of the hands holding him. All I do is blink my eyes and soften my voice.

MC: ...I don't want to let go.

Noting my retention, he doesn't get up and just gently kisses my ear.

Suddenly, he pauses slightly, picks up the beaded chain on my clothes with one hand and shakes it.

Kiro: Turns out that there was a "trap" waiting for me here.

I follow his line of sight and see that the pearl chain from my clothes had somehow managed to get entangled with the accessories on his outfit.

Kiro: I won't leave. So... there's no need for this.

Those slender fingertips travel along the intricately wound chain and slowly disassemble it under the moonlight. Every now and then the silver chain reflects a cold silver light, like starlight dancing along his fingertips.

The alcohol gradually takes over my brain, and the person in front of me appears to be covered in a layer of mist under the moonlight.

My hands slowly slide along his arms to his back, feeling the familiar contours of his muscles under the thin layer of fabric. And when his tight buttons block the path of my fingertips, I gently undo them--

His white collar falls open a bit, revealing the lines of his collarbone.

Kiro: [Almost breathlessly] ....Why are you still being naughty?

MC: How could I....

When my nails gently scratch his waist, I feel the body under my fingertips stiffen slightly, and the breathing in the air suddenly grow heavier.

I blink innocently, finding some kind of pleasure in this long wait, and gently squeeze along his waistline.

Just as I'm busy enjoying myself, he suddenly grabs a hold of my wrist and then raises it above my head without any explanation.

At some point, he manages to untie the longest chain of beads and holds it casually between his fingertips.

His eyes, which have always been clear, are now stained with a hint of drunkenness, influenced by my own, and even his voice sounds hoarse.

Kiro: [huskily] If you keep making trouble like this, we won't be able to finish undoing this tonight.

Kiro: [x2] Leave your hands to me for now.

A cold touch falls on the skin of my wrist. Along with the slight rustling sound of metal, something wraps around my wrist one after another. Belatedly, my somewhat sluggish brain realizes that it's the chain that was untied from my dress.

My heartbeat inexplicably speeds up.

MC: [blushing] Kiro....

Kiro: [voice soft yet seductive] Don't move, it'll be fine soon.

As he says this, he deliberately slows down and enjoys every minute the peaceful moonlight has to offer.

The cold tassels brush against my skin from time to time, leaving at the first sign of touch. Tiny stimulations flow along my skin and blood vessels, causing my heartbeat to grow a little faster.

MC: Mmn...

I shrink on reflex, and he gently holds me down.

Taking in my state, he smiles softly, supports my knees and raises them slightly, lowering his head and kissing the spot where the chain grazes me.

His overwhelmingly hot breath seems to carry with it a small fire, burning along the blood in my veins.

As time passes by, the body's sensitivity seems to be heightened, feeling the other person with every ounce of strength.

I want to hug that warm back, but I find my hands tied together, unable to move freely. So I simply raise my ankle and gently press it against his calf.

As if eager to occupy the little time we have left, the breath tracing the side of my neck grows more and more rapid.

In the room soaked in moonlight, the tips of my fingers are tightly clasped, as if the vacancy formed during this period of time is being filled.

The overlapping of shadows is reflected on one side, almost blending together, blurring the slowly approaching moment of separation.

This night seems to go on forever, but also seems to pass by in an instant.

And amidst the chaos, I feel as if I'm being held in a scorching embrace.

Wanting to turn over a bit, I felt my wrist tighten. And when I open my eyes, I find a familiar metal chain still hanging on my wrist.

The other end of the chain is loosely wrapped around Kiro's wrist. Looking at the bright white pearls, my mind goes blank for a while.

At that moment, the mobile phone screen next to my ear lights up, and a travel information prompt pops up.

"The pre-scheduled flight has arrived. Please arrive at the airport two hours before departure to complete formalities..."

In that instant, the strength against my waist tightens slightly, and a tired warmth presses up against it.

Kiro: [sleepily] ...Is it morning already?

MC: Mm. It's time to get up.

I forcefully turn over and peck him softly on the lips.

He lets out a "Huh", turns over and pushes me under him. Using the grip of the chain, he grabs my wrist and nuzzles my neck.

Kiro: Okay, Kiro is attempting to get up. Progress is 1%, 14%...

Kiro: [sighing in mock defeat] Kiro has failed to get up and has now entered the Miss Chips mode with a five-minute countdown...

The person behind me mutters and hugs me tighter.

I don't know how many five-minutes pass before we finally get up from the bed and wash up.

Holding me in his arms, he helps me tie the straps behind my back.

Kiro: You really don't need me to take you to the airport?

MC: No need. Didn't the director give you an "ultimatum" to arrive on set by 1 o'clock in the afternoon at the latest?

MC: You concentrate on filming. I'll contact you when I get to the airport.

Hearing this, he curls his lips in frustration.

Kiro: Sigh... I wish I had a time machine. It could take us back to last night, or take me to 20 days later, when my filming ends.

I suppress the longing in my heart, raise my head and gently kiss his lips.

MC: You can rest for a few days when you get back. There are several new handicraft stores that have opened on Huapu Street. We can wait in line to visit them.

MC: Or we can play games together at home and rest together.

Kiro: Okay, it's settled.

Warm fingertips occasionally glide across my skin through the chiffon fabric, taking their time, fearing that this little time will quietly slip away from our fingertips.

Feeling a sense of comfort in my heart, I change my position and lean into his arms, gazing up at him.

MC: How long will it take you to fasten them?

Kiro: It's a bit complicated. Might take a while.

He looks at me and says earnestly.

Kiro: So, before you get ready and leave for the airport... let me hold you like this for a while.

——*:･ﾟ✧——*:･ﾟ✧——

[PART 3]

After returning to China, I put the new collaborative project on the agenda. And in the storm of work and overtime, three weeks quickly pass by.

Kiro has successfully completed his filming and returned to China. Our reunion lasts for about two nights, but I'm unable to find the time to fulfill the promise I made to him about going shopping together--

The release date of LEEZY's new season of clothing gradually approaches, but I still haven't formulated a promotional plan that I'm sold on yet.

MC: What's missing....

Facing a dozen documents on my computer, I find myself feeling a little distressed.

Just as I am about to pick up my mug and take a few more sips of black coffee to refresh myself, a warm embrace greets from behind.

Kiro: What are you sighing about?

I put down the black coffee, smile, turn around and hug him back.

MC: Did you sleep well?

Kiro: Mm-- I just dreamed that my Miss Chips was being chased by the document monster, and I quickly woke up.

MC: ...Don't tell me. That dream is quite vivid.

Noting my slight frustration, he rubs his chin on the top of my head and looks at my screen.

Kiro: Are you still writing about LEEZY's announcement?

MC: Yeah... Their latest season's clothes were the ones they gave me before, with a lot of straps on them.

MC: I've made several promotional plans, but they all seem to lack a bit of novelty...

Kiro: Generally, brands will focus on a theme when designing a new season clothing line. Wouldn't it better to explore options based on their theme?

MC: Their clothes this season all have a lot of straps and chains on them. Their theme of design is said to be "Entwining".

MC: But this theme has been done by other brands before, so I couldn't find a unique direction to take it in.

Kiro: If you can't get any ideas by just looking at the information, shouldn't you try out some other methods?

MC: For example..?

Kiro thinks for a moment and then snaps his fingers.

Kiro: I've got a good idea. Besides, I've got nothing to do today, so let me be Miss Muse's inspiration-finding assistant!

MC: [excited] What?

He pulls me up from my seat and winks.

Kiro: Of course, we're going to use the method we're both good at - shooting!

Kiro: But this time, let's switch roles. You can be the model.

Kiro: Hmm... This angle of the light box should be fine. For the lighting...

I change my clothes, walk into the huge dance studio, and see Kiro adjusting the bracket of the lighting board.

The backdrop has been decorated by him in a simple manner, with various colorful ribbons hanging loosely but not messily. A stool is placed in the center of the background wall.

When he sees me come in, his eyes light up, and he comes over and takes my hand.

Kiro: I want the opinion of a professional producer: What do you think? Is it pretty good?

MC: It's very layered, and the color and backdrop complement each other well!

Watching my eyes light up fills him with a sense of pride.

Kiro: Feeling the theme for yourself might give you different ideas.

He leads me to sit on the stool, guides me to hook my hand on the hanging ribbon, raises his camera and presses the shutter.

After taking a few photos in various positions, we lean in front of the camera and look at the pictures.

Perhaps because of his rich shooting experience, Kiro is very good at guiding postures and states.

Kiro: What do you think?

MC: The composition and lighting are very good, and can be used as a photo album. It's just... I still feel clueless.

I look through the pictures carefully one after another, but I still get the sense that something isn't right.

MC: ....Is it possible that the characters don't fit the environment well enough?

After listening to my words, Kiro also lowers his head and thinks for a while.

Kiro: Wait for a moment.

I watch him drag out a box from the standing cabinet on the side and rummage through it. Then he picks up a large number of differently styled decorative chains and ribbons.

MC: Why do you have so much of this stuff?

Kiro: They were all leftover props from previous shoots. I had a feeling that they'd come in handy sooner or later.

Kiro: Now, let me "transform" the model and scene.

After we add some of them to the background wall, we open the stool up wide and I sit directly in the middle of this tangled up scene.

Kiro holds a long ribbon and casually wraps it around my thigh.

The cool silk gently touches my skin, making me shiver and my entire body tenses up.

As if noting my slight nervousness, Kiro chuckles, drawing the ribbon around my waist, and then wrapping it loosely around my wrist.

Kiro: Don't be nervous. Do you still remember the lesson in perception you took before?

I follow his voice and recall that in the greenhouse, he had once taught me bit by bit how to use senses other than sight to feel.

Note: This is a callback to Perception Date :>

Kiro: [voice enticingly soft] Try searching for the feeling of having your body wrapped in ribbon.

Following his voice, I carefully feel the silk wrapping around my skin - soft and thin.

Kiro's mirthful voice is akin to the ribbon entwined around my body. He gently lifts it, leaving my heart feeling a bit itchy.

Kiro: [x2] Raise your right hand a little higher... yes.

The hand holding the ribbon moves, and the soft fabric slowly slides along my skin and tightens slightly. My eyes subconsciously follow it.

"Click"--

The soft click of the shutter occasionally dissipates in the quiet air.

He adjusts the position of the ribbon around my body, arms, neck...

And the soft fabric seems to come to life in his hands, ensnaring all of my thoughts and following in his lead.

Occasionally, he adds one or two thin pearl strands that make a crisp sound every time my body sways.

I think of the chain wrapped around my wrist on that moonlit night.

My heart beats loudly, and my ears are so hot that they are on the verge of bleeding. I can't help but move my body.

MC: ...You - please be serious.

Kiro: Hm? But I am seriously trying to help you find that "entwining" sensation.

His eyes widen slightly, but the curvature at the corners of his lips betrays the cunning in his heart. It's as if he's playing an interesting "game".

I purse my lips, suddenly curious about the "reason" that has captured his interest, and with a bit of force, I grasp a hold of his wrist.

His surprised face gradually enlarges in my field of vision. He stretches out his hand to the wall beside my face in order to support and steady his body, and for a moment, his breathing becomes chaotic.

MC: In addition to being entwined, I too want to experience what it's like to entwine someone...

MC: Can this superstar help me out?

——*:･ﾟ✧——*:･ﾟ✧——

[PART 4]

There's a hint of a smile present in his brow.

Kiro: Sure.

The hand holding me tightens. He turns me over and my entire body presses up against him.

A scorching body temperature comes from our closely connected skin, and the side of my face and the base of ears are also dyed in a slight warmth.

I prop up my body, and following his example, I slowly pull a ribbon from the side and gently touch it to his ear.

His whole body seems to relax, lazily waiting for my next move.

Kiro: [whispering temptingly] Need help?

MC: I - I want to experience this for myself first.

Even though I say this, I'm unsure as to what to do next. I aimlessly wrap the ribbon around his slender fingers and slowly slide it down...

Stopping on his well-jointed wrist.

I wrap the ribbon in my hand around his wrist, imitating his actions from that night, and tie it into a somewhat clumsy knot.

He arches his eyebrows slightly and glances at me.

Kiro: [I HV NO IDEA HOW TO DESCRIBE HOW SEDUCTIVELY HE DRAGGED HIS VOICE HERE BUT HNNG-] I see... I reasonably suspect that you're trying to "avenge yourself".

MC: I'm just serious about set design!

Another pale yellow ribbon is loosely wrapped around his neck. I hold the other end of the ribbon and trail it across his arms, chest, the curves of his sides...

Then, gently tighten it.

The hair of the person in front of me is slightly tousled, and entangles with the strings of ribbon scattered on the side.

Among these bright and beautiful colors, those blue eyes gazing at me get darker and darker.

Kiro: [temptingly soft again] Does this give you inspiration?

MC: My eyes have captured it... But I also wanted to capture this on camera.

I lift up my camera and capture this scene.

His languid eyes look directly into mine through the lens, like a warm current hitting my chest.

Kiro: [x2] Actually, there's something else that could also help you.

MC: ...What?

Kiro: [x3] Unlike entangling something, untangling these entanglements could also be fun... Do you wanna try it?

He holds my hand, guides my fingers to pick up a ribbon that had dropped onto his skin, and slowly pulls it away.

I look down at him, wrapped in colorful ribbons, and at this moment, he looks as if he's waiting to be unwrapped...

Like a gift.

The memory hidden in the recesses of my mind cause my heartbeat to pound a bit out of control.

Noting the pause of my hand, Kiro raises his eyes slightly, a couple of doubts present in his eyebrows.

Kiro: ...What's wrong?

MC: It feels like I'm opening a gift...

He startles slightly, and then a smile appears on his lips.

Kiro: I've always been a gift belonging to you alone. You can open it at any time.

The black ribbon absentmindedly wraps around his fingers, drawing out lingering memories and taking me back to that Valentine's Day filled with the scent of essential oils.

This time, I take over the role of "signee". I lower my head a bit and approach him, gently tugging on the silk threads in my hand.

MC: You are also the most precious gift given to me by God.

All of this is a call back to Entwining / Unwrap the Gift Date released for the game's first Valentine's day event :>

What answers me is a gentle pressure on the back of my neck and a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth.

The pounding in the left of my chest grows faster and faster, as if mirroring my desire to open this long-awaited gift to see what surprises are kept in store.

One by one, the ribbons are pulled away from him and scattered to the side.

After tearing them all off, I am left confused for a moment. He takes my hand and gently places it on the button of his shirt.

Kiro: [voice dark & husky] You're not done yet.

A burning sensation comes from beneath the thin silk fabric.

Kiro: [x2] Continue.

Bewitched by his gentle voice, my hand slowly travels down from his collar, and with just a slight flick of my fingers, the buttons of his white shirt come undone.

One, two...

Those blue eyes seem to bear an indescribable gravity. Just the way he gazes at me alone prompts me to draw closer and closer.

By the time the last button comes undone, our breaths completely merge.

His slender fingers grasp my wrist unobjectively and he lowers his head a bit, biting the chiffon string on the bust of my dress and gently tugging it open.

His scorching hot breath falls on the skin of my chest, like a falling spark, setting my entire chest on fire.

Kiro's eyes are half-lidded, and his somewhat hoarse voice carries an inexplicable rough quality to it that gently caresses my eardrums.

Kiro: [x3] Did you like that?

His headless and baseless words are so soft that they almost scatter with the heat of his breath, but they fall heavily onto my heart.

MC: Of course I liked it... In this world, I like you the most.

Upon hearing my answer, his breath suddenly surges and almost melts into my body.

Even though it's obvious that there is no pull from any thread, my body feels bewitched. I unconsciously murmur his name.

MC: Kiro....

My fingertips glide over his skin, seeking out his deeper exploration. He deliberately feigns ignorance, however, and tilts his head in curiosity.

Kiro: What's wrong?

His curled fingers tighten a bit, and the breath in my ears makes me feel as though my ears are about to combust into flames.

I bite my lip, unwilling to lose in this silent tug-of-war, and turn my face a bit to the side.

MC: I was just thinking that I do have more ideas... Mmn.

As if dissatisfied with my answer, he lightly nips at my collarbone, causing me to tremble slightly.

Kiro: [with the hint of a sulk] I can't believe you're still thinking about "work" right now, Miss Chips.

Kiro: Looks like I'm gonna have to get even more "serious" to make you think of me with all your heart.

There's a hint of dissatisfaction in his voice, and he presses the tip of his tongue to my collarbone and gently licks it.

He unties the chiffon straps on my chest bit by bit, slowly and carefully, his gaze, now shrouded in desire, still feeling extremely precious.

Due to the time we spend together, this throbbing that almost engulfs me never seems to fade away. It only gets stronger and stronger.

MC: I always think of you with all of my heart...

I close my eyes and allow our interlocked fingers to tightly intertwine.

The last strap of chiffon is finally undone. He gently releases his teeth and the soft strap drops to the floor beside him.

Daylight gradually fades, hiding away all the warmth and turbulence of the night.

[END]

——*:･ﾟ✧——*:･ﾟ✧——

More Translations: Here

#mlqc #mlqc cn #mlqc spoilers #mlqc kiro #THIS DATE IS HOLY GWACAMOLE WORLD ON FIRE 🥵#a delectable combination of some of his best dates - Invasion date; Perception date; Unwrap the gift date #the whole push and pull between kiro n mc here had me feeling all kinds of hot #it's also very VERY romantic #plus clingy mc >>>#truly a 100/10 date. the writers did fantastic

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deke-rivers-1957 · 5 months ago

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Fun In Acapulco Review

Elvis Presley never set a single foot in Mexico. And yet he was deemed a persona non grata due to a controversy involving quotes Elvis made that legitimately never happened. Unfortunately, because of this official status disallowing Elvis from entering the country all on site shooting had to be done with a body double. Elvis himself filmed the rest of the movie entirely on a Hollywood studio.

This movie marks the beginning of the rivalry between Elvis Presley and The Beatles. Beatlemania had taken hold in the UK in 1963 with the US quickly following behind it. While their appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show wouldn't be until another few months, Elvis' place on top of the pop culture pyramid was being challenge. Does this movie put those fears at ease, or is this an early indication of Elvis' irrelevance? Let's find out.

"Fun in Acapulco" is surprisingly low key and pleasant. It genuinely gives you vibes that you're waking up in Acapulco at a resort by the beach. Then you see Elvis on a boat as a small group of Mexican singers come up and immediately realize none of his scenes will be in Acapulco. Instead, we're stuck with very obvious rear screen projections and Hollywood soundstages throughout the whole movie. There's a small moment of humor when Elvis just yells at the top of his lungs for the Mexican band to be quiet. It's not loud at all but you can tell he had to project to be heard.

Meanwhile we get a very uncomfortable interaction where a heavily implied teenaged girl named Janie is flirting with Mike Windgren. I don't like this plot point especially when we get a male gaze shot of her skirt as she walks away. Again she's heavily implied to be a minor and even in the movie it's seen as being inappropriate for an adult to show interest of any kind. It simply feels unnecessary to include that and doesn't age well at all given what we hear about Hollywood.

Mike goes to a Mexican tavern to meet up with the musicians wearing the ugliest shirt I've seen. Usually the wardrobe does a good job of making amazing outfits, but this is personally a miss. Along the way he meets a young Mexican boy named Raoul in an act of foreshadowing about the relationship they're going to have. "Vino, Dinero Y Amor" and "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here" are both ok. This is when you realize the main goal of the movie is to sell a soundtrack. Mike also meets Dolores for the first time and I think this was a great way to establish their character dynamic since you easily believe that she's just looking to have fun while she's in town. It's also incredible how so many people smoked back then, to the point where the whole room looks hazy.

Before they get too involved in their dance, Mike sees Janie at the tavern drinking alcohol. I have no idea what the drinking laws in Acapulco was in 1963, but everyone treats this as being illegal. Janie's dad sees her at the tavern despite having no idea that she'd be there. She blames Mike for bringing her there and buying her the drink and of course gets him fired because that's the most obvious set up in the world. There are so many issues with this scene I won't take the time to explain it all. It's just so pointless to even have this plot point since we literally never see anyone outside of Dolores' camp ever again and only exists because we needed to have some reason to have Mike leave his job to team up with Raoul.

Raoul informs us with something that will never lead to anything important plot wise. Mike would need to have a very specific VISA to work in Mexico. This actually makes sense given that Mr. Harkins isn't a Mexican citizen and therefore didn't require Mike to have a VISA. But since Raoul has an insanely high amount of connections he's able to get Mike a singing job while he fills in for a singer we literally never see in person and is always "out".

The logic of this surprisingly works since it's clear Raoul has genuine connections with numerous businessmen, but I'm just bummed that we never see who the actual singer is since it could've added conflict. You would think that the conflict would involve Mike working without a proper VISA and his rival planning to reveal that fact. But no, it's never brought up in a way that makes you think Mike has to worry about possibly being deported.

Raoul picks up Mike on his bike. As much as it's cute to have them sing "Mexico" Raoul's singing vocals just didn't sound right. I know he's a pre-pubescent boy but at times you just cringe when he hits the high notes. So we get introduced to Moreno but uh oh Mike looks nervous about seeing him jump off a diving board because we need foreshadowing. Mike agrees to work as a lifeguard during the siesta so no laws are being broken. Mike gets on top of one of the diving boards and we surprisingly get a backstory. Mike is a trapeze artist and we see with no dialogue how during a performance he dropped his brother. The silent horror on his face when he saw his brother lying on the floor dead, was so well done by Elvis. It isn't realistic to have everyone react to a trauma by screaming. With Mike he felt instant shame to the point where he had to look away.

That memory was so brutal, Mike of course stepped down from the diving board feeling haunted. The worse thing about the incident is that it could've been avoided. Circuses started using safety nets in the mid 19th century, so the fact that you never saw one indicates overconfidence. Sadly when you're a trapeze artist, there are people who are so confident in what they do, basic safety precautions are neglected. In Mike's brother's case, it sadly costed him his life and Mike now has to live with that guilt. He sends a telegram to his parents and it's obvious that this is a deep trauma that he couldn't recover from at home. This should've been the focus of the whole movie because it's the only thing I feel invested in. The aftermath of someone's death, especially in avoidable circumstances, rarely gets to be the focus and this would've been the perfect way to change that.

Mike sees Moreno and a woman named Margarita Dauphin. Moreno has a lot of issues with Mike being interested in her, and it's genuinely reasonable since they're actually dating. Mike meets Margarita and her father where he works as the head chef. I'm impressed he can cook so well knowing that he's a former Duke. We get a brief history lesson that they came from an unnamed European country (I personally believe it was Hungary since their monarch was abolished in 1946). This basically means that Mike is talking to a Duchess despite no longer having the title.

"El Toro" is a great song with an even better outfit. In a way it really honors the history of bullfighting and the bravery bullfighters have to possess. After his performance, he turns down publicity pictures. As much as it's rude, you understand why he doesn't want the attention. He's still working through his grief and doesn't want word getting out that he's in Acapulco since that would result in people asking him very uncomfortable questions. Mike runs into both Dolores and Margarita. Despite dating Moreno, Margarita is clearly jealous that Dolores has Mike's attention as well. Mike goes to see a man dive, and he's clearly traumatized from looking over the railing. Raoul organizes for Mike to sing a song at the restaurant. "Margarita" while good, is just a drag in terms of the story. Mike tries again to dive, but of course is too scared. He climbs back down and I love that Margarita and Raoul don't make fun of him. They surprisingly handle his trauma with respect.

Mike performs "The Bullfighter Was a Lady" and he looks even better in this scene than "El Toro". This time he's specifically honoring Dolores since she's one of the best in the business. Female bullfighters even to this day are rare because of how dangerous it is. Margarita of course is jealous despite outright being on a date with Moreno. Dolores of course knows this and doesn't care. Because at the end of the day, Dolores isn't doing anything wrong. Margarita is the one who wants to 2 time with Mike.

So the two leave and we get a "serious conversation". Dolores makes it very clear that she has no interest in marriage and only wants to have casual relationships. I love that openness since for the 1960s, a career girl wasn't as well respected. "(There's) No Room to Rhumba in a Sports Car" is the clunkiest song ever. You could just cut it and nothing is lost.

"Bossa Nova Baby" is great and there's a reason why it's so iconic. If you slowed down the playback you would see that the average person couldn't replicate this. After his performance, he wants to go see Margarita but notices Dolores is there too. Dolores is tied up with a tourist couple that I wanted to be Mike's parents so bad. Instead we never see them again. It just makes you wonder, what was the point?

In the morning, Raoul asks Mike what club he wants to work for. We see a different filming technique by showing these phone calls in a split screen which I thought was a neat touch. Mike however stalls since he still wants to get with Margarita. He meets with Moreno and Moreno things happen. Moreno meets up with Dolores manager, Jose. Jose reveals that he knows about the Flying Windgrens. Absolutely nothing important will happen because of this. Dolores arranges for a party to be arranged the next day. Margarita of course doesn't like it and makes an offhand remark to her dad that he should poison Dolores. The former Duke though has a dream to have her get married to an American so they can both get VISAs.

This is when the movie drags. Even though he reveals his trauma to Margarita it's just so shallow because the scene quick cuts to Moreno finding the truth. That's also so rushed since as soon as he finds the newspaper article we immediately cut to Dolores' party. This is the only time we see Mike's family and it's such a waste of a good story to not see them interact with Mike in person.

"You Can't Say No in Acapulco" is pretty good for a poolside ballad. In a way it really reflects the sadness Mike feels. We see Moreno dive in preparation for his upcoming cliff dive and to entertain Dolores' guests.

Raoul tells Mike about Margarita's desire to get a VISA, and Moreno tells Dolores about Mike's traumatizing past. Dolores becomes cold for no reason as she acts so disappointed that Mike is a "chicken". Mike despite feeling very hurt just walks away. Raoul meanwhile never leaves his side and it's pretty sweet that he does care about Mike beyond what he could do for him.

The former Duke clears things up with Mike. He explains that it was really his idea to get the VISAs. It was never meant to hurt anyone. He tells Mike that Margarita has gone to see Moreno dive for a famous astronaut.

As he leaves, Moreno somehow knew he would be there and follows him out of the staff's kitchen. He keeps making fun of Mike for being a coward and I have no idea what this is meant to accomplish. Moreno was already a jerk so him knowing this information doesn't change anything. While I can see how it'd be him going too far, the timing is so off. Mike should've confronted him about it as soon as told Dolores.

We see Red West in the background who cameos in a couple scenes and it's amazing that he doesn't interact with Elvis at all since usually Elvis' friends had a line or two when they did cameo. They get into a fight and I have no idea why no one's stopping them. This is essentially a crowded entrance so you would think security would break it up because of the other guests possibly getting hurt from it. Moreno gets badly injured and Mike is able to just walk away with no resistance which would never happen in real life. Unable to see Margarita he goes around the club and hears from Raoul that the dive would otherwise be canceled. I understand a lot of people think this was a cheap way to resolve his PTSD, but given how the 1960s didn't really acknowledge it outside of the military I thought it was a good shot.

The cliff scene is one of the best scenes in the movie. Mike had no obligation to fill in for Moreno, but he did it anyway. This wasn't a rash decision where in an act of heroics he stepped in. He knowingly did it with the full knowledge that it could get him killed. The near silence that comes with watching him ascend even though it's a body double for most of the scene is beautiful. Everyone watching this knows it's a risky thing to do.

Even though I'm not religious, it's very important in Mexican culture. Seeing Raoul cross himself and Mike pay tribute to the shrine on top of the cliff was absolutely necessary. Given the danger involved, it makes total sense to send a prayer. Mike had to do this before he made his jump. Symbolically speaking, he's asking for his brother's spirit to keep him safe and him diving into the water served as his baptism or rebirth. He's no longer consumed with the grief and guilt of his brother's death. He's a new man that's willing to go back to his family with his new love Margarita and his friend/manager Raoul.

"Guadalajara" is a well deserved happy ending. Moreno at least admits he was wrong to call Mike a coward. I guess with him being interested in Dolores, his relationship with Margarita is over. The song itself is good but it does drag a bit. It's almost like they didn't know how to fill in the runtime which is so weird.

Margarita despite somehow getting back with Mike still looked a little jealous when Dolores kissed his cheek. I don't think this couple will last. Mike had more chemistry with Dolores but she out of nowhere turned standoffish. It's all boring and forced to the point where Mike has his best relationship with Raoul who's a 10 year old. I just really wish that Mike's relationship with his family had more focus. The pieces were there. It's just very unfortunate that a man expressing grief wasn't something worth focusing on back then.

I think this is the first time reviewing these movies where I felt bored watching it. As much as I love the diving plot, the romance is a drag. It feels like the writing took a step backwards regarding what makes an Elvis vehicle interesting. Instead of making the romances engaging they're instead so forgettable that it's like they just included it because it's part of a checklist. I will say that it did do a good job highlighting La Quebrada Cliffs by making them integral to Mike's character arc since to this day it's a popular tourist attraction.

Because the diving plot gave me something to feel invested in, with the final dive providing a genuine sense of tension I give it a 7/10. If you're a new Elvis fan this should not be the first one you see since the songs can be very distracting, and nothing is developed enough to keep your attention. Now if you're a seasoned fan is it worth re-watching? Yes. I think you can watch it every now and then, but it's definitely the film equivalent of cotton candy: something you consume and forget relatively fast. Genuinely the first stumble in the road for Elvis' movie career where I didn't feel overly passionate about anything. And for someone in the entertainment industry, that's practically a death sentence.

Tagging: @thelonelyheart @whositmcwhatsit, @hooked-on-elvis, @smokeymountainboy, @atleastpleasetelephone,

@stitchlover0112, @tupelomiss, @vintagepresley, @eapep, @almightybigbrain,

@coltswael, @cieloestrelladoluna, @huhhhhsthings, @arrolyn1114, @peaceloveelvis,

@peskybedtime, @mercsandmonsters, @tacozebra051, @valloos, @ilovequeen978,

@elvisvideos, @presleyhearted, @depressedfairie, @kawaiiwitchy, @swingdownsweetchariot,

@ruggednessworld, @southcarolinawoman, @atrophyingaphrodite, @jrbrandi13, @summer56,

@elvismylove04, @eptodaytommorowforever, @lookingforrainbows, @araiarts, @fharysa,

@lett-them-eatt-cake, @fryb0rg, @wanderlustingtomboy, @slayingjd, @wildhorseinkansas,

@somethingaboutelvis, @jhoneybees, @elvisbooty76, @iloveelvisss, @presleyheart,

@anakinsvault, @illtakeyouhomeagain, @callieselvisobsessed, @50sexyshadesfashionista, @memphisflash,

@arianatheangel-girl, @madslovesmaws, @lucy114505, @presleygarden, @earthbaby-angelboy,

@nicferg068, @xanatenshi, @elvispresley1935, @iloveelvisss, @underthememphissun,

@cccayliexx, @thelonelyheart, @theelvisprincess and @ilovemyrockstarboyfriends.

#fun in acapulco #mike windgren #elvis film review #1963 #elvis tribute post

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sincericida · 5 months ago

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New teaser for "WE LIVE IN TIME" starring Florence Pugh & Andrew Garfield.

Premiering at Toronto International Film Festival 2024, at 6:30 PM pst Sept 6th, at the Visa Screening room of the Princess of Wales Theatre.

(source)

#we live in time #new teaser #tobias and almut #andrew garfield #florence pugh #tiff #toronto international film festival #it's happening #yes!#world premiere #every minute counts #like 💀💀💀#the press tour of we live in time will be explosive #new release #almut & tobias #andrew peter #andrew peter parker #tasm peter #sincericida

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brian-in-finance · 5 months ago

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Video 📹 from Instagram

Instagram

Remember the admiration?

#Tait rhymes with hat #Good times #The Cut #2024 #Arrivals #World Premiere #Special Presentation #49th #Toronto International Film Festival #TIFF #Visa Screening Room #Princess of Wales Theatre #5 September 2024 #Toronto Ontario Canada #Instagram #My screenrecording

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crystalflie · 2 years ago

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Two Cat People In The Same Room.

Chishiya Shuntaro x Reader x Banda Sunato

Description: Apparently raiding the department stores was everyone’s first instinct after the king of spades scare at Shibuya Cross. Now you’re stuck with only a cat hoodie over your inconvenient swimwear from the beach, and two unconventional cat lovers in a game of betrayal.

Word count: 1414

Tags: Gender neutral reader, general audiences, fluff, canon typical character behavior and description of violence, Chishiya and Banda side eyeing each other, can be platonic or romantic.

————————————————————————

Walking up the dark stairwells, it leaves much to the imagination of what can be lurking behind the shadows. While you weren’t exactly thrilled to be joining another game, a face card game to top it all off, there were only 2 days left on your visa. Might as well try to clear one of the easier ones before they get sweeped by the card collecting fanatics.

And besides, it's less risky to play now then later when only the kings and queens will be left.

The Jack of Hearts it is.

Approaching the top of the stairs, the fluorescent light coming from the room above makes you feel dizzy, having spent most of the day bouncing around the alleyways and attempting to avoid the king of spades along with his shooting rampage.

Dammit..why did you have to split up with Arisu and Usagi? You haven’t seen them since a little before the absolute massacre that was the ten of hearts. They seemed to be the only people that were even slightly trustworthy in the borderlands, which really isn’t much of an accomplishment when Niragi Suguru exists, but still.

Stepping inside the illuminated room, you quickly slip on the hood of your fluffy white jacket, suddenly feeling self conscious when realizing players were already scattered about, watching who will be the next unfortunate victim in this twisted killing game.

You glance around, taking a few seconds to observe your surroundings. The center room that you and the other players stood in currently was circular, with yellowing walls splitting into multiple hallways. It was quite spacious actually, and there was even a second floor to accompany the large complex. However, it was just a tiny bit nerve wracking with the place eerily resembling a prison.

You focus on the wooden counter in the middle of the room, and also the tv screen on your left indicating the registration requirements.

{Each player must put on a collar in order to participate}

Ah yes, the fan favorite neck exploding collars.

Glancing down, there were only two more collars remaining, and strangely enough, there was a tiny circular screen on the front. You quickly reach for one of them, before freezing as someone’s hand brushed against yours, reaching for the same one.

In that slight moment of hesitation, they had taken the collar.

You looked up, a bit offended and half expecting a meager apology, but was met with a taller man wearing a neat blue button up, who only smiled in return.

You decided to just take the other one…and hopefully avoid him later while you’re at it. A few seconds pass with you trying to snap on the collar to no avail, and while you were frustrated, you didn’t want to ask for help from strangers.

Lucky for you, you didn’t need to ask, because the cold hand from before, who you now know belongs to the weird guy that just had to take your collar, gently took the collar from your hands.

“You’re putting it on the wrong way.”

He didn’t sound condescending like you thought he would, instead just putting the collar around your neck, the item making a metallic click sound as it securely snapped closed.

It took every muscle in your body to not flinch back from how cold his fingertips were when they made contact with your much warmer neck.

What is up with weirdos and having cold hands?

Chishiya also had cold hands.

Not that you ever held his hand, or thought about holding his hand, but you just knew.

“Oh, uh..thanks.”

At least the blue button up guy was helpful, more than the other people just staring.

You thought that concluded your painfully awkward interaction, but the man leans a little closer to your face and lowers his voice.

“My name is Banda. Banda Sunato. We should be friends.”

Yes, you could use a friend. A trustworthy one.

And you weren’t desperate enough to settle for Banda.

“Uhm..”

Banda waits for you to reply, and he really hopes you’ll be compliant. He just couldn’t help it, see, he just really liked…cats.

He hadn’t seen any animals since waking up in the borderlands, and the only thing he really missed from the ‘real world’ was his pet. So when he walked in and saw you in your cat-eared hoodie, all he could think about was how he wasn’t there to feed his cat (whom he creatively named Kitty)…and how easily blood can taint your white jacket.

Another smile seemed to grow on Banda’s face at your visible nervousness, but he wasn’t given long to appreciate it as a robotic voice filled the air from the speakers.

{The Game Will Commence}

Everyone’s attention was captured by the flickering tv screen that began displaying the rules.

{Solitary Confinement}

{Each round will last one hour. Players must guess the suit: heart, spade, diamond, or club displayed on their collar by the end of the round within five minutes. Players must report their answer inside a cell of their choosing.}

Murmurs arose around the room, and you instinctively reached up to touch your collar, now realizing that the tiny circular screen was on the back of your neck.

And everyone else’s.

{Failure to do so will result in a Game Over.}

{Clear condition: Eliminate the Jack of Hearts hidden among the players.}

{Time limit: None. All player’s visas will be frozen throughout the game. Enough food has been provided in the cafeteria.}

You share the same look of shock as many others, the thought of staying here for a long period of time leaving a bad taste in your mouth.

{Round one: Start}

There was a countdown that began immediately on the screen. People were starting to talk about the rules, and you remembered that you were still standing next to Banda. He seemed to be listening in, and you took the chance to scurry away before he could try to talk to you.

Multiple voices engaged in conversation, seemingly suspicious of the simple nature of the game.

“Well this is easy. We can just tell each other our suits.”

“But the rules mentioned that the Jack of Hearts is one of us, wouldn’t they lie to make us lose?”

“Meaning, this game would go on forever unless someone lies to the Jack.”

The last stranger's voice makes your eyes widen, looking around the room until they land on a figure leaning against the wall, arms crossed.

Chishiya.

He was alive, with his clean white summer hoodie and calm demeanor, completely fine even after the destruction of the beach. You weren’t exactly close per say, but a few interactions here and there and it was impossible to forget him.

Someone like Chishiya stood out too much, and you didn’t know whether it would be better or worse for him to remember you or not.

You might’ve stared a bit too long, because when everyone began to disperse and form their own little alliances, Chishiya caught your eyes, raising his eyebrows and grinning when you looked away again.

“Hey.”

You jump, feeling a hand grip your shoulder from behind.

It’s Banda, and he’s amused at your jumpiness by his presence.

“What do you say? Let’s be useful to each other.”

His way of wording things made it sound as if he lacked understanding of how human relations worked on the surface level. Can you really trust a man like Banda?

“Oh, I-“

Someone else butts in, stepping in next to you.

“Actually, that’s my partner.”

You held your breath when Chishiya, still full of as much audacity as the day you met him, pursed his lip and waited for Banda to back off.

Banda’s expression was unreadable, looking over at you for confirmation.

“Really? I haven’t seen you two talk at all.”

Oh.

So, Banda has been watching.

Chishiya prepared to say something else, but another small voice sounded a few feet away.

“Oh uh..”

A boy wearing a yellow striped shirt and overalls looked at you nervously, then looked back on the floor.

Chishiya and Banda glanced at each other, then at the boy, as if saying ‘what?’.

The boy bowed politely, addressing you.

“I-I was wondering if you would like to be partners!”

The two men beside you scoffed, not really expecting a third competition. But it wasn’t as if you'd pick Mr.Overalls who randomly came up over them, right?

“O-oh yeah, sure.”

Both of their smirks drop.

~AN: This is my first time writing a reader insert, so I hope it is okay. If anyone is interested in part two, let me know, and feel free to ask any questions. ♡︎~

#aib season 2 #chishiya shuntarou #chishiya x reader #banda sunato #banda x reader #chishiya #aib banda #aib s2 #alice in borderland #chishiya shuntaro #banda sunato x reader #shuntaro chishiya #sunato banda #chishiya shuntaro x reader

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wishitweresummer · 4 months ago

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Unstoppable

Word count: 1997

George laughed softly at his two favorite idiots, that bittersweet feeling washing over him again. An ocean away…but not for long…right?

“Dream, shut up shut up shut up SHUT UP SHUT UP!!!”, Sapnap got louder and louder as he tried to drown Dream out to no avail.

“-and he cried! I made him call me daddy, George!”, he wheezed. It sounded like he was shaking his head. “And he did!!”.

“Dream!!! I’m going to come over there and kick your ass!!!”

“If you come over here I’m going to tickle you again.”, Dream recovered quickly from his laughing fit to purr the threat into his mic.

“SHUT UP!!!”.

George put his chin in his hand and balanced it on the desk, grinning at Sapnap’s red face. At the sound of Dream starting up again, he slid his eyes over to the black screen and familiar icon in the middle.

Dream and Sapnap had lived together for a few weeks now. As soon as George got his visa he could join the fun.

‘Soon.’, he thought.

“I can’t wait for you to get here George. You can help me take him down.”.

“Soon!”, he chirped. It really was more sweet than bitter. Sapnap huffed like a child and crossed his arms, sinking back into his gaming chair. George knew any other time he would see Sapnap fling insults or even run out of the room to go confront Dream in person. But now, he stayed put with the threat of tickles. “I’m actually not ticklish, so I’d be pretty useful as an ally.”.

“No way!”.

“No shot!”. The exclamations were yelled in sync, making George laugh.

And with that, one more thing added to the list of things they needed to do as soon as George got to Florida.

-Dream face reveal

-Disney

-Pick out another furry friend for Patches together

-Sapnap’s first legal drink

-Tickle fight

~•~

The next time tickling is brought up, it’s weeks later and just George and Sapnap in their comfy vc.

“He’s really ticklish. If I could just get him pinned he would be fucked, dude.”, Sapnap said to his bedroom ceiling.

“Is he really that big?”, George asked quietly. Sapnap scoffed, shaking his head in amusement at the strange question.

“Well yeah, but you’ve seen like, his body. Bro’s six two.”.

“Shortnap.”, he quipped quickly, giggling.

“Laugh it up George. I actually workout! What do you think is going to happen to you?”.

“Oh, well I’m not ticklish.”.

“Everybody is ticklish.”.

“No, not everybody. It just doesn’t do anything to me.”.

Sapnap grinned. Somehow, George knows.

Sapnap thought back to the last time he heard George lose his shit. That insane cackling in person was deafening.

“I wish I had tickled you when I visited you in England.”.

“I’m not ticklish! Really!”.

~•~

Sapnap’s scream clipped the mic and George squirmed in his chair a little, wishing Dream would turn on his camera.

They had all been watching a new horror movie together when George had gotten a message.

Sap: I’m gonna scare the glizz out of Dream

And scare he had. Dream had been so enthralled in the movie he hadn’t noticed Sapnap slip out of frame. After a minute;

Startled yelp. Sapnap’s mean laughter. A scuffle. A chair crashing to the floor. Begging. A squeal. Raspy laughter. Pleads for mercy. Screaming when they were ignored. Dream’s cocky teases. Hysterical laughter. Apologies. More laughter.

Man…George wished he was there actually. He could help Dream punish Sapnap. Or help Sapnap put Dream in his place. The horror movie faded out of his interest entirely as he listened to his two best friends laugh. Dream’s familiar cry rang out. Maybe Sapnap had got some ground in the fight? He grinned and stared at the little Dream icon as the faceless man’s laughter boomed. He tried his best to picture in his head what was happening, but the image of Dream kept blurring into nothingness.

George jumped at another one of Sapnap’s piercing screams.

“George, help!!!”, he wailed. His laughter had a helpless edge to it and George wondered if Dream had gotten him pinned.

“I’ll be able to soon!”. But, they couldn’t hear him when he was so far away. “Soon.”.

~•~

The amount of tickling in the Dream House seemed to ramp up, to George’s ambivalence. He found himself hyperfocusing on it a bit. The other two were easy to egg on. Sapnap had a competitive streak and the fact that he hadn’t gotten the best of Dream in a tickle fight yet seemed to bug him.

“Who’s more ticklish?”, he asked one day over a game of Bedwars.

“Dream.”.

“Sapnap.”, they answered at the same time. George laughed.

~•~

Eventually, the future came hurtling in. A visa was granted. Suitcases were packed. A mask was removed.

And George came home.

~•~

It was a whirlwind of excitement; that first day. Dream and George were having a bit of trouble separating, too excited to be in person.

Dream giggled, standing in the doorway. He had been trying to leave for ten minutes, but just kept hovering and egging on the conversation. George was trying to scowl at him from the floor, but failing. The giddy energy of finally being with his best friends was crawling across his skin. He had to hold himself back from jumping up to touch Dream’s face. It was so real. He stood tall in the doorway, nearly touching the top with his curls.

George forced himself to look back down at the clothes he was sorting through. His suitcases were all open and stuff was strewn around the room. He thought back to when he had moved into his first apartment alone. The feelings mixed into the memories were different. He had been happy, for sure. But not like this. This wasn’t moving out, this was more like coming home. He knew it was cliche and sappy…but it was true.

Dream almost made it out of the room, but Sapnap appeared and wedged his own body into the doorframe so he could smoosh up to Dream. They both giggled as they shoved each other painfully against the wood. George desperately fought to not stare at them with all the fondness in the world.

“Gogy.”, Sapnap coo’ed, popping through the door to stumble towards George and fall to his knees next to him. George giggled.

“Sappy.”, he reached out and pushed gently against the younger’s shoulder. He had been struggling all day to keep his hands to himself now that his best friends were in reaching distance.

Dream took Sapnap’s entrance as his go ahead to join George on the floor again. Both had stated they were going to leave him alone to sort through his bags and start unpacking. George was glad they were failing to leave. He kind of hoped he was never alone again.

“Go away!”, he laughed and shoved at both of them.

~•~

George couldn’t help the giggles spilling from his lips as Dream cornered him in the living room. He knew he wasn’t ticklish, but Dream’s size and confidence was lighting his nerves on fire.

“Get him, Dream!”, Sapnap called from the couch.

“You said we would team up against him!”, George squeaked out. He gasped as his back found the wall.

Dream’s large hands were suddenly on his waist and he shrieked as he was twisted down to the ground.

“Dream!”, he cried, flustered.

He jumped a little as Dream went to work squeezing up his sides and shaking his fingertips into his rib cage. George slowly calmed down, just observing so he would know exactly what the other thought would tickle him.

“No shot. You have to be ticklish somewhere!”, Dream shook his head in disbelief and poked quickly into George’s stomach.

“Holy shit.”, Sapnap muttered, hanging over the back of the couch to watch him.

“Damn…okay…here?”, Dream asked as he reached back and grabbed George’s thigh. He squeezed at the muscle above his knee. George only lifted himself up on his elbows and gave Dream a little smile.

“Sorry.”, he shrugged. “Alright, my turn now.”, he said quickly and grabbed Dream’s sides before he could react. The boy squawked and almost completely collapsed against him.

George used the element of surprise and shoved himself up into Dream’s body. With a little force, he was able to flip their positions so he was on top. Sapnap cheered.

He attacked Dream’s ribcage like he had tried only a minute earlier; pressing all of his fingertips in lightly and shaking them roughly against the bones. Dream screamed. George and Sapnap both laughed as Dream turned into a squirming mess.

“What the fuck?!”, he cried. His hands shoved roughly against George’s chest, but George invaded his space again quickly and poked rapid fire into his stomach like he had done earlier. Dream’s entire body convulsed suddenly and he squealed. “Okay!!”.

“You’re so ticklish!”, George grinned. He reached back and latched onto Dream’s thigh. The boy bucked violently and shrieked with laughter. George laughed and he struggled to stay on. “Holy shit!”.

“You’re meme’ing him.”, Sapnap giggled.

“Fuck you!!”, Dream squeaked.

Sapnap grinned as he watched Dream completely fall to pieces under the smaller boy. It was so gratifying after being tickled to death by him a million times since they moved in together. Everytime Dream got a hold of George’s hand or started to shove him off, he squealed with helpless laughter and crumbled back to the floor from a new ticklish attack.

Just as Sapnap was starting to think it was the best day ever, George stood and set his sights on him.

“Oh shit.”, he muttered before scrambling to his feet. Dream was nothing but a giggly puddle as George left him to dart after Sapnap.

Before he could reach the door, a weight hit his back and sent both boys tumbling painfully across the floor. They both giggled hysterically as they wrestled. Sapnap’s giggles pitched up in panic as he blocked George’s playful fingers again and again.

“Get away, you psycho!”, he squeaked. A sneaky hand was shoved into his armpit and he crumbled. He gasped out harshly before bursting into laughter. The touch was mean right away. It made sense, knowing George’s merciless nature. It just sucked being the victim of it.

“Squeaky.”, George smirked and dropped both his hands down to Sapnap’s sides. His face burned as helpless laughter bubbled out of him against his will.

Sapnap cursed himself for not running earlier. George had just taken down Dream! There was no escaping the onslaught of tickles. He screamed in protest as devious hands shoved up into his shirt and grabbed at his bare sides.

“Okay, please!”, he pleaded, throwing his ego out the window to maybe get George to stop.

“Are you begging me right now, Stinknap?”.

“Yes! Yes, please! No more!”, he cried through his laughter. His torso was jumping and shaking at the electric touch directly into his muscles. He tugged at George’s arms and slipped into hysterical laughter. He kicked against the floor helplessly. He was so screwed. George was grinning like a demon as he dug his fingers expertly into his sides. Sapnap squealed. “Please!”.

Suddenly, George was lifted off of him. George yelped and burst into giggles as Dream held him up.

“Lemme at ‘im!”, he yelled as he kicked in the air and made grabby hands at Sapnap. They all laughed at the absolutely ridiculous situation.

“Fuck, I can’t believe this.”, Sapnap rubbed at his red face and tried to shake off his giggles. His body still buzzed from George’s rough touch.

“I told you guys I wasn’t ticklish!”, George laughed as he was placed back down on his feet.

~•~

George actually not being ticklish was just one of the many new things they learned about each other by living together. It was never a dull moment in the house and George thought he might never be bored again.

#mcyt tickle #lee!sapnap #lee!dream #ler!georgenotfound #dream team tickle #dream team fluff

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telleroftime · 2 years ago

Text

Small Comfort ||| Chishiya x Reader

You and Chishiya have been grouped together for a game and you didn’t anticipate the amount of people there. You’re panicking, but Chishiya grounds and comforts you in his own way.

———————————————

Request - Anonymous

Pairing: Chishiya Shuntarō x Female ! Reader

Relationship: Romantic

Tone: Angst to Fluff

Word Count: 1k

Warnings: Reader has Social Anxiety, Light Panic Attack (?)

Oneshot Masterlist

A/N: "It should be posted within the next few days" I said. It has been nearly three weeks. I may have forgotten to work on this.

———————————————

Tonight was the last night of your visa, a fearful "zero days remaining" bright on the phone's screen, and you had to leave the ironic, stone walls of the hotel. The foe utopia hidden behind the title of the Beach demanded obedience, and with it the order that you could not leave unless the timer struck zero. You were to remain lost within the sickening party of alcohol and deception until the very last second, and you were to be a servant to Hatter until your very last breath. That way they ensured your total 'loyalty'.

And, because of that loyalty, tonight you had to leave. This night you had to participate in the death games, and, no matter the risks, you were happy that Chishiya chose to come with you.

He was wordless when he approached you within the packed lobby, only cocking his head with a knowing smirk before his expression fell back to a mask of cold neutrality.

He was worldless when Hatter announced the beginning of the night's entertainment and when each pre-decided group made its way to the old vehicles prepared by the iron gates of the hotel.

He was wordless when he entered the van and claimed the very back seats for the two of you.

There weren't a lot of you in the van the Beach's scouts managed to get their hands on. There were only five people if you counted both you and Chishiya: the driver who sat with thinly lined lips and wrinkles highlighting his frown; two women who huddled up in the seats in front of you, wrapped in each other's arms with scared eyes; Chishiya who leaned his chin on his fist and looked silently out of the window; and you.

To your surprise, the ride towards the site of the rising white light was a silent and pleasant one. Other than the hushed murmur of the two women, everyone seemed to mind their own business. The driver was diligently following the red line on the paper map, and Chishiya spared a few quiet glances at you. It was a comfortable atmosphere.

At least for however long it lasted.

You knew that it was going too well when you left the confines of the van, Chishiya aiding your dismount with a tentative hand that slipped back into the safety of its pocket the second you let go.

You followed him and the rest of the group up and into the bright building, seemingly a shorter office block, holding onto Chishiya by the fabric of his jumper. Step after step you made your way following the “Game” signs until you reached the table adorned with a variety of phones. Before you could grab one, you spared a glance at your surroundings.

There were too many people.

You tried to remain focussed as dark and cold eyes stared at you and your group. The two women quickly diffused into the corner and the driver stood with a hulking figure adjacent to the entrance. Noticing their actions only brought your attention ever so closer to the crowd of people. There were men in suits and women in matching garments. A high-schooler stood by the distant wall, seemingly staring you down as one finger coiled around the pink strands in her hair.

You felt like the world slowed around you. There were maybe twelve - no… thirteen strangers there that mixed with your group’s five. Seventeen people in the confines of one empty room.

You didn't know how it was possible. Other than the Beach, people didn’t tend to crowd together. Of course you didn’t doubt the luck in some cases. You’ve seen a lot of people participate in these games before; you've seen plenty of people walk towards different lights. Added up there realistically had to be this many people stuck within the Borderlands.

Another person entered, and you struggled to breathe. Eighteen.

There were eighteen people in one room. There were seventeen sets of eyes staring you down. Studying you. Judging you.

It didn’t matter if that was actually the case, but it felt like their eyes were digging into your skin. The space was suffocating. The walls felt like they were shrinking and spinning and warping and you couldn’t help but wrap your arms around yourself. Your body shook and your blood ran cold. It felt as if a large stone lodged itself in the base of your throat.

Your ears were ringing and your mind felt numb.

There were seventeen other people in one room.

You could hear their voices singing in your head:

‘Have you seen what she’s wearing?’

‘Look at how small she looks right now.’

‘Is she scared? Pathetic.’

‘Ha! Look at her hands. She's trembling.’

‘She-‘

Chishiya’s body gently pressed into you, his upper arm bumping against yours. The motion acted as a means of grounding that caused you to swallow down the terror as you were brought back to reality.

The room was still and none of the people were even remotely looking at you. Most were chatting amongst each other. The rest were looking down. Other than Chishiya’s, there was not a single pair of eyes looking you down.

You tried your best to breathe steadily as you noticed the room was bigger than you previously thought. The walls were no longer a predatory trap. You were safe enough, and you inhaled a shaky breath, almost missing the shuffle of fabric next to you.

What you didn’t miss was Chishiya’s outstretched hand in the corner of your eye, presenting you with one side of his Sony earphones.

Gingerly, you took it from his hand and looked at it before your eyes glanced up at the blonde's face. There was a quirk to his lips, but it wasn't a mocking one - it never was a mocking one. It was a silent invitation of comfort that acted as a substitute to his eyes that didn't dare to look at you.

He had noticed your panic straight away and he cared enough to intervene.

And you let out a breath, putting in the earbud.

The sound of the music was a pleasant distraction and a temporary remedy to your anxieties. It melted away the weight that was heavy on your chest mere moments ago, and it allowed you to breathe steady.

It was a comfort that you loved from him, and it was a comfort that allowed you to stand there beside him, waiting for the registration to close.

———————————————

Oneshot Masterlist

#toonce writes #chishiya x reader #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya imagine #chishiya oneshot #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya x y/n #chishiya fanfic #chishiya fanfiction #alice in borderland #alice in boderland x reader #chishiya headcanons

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formulaforza · 2 years ago

Text

miss americana & the heartbreak prince

—03. i think i fell in love today —word count: 7.5k —warnings: despicable tooth rotting clawing my eyes out eating the stuffing in my pillows fluff. truly its horrendous. lets talk about it. —love, mackie... i'm sleeping hopefully. right now I am hammocking. the ice cream truck just drove past. I love June.

After Paris, Chris was a bit apprehensive when it came to her ability to navigate the airport in Abu Dhabi with any sort of efficiency. Especially not now, where she needs to go through customs and register for a visitor’s visa and find her luggage and get her money exchanged. Pleasantly, though, she’s surprised at the ease she works through her notes app checklist. It’s within the hour that she’s climbing into the backseat of a taxi and heading to the hotel.

She spends the entirety of the twenty-something minute drive doing a deep dive on Joris’ Instagram. He’s going to be waiting for you, Charles had told her the night they’d worked it all out. How he knew his friend would be free is beyond Chris, but that's not even the bigger issue at hand. The issue is, of course, that she’s had no more than a momentary interaction with Joris in the background of a FaceTime call two weeks ago. The thought of breezing past him in the hotel lobby is a mortifying one.

It’s quarter after seven by the time she gets there, and when she catches a glance of herself in a mirror on the wall and almost bursts into laughter. Someone could tell her that she fell down the stairs in Austin and hit her head and is in a coma and it would feel more believable than her life right now. This just… this doesn’t happen to her; five star hotels in foreign countries and heavy accents and guys who call her beautiful from the other side of the globe.

She spots Joris in an armchair on his phone at the other end of the lobby. She approaches nervously, and he stirs from his phone at her sudden proximity. “Hi,” Chris greets, sounds almost apologetic for interrupting him. “Joris, right?”

“Uh, yeah,” he nods, dragging out the vowel sounds when he glances back down at his screen. Chris wonders if he knows he’s waiting for her.

She smiles. “I’m Chris.”

“Right!” He snaps his fingers, shoves his phone into his pocket. “Chris.” He stands and opens his arms to hug her like they’re old friends. It’s a move straight from her book, one that she’s pulled on dozens of people before. It’s not one that she’s met with often. Chris thinks they’ll get on well, her and Joris. That’s a good thing, right? Friendly friends.

Chris’ mom had told her more than once that the quickest way to know someone’s character is through their friends. Only a maniac is rude to animals and elderly and children, she’d said a million times over, it’s the character of the people they choose to spend time with that matters. Joris has no idea Chris is silently observing his every action, picking them apart on a human level.

On the elevator ride up, Joris fills Chris in on everything that’s happened during the free practices that day, tells her that it’s been a relatively clean couple of sessions. You do know of the risk this weekend, yes? P2 or P3, he asks and answers his own question. Chris nods. If she didn’t know, she does now. The room is on the fifth floor, she notes, staring at the glowing five button as she picks at her cuticles. It hits her like a ton of bricks, her anxiety skyrocketing as the elevator ascends, her stomach left behind on the ground level.

This whole thing is crazy, and not the quirky, silly story you tell your friends about over a vodka cran crazy. Just plain crazy. Insane. Off the wall absurd. Why, why are they sharing a room? Why is she even here? What is it about her that can’t be found somewhere, anywhere, else? And the most prudent question, the one ringing in her ears louder with each passing moment; what is it about him?

Chris has never considered herself to be logical, not in the slightest, but she does like to maintain the idea that she’s well grounded. She might not always act in a way that makes the most sense, but she always makes those choices within the bounds of her reality.

And, because her nerves permeate off her like a thirteen-year-old’s B.O, Joris takes a stab at cooling her down. “How was your planes?”

��Good. Smooth.” she nods, forces a smile. Her weight shifts from heel to heel, thumbs looped through her backpack straps. The floor is a shiny black marble with white and gold veins, one that commands your attention. Chris pulls her eyes from it to look at him anyway. Nervous and insane or not, she wants to make a good impression. “I could do without navigating the airport in Paris ever again, though.”

“Oh,” he laughs. “It never gets easier.”

“Does any of it?” She offers up a laugh, but it’s as genuine as the smile her face held before.

He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off with the ding of the doors opening. There, in the hallway with more marble floors and a wallpaper that walks the line between elegant and gaudy, a couple stands on a white carpet runner. The man has on a Mercedes cap. Chris wonders if they know a Formula One driver is staying on their floor.

The four of them sidestep awkwardly around each other with polite smiles to the floor, and before she knows it Joris is holding a keycard over the lock on a heavy door and handing the piece of plastic to her.

It’s not a room. It’s a suite. There’s a living room and a kitchenette and a whole separate bedroom to this place. It’s expensive, wildly so, she’s sure.

She wheels her suitcase into the bedroom, leaves it in the corner by an armchair with her backpack. At the bottom of the bag is her purse, which she digs out while Joris is using the bathroom, moving things around from one bag to the other.

The drive to the circuit is twenty minutes, at least, and Joris talks the whole time, mostly about how nervous he is and how hard he’s trying to make sure Charles doesn’t notice. Chris doesn’t tell him that Charles is also beyond nervous about the whole thing–or that he knows good and well everyone around him is losing their minds. It doesn’t seem like the type of thing that would make Joris feel any better.

“Pascale and Enzo, you know them, yes? Charles’ Mum and brother?” Joris questions.

“Nope,” Chris shakes her head. “Not yet.”

Oh, he doesn’t say. “You’ll like them if you like Charles,” he laughs. “You do like Charles?”

Chris bites down on a smile, a laugh leaving her nose in an exhale. “I do.”

“Good, good.” He nods. “Anyway, they are not here tonight, they already have gone back to the hotel. Arthur is there, still. Do you know him?”

“I think it’s going to be easier for both of us if you just assume I don’t know anyone.”

“Ah, okay. Will do.”

Chris wonders what Charles has said about her to Joris, to Arthur, to anyone. All of the stories he has or hasn’t told them about. She has almost exclusively not talked about him back home. Not because she doesn’t want to, she just can’t figure out how to say anything without sounding like a reality television star. Maybe he’s the same way. There’s a real chance that nobody in his family even knows that she’s coming, and maybe that’s the way she’d like it to be.

Her reunion with Charles couldn’t be more different than their first meeting. The paddock is empty with exception of team crews and straggling media members. There isn’t a Bud Light in sight and the pass hanging around her neck has a picture of her on the back. He must’ve pulled it from her Instagram, the one that he keeps talking about wanting to follow back. A picture of her and CHRISTYN ELLIOTT - FULL WEEKEND written in bold letters.

“He’s probably at the briefing,” Joris explains, checking his watch and walking one stride for every two of Chris’. She tries her hardest to keep up with him as he expertly navigates the paddock, all while trying to memorize his moves so she doesn’t end up stranded sometime this weekend.

A whistle gets their attention, cutting sharply through the hot desert air. Her and Joris both snap their heads around to find the perpetrator of the summons. Charles pats Pierre’s shoulder and jogs ahead of the group of drivers, all already engaged in their own conversations and heading off into different directions.

He has such a carefree smile on his face, jogging over with happy eyes and wiggling brows and a stupid little wink that puts a smile on her face. “Hello, Christyn,” he quips, greets her with open arms. And then, once his arms are pulling her to him so tight she can’t take a full breath, when he has so much energy to give her he can’t help but rock on the sides of his feet, he whispers just for her, “Hi,” a soft kiss on the crown of her head, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

All she can think about is how warm he is. Warm, and smells so nice. She doesn’t know how she’s going to ever go home. Not when he’s so warm.

“How was the planes?” He asks, an arm comfortable slotting around her as they resume their walk to wherever it is she’s being led.

“Uh, I’m tired, but.” She smiles. At him. Right there where she can touch him. Where he is touching her. “I’m here, so. I’m happy.”

On the walk back to hospitality, she asks him how his day’s gone. He’s sure she already knows, that Joris talked her ear off the entire drive over or that she’d checked the media reports of the practice sessions, but it’s nice to pretend she doesn’t know. He tries to summarize everything as concise as he can, because even though he loves talking to her, he’d much rather listen. He can listen to her talk until the sun burns out.

He’s not surprised to notice that Joris has peeled off from them, especially not because he didn’t even realize he wasn’t trailing behind him and Chris until he held open the door to his driver’s room and Joris was nowhere to be found.

He can’t count the amount of texts he’s had to have sent Chris from his driver’s room. How badly he wanted to just be talking with her, and now she’s here. She’s here, she’s here, she’s here with him.

He moves around the room, cleaning and reorganizing his things for a fresh start in the morning. Casually, he mentions that he has a sponsorship obligation tonight, last race and all, and that Arthur and Joris are coming along. He doesn’t speak it so offhandedly because he’d forgotten, but because he didn’t want her to get freaked out by the idea of it. He explains that she’s welcome to tag along, or, if she’d feel more comfortable, she can stay here while Andrea packs up his things.

She’s leaning against the wall just next to the doorway, watching him. Without hesitation, she replies, “I’ll come with you.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, looking to her. “You don’t have to.”

She nods, looks at the ground or the couch or something that isn’t him, folds her hand to look at her nails and lets out an almost silent laugh. His stomach drops. “You sound like you don’t want me to go.”

“No, no.” He corrects, and she still doesn’t look at him. He waves for her attention, cocks his head to the side when he gets it, “No. That’s not. I just want you to do what you want to do.”

“I want to go.”

“Okay,” he smiles.

She crosses her arms over her chest, looks like she’s trying so hard not to smile at him. “You’re being weird, you know?”

He shrugs, because she’s right. “I told you I would be.”

“Well,” Chris sighs, moves across the room to the small couch in the corner, “why are you being weird?”

“Because.” I want to kiss you, he stops himself from saying. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I saw you twenty minutes ago, since you decided to come, since I met you, maybe.

“Because, why?” She laughs, and he’s suddenly struck with the thought of what her laughter might taste like. Sweet, surely, just like it sounds. Like a popsicle on a summer day.

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he tries his absolute hardest to wipe that thought from his brain before texting his brother back. “Je veux t'embrasser tout le temps,” I want to kiss you all the time, he mumbles, isn’t even sure it actually leaves his lips or if he keeps it locked in the vault. He continues to send his reply to Arthur.

“You know I don’t understand what you just said,” Chris reminds him. That’s why it came out in French, he thinks. Not everything is meant to be said.

“I said,” he pauses, sends the text, looks back at her. God. “I said I want to kiss you.”

She crosses one leg over the other, looks down at her pants like there is something in her lap to fix. He can see the blush on the tips of her ears, even though she’s trying to hide her cheeks. When she does look up, face still flushed, she tucks her bangs behind her ears and replies softly, “you’re allowed to kiss me, Charles.”

He can’t believe he hasn’t yet. That he’d hugged the life out of her, kissed her hair and told her how happy he is she’s there, that he’d thought about kissing her for weeks, that he didn’t fucking kiss the girl yet. They’re sharing a bedroom tonight, and he still hasn’t kissed her. He thought about it, he did. But they’d promised to keep things as quiet as they could. Now, he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t have stopped him from throwing all those conversations out the window.

If there wasn’t something weird in the air before, there certainly is now. A new weird. A good weird. An implication of something in the air, weird. It’s out there now, ust hanging above them. I want to kiss you. You can kiss me. Now all that’s left is for one of them to make the move.

It’s the least he can do–make the first move. She flew across the globe, he can fucking kiss her. He wants to fucking kiss her. He feels like a little kid, the giddy smile that pulls on the corners of his lips when he walks over to her. He does little to conceal his intent.

“What?” She asks with a smile on her face. A tease, she has to know.

He holds out his hands, palms forward to her and she follows his lead, reaches up to lace their fingers together. “I like you, you know?” He asks, leans his weight against her hands. Some hands are just meant to be held.

She giggles like a child, pure and innocent and like nothing bad has ever happened to her. Like the childhood dog and all four grandparents are still kicking. “I can’t hold you up.”

“What?” He quirks a brow, leans more weight onto her hands and she laughs harder, her arms shaking below him.

“Charles!”

“I said I like you, Chris!”

Through weak arms and uncontrollable belly laughs, she manages to choke out in gulps for air, “I like you, too.” In a swift movement, he recenters his weight on his own feet, pulling Chris up from the couch. The force of his pull almost knocks her from her feet, both of them still laughing, fingers dancing with the others on either side of their frames. The laughter is light and airy and barely there, but it’s laughter nonetheless. When their hands do fall apart, their pinkies stay looped together without force, without any pull at all, just comfortably slotted against the other. “I really like you,” she adds, and her voice sounds like smiles look.

She blushes under her own words, over the entirety of their private moment, eyes darting from eyes to lips and back to eyes. “Yeah?” He asks quietly, like he’s scared asking might change her answer. She nods, biting down on the smile that paints her bottom lip, and it’s more than enough for him. She’s so good. She’s too good not to kiss.

He moves a hand to her jaw, thumbs her cheek with fingers slotted behind her ear, dancing along her hairline like a whisper of what’s to come. Like a promise. In the absence of his hand, hers finds his chest, just his thin Ferrari shirt separating her palm from the butterflies stirring wildly in his chest. “Me, too,” he says softly. Softer than she did, more to her lips—soft and pretty and his favorite shade of pink—than to her eyes. And then, either so softly only the atoms hear it, or maybe in his head entirely, “very much.”

And then he kisses her.

She tastes like mint chapstick and biscoff cookies and coffee. Her lips are soft, softer than they looked, softer than her voice. It’s like a boost of energy, kissing her. Like an immediate and complete charge.

She tightens her grip on his other pinky. Tightens it, loosens it, re-intertwines the whole hand somewhere off in the distance, far, far away from where he wishes to stay forever. This alone is worth a flight anywhere. Altitude sickness and limbs falling asleep and jet lag and headaches from screaming babies are all poor inhibitors when this would be waiting for him on the other side.

He pulls his hand from hers because it's just not close enough. Nothing is going to be close enough, but he’ll try his damndest to cup her jaw and pull her deeper into the kiss. Their noses bump awkwardly and they pull apart in a breathless laugh. Nothing more than a quick, shared smile and he’s kissing it off her face, tugging on her bottom lip with his teeth and letting her hum mumbles into his mouth. Teeth clacking and more laughing, so breathless it’s practically silent.

“Chris Elliott,” he says all sing-songy, just because he knows it’ll make her laugh. A quick peck, because he can. “You are something.”

“Charles Leclerc,” she mimics, wide eyes and raised brows and a beaming smile. A quick peck, because he’s never going to stop her. “Something good?”

He hums. “Something great.”

“You’re silly,” she says, and he laughs.

“Silly?” She nods. “You’re cute.” Chris rolls her eyes, but still has that child’s smile on her face and a pink flush to her cheeks. He kisses her again, quick, because he has a month to make up for.

“I know,” she retorts, deadpan. He laughs louder than any sane man should.

Joris, Arthur, and Andrea file into the room a few minutes later. Chris is leaning against the wall again, scrolling through her phone. She clicks it off when they walk in, shoves it deep into her purse pocket.

Andrea’s eyes bounce from Chris to Charles, and then back to Chris, holding out a hand for her to shake. “Andrea,” he greets, formal and cool.

“Chris,” she smiles, shakes the outstretched hand.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah,” she nods. “You too.”

First bad impression. She doesn’t know what it is she did, but with the simple half-minute observation of his interactions with her versus the rest of the people in the room, it’s obvious he’s already soured on her.

Arthur, though, Arthur is almost off putting in his resemblance to Charles. Same voice, same face, certainly same bloodline. She thinks she could recognize him anywhere, probably. He, however, on his phone, doesn’t even notice Chris’ presence in the room until Joris elbows him on the sofa.

“Quoi?!” He exclaims in a defensive tone that transcends language barriers. The kind that only brothers know how to use.

“Hi,” Chris says, and Arthur’s head shoots from Joris to her in the doorway. He almost laughs, he’s so surprised by her presence. “I’m Chris,” she adds, holding out a hand only because he's sitting and she’s standing and a hug doesn’t feel logistically sound.

“Ah, Chris,” Arthur nods, shakes her hand. “Charles does not answer my phone calls because of you.”

“Oh,” she offers a weak smile. “I’m sorry about that.”

“No, no. I do not want to hear from him.”

Chris laughs. From the other side of the room, Charles chimes in, “then why are you calling me?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Maman say, ‘do you call Charles’ and I say ‘yes he does not answer me.’”

- - -

They run into Carlos and co. on the way to the sponsorship event. Chris tries to hang back towards the end of the group, back with Joris and Arthur and away from Charles, purely out of self preservation. They’d agreed in passing that everything would be much easier, hundreds of times simpler, if nobody knew Chris was there this weekend, if everything was kept under the radar. Charles, however, seems to have forgotten that agreement because, no matter how engaged he gets into a conversation, he is constantly looking for her in the group, reaching his hand out to her if she’s within distance to do so, keeping her as close to him as he can.

She keeps falling back though, falling into ranks. She doesn’t want to look like a girlfriend, because she isn’t.

Chris has no idea how to be a public… girl? A fling or a girlfriend or anything in between. She’s at home at a race track, yes, and during Chase’s championship winning season, she got stopped three times to take pictures with fans, but, really. Nobody has ever cared about what she’s doing or who she’s doing it with.

Walking in behind Carlos and Charles is like walking in behind celebrities. Everyone wants to shake their hands, to pat them on the shoulders and tell them this thing or another. There’s lots of languages being thrown around that she doesn’t recognize, accents she struggles to understand.

“This is crazy,” she says quietly, just to herself.

Arthur nudges her with his elbow to steal her attention, furrows his brows for a moment and holds up a quizzical thumbs up. Chris nods, smiles gratefully.

Charles promised that it was going to be nothing more than a quick stop at the event, and he meant it. They aren’t even there long enough to sit down. Instead they hang out in the back of the tent near the bar, watching Charles and Carlos talk on stage with several different people about how important this brand is for us.

They decide to go out to dinner after, despite Chris’ burning desire to go to sleep for a couple years. They get sat at a booth that’s probably made to hold no more than four people; Andrea and Joris on one side, Charles sandwiched between Chris and Arthur on either side. He finds her hand under the table, his thumb tracing along the lines of her fingers. Chris, against all urges to rest her head on his shoulder, rests it instead on the wooden divider between their booth and the neighboring one.

Arthur is the only one who struggles to speak English rather than his mother tongue, and while Charles corrects him each time, Chris doesn’t dare. She’d rather die than imply someone speaking in a second language needs to improve the way they speak it.

“Are you going to be with us all weekend?” Arthur asks around Charles’ frame.

“I’m actually going to be in the grandstands,” she smiles. Charles rolls his eyes.

“Oh?” Arthur asks, looks to his brother, but Joris beats him to the punch.

“You couldn’t get her a pass for the whole weekend?” Joris chirps. Andrea laughs and Charles reaches for the pass hung around her neck. She didn’t even realize she was the only person still wearing it until now. Charles flips the pass over, points out the FULL WEEKEND on the back.

“Her choice, not mine.”

She reaches to take the pass out of his hand, to pull it off over her head and put it into her purse. “I’m hoping for a drama-free weekend,” she says, and the boys laugh. Charles’ hand finds her thigh, gives it a little pat and a comfortable squeeze.

Her hands are meant to be held, they really are. He could hold her hand until the moment she leaves, fingers locked together as they walk through the hotel corridor, empty and echoey with their voices and the sound of their feet on the carpet runner.

Once in the room, face to face together with the single bed, they both burst into laughter. He’s glad he cleaned things up before she got here, because the room was starting to look a little like his driver’s room–clothes strewn about messily, plastic water bottles on the end table, a television remote he lost the night he got here and hadn’t found until this morning. In the corner, Chris’ luggage sits beside the armchair, backpack neatly stacked with a single suitcase.

“Did you bring your whole wardrobe?” He jokes, and maybe it’s because he’s never been great at conveying jokes in English, or maybe it’s that they’re both absolutely exhausted, but the joke doesn't land. She’s immediately apologizing, spewing out a jumbled apology about I didn’t know what I was supposed to wear, and then– “I’m messing with you,” he says, and hates that she thinks he’d be that worked up over a suitcase, especially when he’d brought at least double what she had. She could have shown up with twenty suitcases and he still wouldn’t have thought it was too much because, well, she’s here. Right in front of him.

“Oh,” she pouts, and he kisses the look off her face. He’s wanted to do that since he saw it for the first time. “Oh. I like when you do that.” Good, he thinks. Get used to it.

They both make plans to shower; her before him. He’s on the couch in the living area of the suite when she re-emerges from the bathroom, the TV rolling and absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. When the sliding door to the bathroom opens, he looks up to watch her.

Her hair long down her back, carefully combed out so that the soaking ends turn the fabric of her sun-worn blue t-shirt a darker shade. It’s big on her–the shirt–hangs almost long enough that you wouldn’t be able to spot the flannel shorts underneath. He can still hear the sink running in the bathroom and she’s got a toothbrush in her mouth.

He whistles when she walks back from the bedroom towards the bathroom again, and she stops in the doorway, laughs around the toothbrush and does a sweet spin. “Bellissimo,” he says, gestures a chef’s kiss and she bows dramatically.

After his shower, he finds her in the bedroom, comfortably perched against the headboard, tucked under the crisp white duvet. The only light in the place is coming from her end table lamp, casting a soft shadow on her face, her knees pulled up close while she turns the pages of a book. He hovers around his suitcase watching her, completely in her own world, the only hint of her presence on this plane being the subtle lean into the light to better illuminate the pages she turns.

It’s not the first time he’s found himself looking at her like this. She’s easy to get lost in and almost never notices him staring. She just gets so focused on the task at hand–grading papers, cooking a meal, painting her nails, watching a television show, or like tonight, reading her current library rental.

“Do you want a water?” He asks. Her eyes don’t leave the page, a subtle shake of the head before she finally mumbles a no, thank you. He navigates the dark suite to the kitchenette, finds himself a plastic water bottle in the mini-fridge, and then he’s pulling back the comforter to climb into bed with her. “So, I was thinking tomorrow–” he starts, but she cuts him off with a singular finger held in the air. He can’t help but laugh, stupid smile on his face while he watches her eyes hurriedly finish the page, dog ear the tiniest fold onto the corner.

“Sorry,” she unapologetically offers, setting the book down on the end table. “What were you saying?”

“Uh, I don’t remember,” he says, because he lost it while he tried to guess what she was reading based on the little microexpressions that crossed her face. His eyes fall to the gold chain around her neck, to the small cross that lays over the blue fabric of her shirt. He’s noticed it dozens of times, it’s constant presence in every picture, every video, every call and outfit and event. He doesn’t even think when he reaches for it, examines it with gentle fingers. “Is this a, uh…” he struggles to find the word, “how do you say, family tradition?”

“Heirloom?”

He nods, drops the piece of jewelry back to its rightful spot. “Heirloom.”

“No, it was a birthday gift,” she explains, fingers the chain of it, “from my brother when I turned eighteen.”

He nods, points out the other necklace she’s wearing, a flower with a pearl in the center. “And this?”

She laughs, “it’s silly,” she says. “It goes with these earrings I have, they’re from my parents when I graduated college.” He learns the flower is a chrysanthemum, that her dad has always called her Mum, that her mom has a particular affinity for pearls that she’s passed onto Chris, that all of these things have combined into this piece of jewelry hanging around her neck and that she cried and cried when they gifted it to her.

Because the sun is still burning, he doesn’t stop asking about the different pieces she wears until he’s run out of ones to point to. He learns the story of a ruby ring–her birthstone–that she found in a thrift store for seventy-five cents when she was fifteen, how it used to fit on her pointer finger but now it fits her ring finger, how sometimes she makes up elaborate stories of how it ended up in the bargain bin of a Goodwill in North Georgia.

She tells him about three friendship bracelets. The first and second are made by students, her favorite gifts. The third, blue and yellow–NAPA colors, her brother’s racing colors–made by her nephew. “He’s four, and he is everything annoying about my brother and everything good about my best friend, and I think I would kill someone for him.” Charles is sure that tomorrow he’ll be telling someone they wouldn’t believe the way she lights up when she talks about this kid.

When he’s run out of things to question, she’s examining the red string tied around his wrist. “What about you?” She asks, “what’s up with this guy?”

“My mate, Pierre. He learns about it from our other friend Yuki,” He explains. “They always know the strangest things, Pierre and Yuki,” he chuckles, continues to explain the traditional symbol of good luck. “I don’t know how well it works, though,” he laughs, and she kisses him. It surprises him, but he’s in no place to complain. Perhaps the bracelet works quite well, he thinks when she moves closer, snuggles under his arm while he continues.

Three metal bracelets. One red, one silver, one stainless steel. Morse code: Amour, Bonheur, Smile. A ring that matches the bracelet. Two hex rings that track his heart rate and his sleep and a million other things.

He spins the rings while he talks, pulls them off and hands one to her without missing a beat in his sentence. She toys with it while she listens, hands it back to him with a quiet yawn. When he kisses her hair, it’s still damp and smells like the shampoo she used, something he can’t place, something he hopes eventually to memorize. “You’re cute when you’re sleepy.”

“You told me that last week.”

“I know,” another kiss against the unfamiliar scent. “I meant it.”

Charles wants to order room service for breakfast. Chris shuts that idea down the minute it comes out of his mouth, furrowing her brows and making him attempt to rationalize waiting half an hour for food that’s five minutes away. He can’t, so they head to the lobby.

Chris is wearing the same shirt, pulls a pair of sweatpants over her flannel shorts and ties her hair into a messy, tangled ponytail. She’d keep it down, but her hair dried while she slept and it’s pointing in directions that defy gravity. A ponytail was the only option. Charles doesn’t change, keeps the t-shirt and shorts he slept in on.

They find Andrea in the lobby, eating at a table for two by himself. Charles pulls a chair over from a nearby table and they sit down with him. By the time Joris appears, the table is officially too full of food to comfortably function.

She hears his phone vibrate against the hard plastic of his chair, and he casually mentions that the rest of his family is on their way down.

Chris doesn’t react, not externally, anyways. She finishes what’s left in her mug, bee-lines it over to the coffee bar to make another. Absent-mindedly, she tears the foil from the creamer cups, rips open the sugar packets and stirs it all together. His mom. His mom. His mom. It’s all she can think about. His mother. The woman who gave him life. Chris knew she’d be meeting his mom this weekend, but she figured she’d have more preparation than a couple minutes warning, assumed she’d be dressed, hair styled, makeup done. That she’d be presenting herself as someone you’d be happy to have your son spend time with, not like a 7/11 customer in Dahlonega at one in the morning. Maybe Charles was right and room service was a good idea.

Even once she’s back at the table, every elevator ding makes her jump, shoots her head in the direction of the opening doors just terrified the people walking out are going to be his family.

“Are you good?” Charles asks after she flinches at the third elevator bell.

“Yup,” she lies, slaps a big, phony smile on her face and takes a sip of her coffee. His hand finds her leg, gives it a little you’ll be fine squeeze.

The next elevator is carrying his family. She instinctively straightens in her seat, moves things around the crowded table so her food looks neat and managed. Joris looks at her with concern, Charles laughs when she refolds a napkin. “Don’t laugh at me,” she whispers.

Out of earshot, Arthur says something through a stretch and a yawn. His mom rolls her eyes, pushes him in the direction of the coffee bar, mutters something to his other brother that makes him chuckle. When his mom spots Chris, she makes a bee-line for her with open arms. Chris practically trips over the leg of her chair trying to stand up before the hug reaches her.

“Come here, chérie,” she smiles. It’s warm, just like her boy’s. “I have heard so much about you.” Oh? Chris smiles, suddenly aware that she’s apparently horribly unprepared for this entire introduction. He’s telling his mother about her?

She hugs Pascale back and looks over her shoulder to Charles with wide eyes. She’s met with a matching expression, Charles shrugging and shaking his head as if to adamantly tell her he has no idea what his mom is talking about. “And what have you heard, Maman?” He asks with a laugh.

“Don’t start with me,” she says, wagging a finger at her boy, and then to Chris, “Ignore him.” She holds her at arm's length, hands on either shoulder and looks her up and down. Chris laughs, nervous but still noticeably genuine. “You are just beautiful, aren’t you?”

Well. Beautiful isn’t a word Chris would use to describe herself at this moment. Ratty, perhaps. Disheveled. Off-putting. But sure, beautiful is a word she might sometimes describe herself as. “Me?” She shakes her head, “ma’am, look at yourself.”

“Oh, please,” his mom scoffs. “Pascale.”

“Pascale.” Chris smiles, goes in for another hug.

Whether it’s because he’s a brother and not a mother, or because meeting said mother is done and over with, Chris is significantly less anxious when it comes to her introduction with Lorenzo.

Chris attempts to insist Pascale take her seat, but is out-insisted to finish her breakfast. Charles finds her hand under the table, winks at her when she interlocks her fingers with his.

– – –

Outside of their shared breakfast, Saturday is a long day apart for Chris and Charles. A quick kiss goodbye in their hotel room when Charles finishes getting ready, a quicker “good luck,” from Chris called after him on his way out the door, and a thumbs up over his head as a response summarizes their interactions for the rest of the day.

Chris works on next week’s lesson plans for a few hours, nothing better to do while she waits to leave for the track.

She watches the third practice session and quali from the grandstand across from the pitlane, and while neither are his greatest showing, Chris can feel it in her bones that everything is going to fall into place for him tomorrow. A third place start is more than good enough to beat out Perez at Red Bull. She knows it like she knows her own name, and nobody is going to tell her otherwise.

She goes back to the hotel after quali, doesn’t bother to attempt sneaking into the paddock to try and find him. It just doesn’t feel worth it–navigating a place she doesn’t know, avoiding the cameras and the reporters and the chaos–not when he’ll be coming back to the hotel, back to her.

She falls asleep moments after sitting down on the couch, and isn’t woken up until she doesn’t even know when. It’s the middle of the night, Charles tells her, guides her to bed and tucks her in like a child, complete with a kiss on the forehead.

- - -

The first words out of her mouth on Sunday morning are an apology.

When Charles tries to cut her off with a laugh and a kiss, she stops him just short of her lips, claiming morning breath. “Wow,” he feigns shock. “First you fall asleep on me, now you will not kiss me?”

She rolls her eyes, grabs the back of his neck and pulls him down to kiss her. “Happy?”

He nods and kisses her again. He keeps waiting for it to not feel so exciting, so much like a stupid movie, so young, and it’s yet to reach that point. It’s not even coming close. “Yes, thank you.”

From the other side of the bathroom wall she dares to ask him if he’s nervous, if the pressure is finally manifesting itself into stress. He’s quiet for a while.

“No,” he eventually calls back.

“No?”

He peels around the doorway, messing with the collar on his team shirt. “Yes,” he admits with a scale-breaking sigh. She wishes he was as sure as himself as she is, that he could feel in his bones it is all going to work out perfectly.

“Well, I’ll be here when you’re done, and we can either celebrate Charles Leclerc, Vice World Champion,” he turns away at the title, the side profile of a smile turning the corner back into the bathroom. “Or, we can celebrate the end of an exhausting season. Either way, we’re celebrating.” He stays quiet. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he finally speaks, tone lackluster, unconfident. It’s hard to hear him like this, to hear the distinct shards of doubt that rattle in his chest. “We’re celebrating.”

We’re celebrating. Tonight is a celebration. The positives with the negatives, the good always outweighs the bad. She reminds herself like it’s a mantra. Tonight is a celebration.

- - -

Alone in the grandstands with an air of certainty about her, Chris’ bar for friendship has never been lower. She finds a group of girlfriends who appear to be sort-of, almost, kind-of, maybe in the same age demographic as she is. They speak English and don’t ignore her when she talks, and that’s enough for her to latch onto for the evening.

We like McLaren, they tell her, But those Ferrari boys–they’re cute. You can’t help but feel for them. Chris just smiles and nods, offers up a laugh and pretends she won’t be falling asleep next to one of those cute boys later tonight.

The girls–flew in from London on Friday just for this-fill her in on everything she already knows. They tell her about Charles and his fight for P2, about the strategic pitfalls of Ferrari and the fact that on paper, it was Charles’ year to win it all.

They’re more nervous during the race than Chris is, not to say that her leg isn’t bouncing watching the times constantly changing, that she isn’t whispering mumbles prayers into the air between here and there, just that she knows. She knows.

If it was possible to stare through a helmet, Chris would’ve done it during his pitstop, burning the confidence right into his frontal lobe. Her eyes are glued to his car, his helmet, distant and small and buzzing with energy. He’s got it under control, like a perfectly wrapped gift sat in his lap, like a row of monkey bars and hands hardened by months of blisters, like a first kiss and a second kiss and a third kiss. He’s got it under control.

He does, because after what feels simultaneously like the longest and shortest fifty-eight laps of her life, Chris practically has a front row seat to Charles doing donuts. She’s so happy that she thinks she might cry, not that it takes much of anything to pull a tear from her when she’s this exhausted. The girls she’d befriended jump and celebrate and cheer louder than the fireworks.

Chris tries to live the moment. To feel it all, the energy and the roar and the joy, which only makes it that much harder not to cry.

Suddenly, momentarily, irrationally emotionally, while she watches him celebrate with his family and his team in front of the whole world she wishes she was down there with him. Screw the world watching, she wants to hug him until her arms are numb and kiss him until she passes out.

There’s no telling when–or even if–she’s going to ever live through a moment like this again. It’s not one she wants to forget. In the chaos of it all, her hand finds her chest, the hard metal of her cross necklace through the fabric of her top, the pulsing of her heartbeat, loud and racing.

It’s hours before he’s back to the hotel, but it doesn’t feel late at all. He’s still running on adrenaline, just as ready to celebrate as he was when he jumped into his team’s arms. Over the mechanical shifting of the door lock, he can hear Chris’ feet echoing on the floor just on the other side and before he can even make it through the doorway she’s crashing into him. The pure energy that she is knocks him back a few steps, but then he’s hugging her back just as hard, maybe harder.

He can feel her tears soak through his shirt, and with a laugh asks if she’s crying.

“Shut up,” she says, and it only makes him laugh harder, hug tighter. God, the show he would have put on if he could’ve found her right after the race. The trouble he would make. “Oh, my god!” She sniffles, pulls her head off his chest and wipes away her tears. “Kiss me, already!”

And so he does. He kisses the shit out of her.

She pulls away with a smile, arms slinked around his neck like it belongs to her. “So, how does it feel?” She asks, “Vice World Champion, Charles Leclerc.”

He gives her a quick kiss, nothing more than a peck, shrugs, and repeats the action. “Too busy kissing the girl.”

“You’re such an idiot,” she laughs, drops her head so it’s against his chest and vibrates his entire being. It’s a laugh that lights stars, dances around the room like a windchime in the warm August air. The kind so distinct you could hear it across a room ten years later and still know it was her. “A walking cheeseball.”

“A cheeseball?” He humors.

“I said what I said.”

His satisfied hum says more than words ever could, fingers comfortable dancing along the bone of her hip. “We gotta get ready,” he says.

“For what?”

“The celebration.”

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