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enflixx · 3 days ago

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Letters from Stanford - Jake Sim

summary: You and Jake always planned to go to college together at University of Melbourne. When acceptance letters arrive, joy fills the air… until a secret Stanford letter changes everything. As summer passes, love is tested, truths unravel, and promises are made with trembling hands. When the day finally comes to say goodbye, distance becomes your new reality, but love doesn’t leave so easily.

genre: angst, just a little fluff

warnings: kisses throughout the fic

word count: 3,323

You were sitting cross-legged at the bottom of Jake’s bedroom floor, controllers in hand, and eyes locked on the TV screen. The two of you had been building a massive lake house in Minecraft for the past hour, trying to distract yourselves from the anxiety gnawing at your insides.

Jake’s room was dimly lit, except for the glow of the screen and the fairy lights hanging lazily above his bed. His knee was bouncing. He hadn't stopped fidgeting for the past ten minutes.

“Okay,” he said suddenly, glancing at the clock. 6:59 PM. “It’s almost time.”

You dropped your controller, heart thudding. “Don’t say that.”

Jake scrambled off the floor and flopped onto the bed, patting the space beside him. “Come on. We said we’d do this together.”

You joined him, your shoulder brushing his as you both grabbed your phones. The moment the clock struck 7:00 PM, both your devices buzzed at once.

Jake sucked in a breath. “Ready?”

You nodded, your fingers trembling as you hovered over the “View Decision” button.

“Three,” he said.

“Two,” you whispered.

“One.”

You both tapped your screens.

University of Melbourne: Accepted.

Jake let out a choked sound next to you. “I got in—wait—you too?”

You turned your screen toward him with a breathless laugh. “I got in! OMG I got in!”

Jake grabbed your free hand and pulled you into the tightest hug, both of you nearly falling back against the pillows in a tangle of limbs and joy.

“We did it!” he shouted. “OMG, we actually did it!”

You were both laughing, spinning in your own little whirlwind of excitement. He kissed your cheek, your nose, your forehead, completely overflowing with joy.

“We’re going to Melbourne!” he grinned, forehead pressed to yours. “Together.”

“Together,” you echoed, barely believing it yourself.

Then Jake hopped off the bed, still grinning. “Hold that thought. I need to pee or I’m gonna explode.”

You laughed and nodded, watching him disappear into the hallway.

The door clicked shut.

You turned back to your phone, thumb hovering over the unopened Stanford email sitting quietly beneath the one from Melbourne.

You hesitated. Then tapped it.

Your heart thudded as you clicked “View Decision.”

Congratulations…

The word blurred for a second as your vision went watery. You blinked, staring at the screen in disbelief.

Stanford.

You hadn’t thought you’d get in. You’d applied on a whim, just to see.

And now here it was, real and glowing in front of you. A future you’d never seriously planned for now opened like a door you hadn’t realized was unlocked.

Your eyes welled with tears. Not sad ones, not exactly. Just... big ones. The kind that came when the world shifted a little under your feet.

Suddenly you heard footsteps coming down the hall.

You snapped out of it and quickly swiped the tab closed, locking your phone and tossing it aside just as Jake returned.

“Miss me?” he joked, flopping back down beside you.

You forced a smile, chest still tight. “Always.”

He leaned into you, grabbing your hand again. “So, what do we do first? Start looking at apartments? I already bookmarked this tiny studio near campus with the biggest kitchen ever .”

You laughed, letting him talk about your shared future, your heart splitting in two. One part still with him. The other already halfway across the world, in California.

The summer passed in a blur of travel plans, shopping lists, visa applications. Jake was so excited, always talking about your apartment, your future, the way you’d decorate with little succulents and string lights. You smiled, nodded, made Pinterest boards with him.

But at night, you stared at the Stanford portal, wondering what it meant to choose something he wasn’t part of.

One warm July afternoon, Jake surprised you with dinner reservations at a cozy Australian-themed diner “to get a real taste of Aussie life,” he’d said with a grin that made your heart flip.

The diner smelled like woodsmoke and grilled meat, a haze of barbecue spice hanging in the air as the late July sun filtered through the tall windows. You and Jake sat across from each other in a vinyl booth, the table between you cluttered with half-unwrapped sliders, charred corn, and paper baskets of fries dusted with pink sea salt. Somewhere nearby, a child was laughing over a spilled milkshake, and the sizzle of meat on the open grill played like background music to a summer evening that felt too big to hold in your chest.

Jake reached for a fry, eyes glowing with quiet excitement. “Okay, so… don’t kill me,” he said, trying and failing not to grin. “I did a thing.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Please tell me you didn’t try to book our flights without me again.”

“No,” he laughed. “Um.. worse.”

He slid his phone across the table. The screen was lit up with a listing, the apartment. Your apartment. The one you’d found during a late-night spiral of Pinterest boards and real estate blogs. The one with exposed brick and tall windows and a kitchen that made your breath catch the first time you saw it. Big, sunlit, clean counters, even a little breakfast island with hanging lights overhead.

“You’re kidding,” you whispered, leaning in.

“I made an offer,” he said. “And… they accepted. If we want it, it’s ours.”

You blinked at the screen. The pictures hadn’t changed, but somehow they felt sharper now, more real. The wide kitchen, all open shelving and clean lines, looked like the kind of place people filmed romantic comedies in. You could see the two of you in it, Jake cooking in the mornings in his ridiculous pajama pants, you dancing barefoot to some awful playlist while coffee brewed.

You looked up at him. “Jake…”

“I know I should’ve asked,” he said quickly. “I just… I saw it again and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. That kitchen, the big window in the bedroom, the campus just down the street. It felt like us, you know?”

You sat back slowly, heart full and aching all at once.

“I just thought it could be home,” he added, voice softer now. “Our first perfect one.”

You didn’t speak right away.

You stared at the image. The bright white cabinets. The tall pantry. The way the light poured through the glass every morning.

You wanted it.

God, you wanted it so so much.

But not as much as you wanted to stop time. Not as much as you wanted to silence that quiet voice that had been growing louder since Stanford sent that email.

“Maybe…” you began, choosing your words carefully, gently. “Maybe we should look a bit more. Just to be sure. It’s a big decision.”

Jake blinked. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He nodded quickly, lips pressing together in a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You’re right. No need to rush.”

You reached for your drink to avoid the way his gaze searched your face. “Exactly. We’ve got time.”

He leaned back, tried to laugh. “Honestly, we might even find something with a bigger balcony. Or even a bathtub. Who knows?”

You nodded, the fry in your hand going cold.

The moment passed, at least on the surface. He picked up his burger again, and you made a joke about fairy bread being the pinnacle of Australian cuisine. The two of you slipped back into the rhythm of laughing, dreaming, talking about color schemes and who would be in charge of dishes. But beneath it all, the dream had shifted. The apartment was perfect. But for the first time, you weren’t sure if perfect was enough.

It was late afternoon, the golden sun filtering through the window and casting long shadows across your bedroom. Boxes were everywhere, half-packed and labeled in your handwriting. A quiet playlist hummed in the background while the two of you worked side by side, sorting through his books, folding clothes, and deciding what made the cut for Melbourne.

You were kneeling beside the desk, packing paperbacks into a box labeled DO NOT BEND when Jake, searching for packing tape, reached over and grabbed a slim red folder tucked behind a lamp.

“Hey, what’s this?” he asked casually, flipping it open before you could stop him. His voice shifted mid-sentence, growing still. “Stanford?”

Your hands froze around a copy of The Secret of Us. The air thinned.

“Jake—”

“You applied to Stanford?” he asked again, slower this time, like he was trying to make sense of the words.

You sat back on your heels, throat dry. “I... yeah, i did.”

He looked at the folder again, then at you. “You got in?”

You nodded, barely.

A beat passed. Jake blinked, his jaw tightening, then loosening like he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to feel. He let out a short breath and took a small step back, the folder hanging limply in his hand. “When?”

You couldn’t look at him. “Same day as Melbourne.”

Silence. The kind that buzzes in your ears and makes your heart ache.

“And you didn’t tell me?” His voice was quieter now. Not angry, just... hurt. In total disbelief.

“I didn’t know how,” you whispered, fidgetting at the worn edges of the carpet. “I didn’t want to ruin everything.”

“Ruin what?” he said, then laughed short and humorless. “Us?”

You looked up. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t want you to think I’d just get up and leave.”

“But you didn’t even give me the chance to be proud of you,” he admitted. “You didn’t even let me in at all.”

You stood slowly, heart racing, words stuck in your throat. “I wasn’t going to go,” you said. “I swear, Jake. We planned this, and I meant it. I just... I needed time to figure it out.”

Jake shook his head, eyes scanning the floor around you like he was trying to ground himself. “You should’ve told me.”

“I know,” you whispered. “I was so scared.”

He looked at you then, really looked past the guilt, past the secrets. There was hurt in his eyes, yes, but something softer, too. A flicker of understanding.

“I wish you trusted me with this,” he said, voice low. “But... I get why you didn’t.”

You swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

He nodded, slowly. “You should go.”

Your heart cracked. “What?”

“I mean it,” he said, finally smiling, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “You got into Stanford. That’s huge. I’d never want to hold you back.”

“But…Jake—”

“I want you to go,” he repeated, gently this time. “Even if it’s the last thing I want.”

You didn’t realize you were crying until Jake filled the space between you in two steps and pulled you into his chest like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.

You clutched the front of his shirt, burying your face into the curve of his neck. “I didn’t want to lose you,” you choked out.

“You’re not,” he whispered, but his voice cracked. “God, you’re not.”

But it felt like you both were anyway.

His arms were wrapped around you, so tight it almost hurt, and still it didn’t feel close enough. You felt his chest hitch beneath your palms, his breath stuttering as silent tears spilled down his cheeks and into your hair.

“I hate this,” he said, his voice muffled in your shoulder. “I hate that I’m saying this.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face, his eyes red-rimmed and shining. “Then don’t. Tell me to stay. Tell me that we deserve that apartment together”

He stared at you, lips parted, like he wanted to. Like the words were right there on his tongue. But instead, he shook his head slowly, heartbreak carved into every line of his face. “I can’t. I love you too much to ask you to give up on something like this.”

A sob escaped before you could stop it. “I don’t want to go without you.”

Jake cupped your face in his hands, brushing away your tears with his thumbs. “You won’t be without me,” he whispered. “I’ll be there in every facetime call. Every late-night text. Every time you drink coffee and think it’s crap without me there to make it right.”

You laughed through the tears, and then he kissed you. Slow, aching, like a promise and a goodbye all at once. You kissed him back with everything you couldn’t say, everything you weren’t ready to lose.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathless and trembling, he leaned his forehead against yours.

“We’ll figure it out,” he murmured. “Even if it’s hard. Even if it hurts. We’ll find our way back.”

You nodded, eyes closed. “You and me, right?”

His arms tightened around you, like he could still protect this fragile version of the future. “Always.”

He didn’t speak to you for two days.

No texts. No calls. No shared playlists or silly memes. Just a hollow silence that made your heart pound every time your phone lit up, just to close it every time it wasn’t him.

Then, just after sunset on the second day, your phone buzzed.

Ring Doorbell: Someone is at your front door.

You opened the app instinctively, and there he was, Jake, standing on your porch in a wrinkled hoodie and basketball shorts, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His eyes were bloodshot red. Not just tired, but swollen, rimmed with tears, and haunted.

Your heart seized.

You rushed downstairs and opened the door.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he should be here. Like maybe this was a mistake. Then his face crumpled.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said, and his voice cracked like glass.

You stepped forward without thinking, wrapping your arms around him before the rest of his words could fall apart.

“Jake…”

He held onto you like he was drowning. “I tried to be okay. I really did. I thought maybe I could just… move on, pretend we’re still going together. But I can’t. I’m so fucking proud of you, but I don’t know how to be happy when it feels like I’m losing you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. “Then don’t let me go,” you whispered. “Tell me to stay. I will.”

He blinked at you, tears spilling silently over his cheeks. “Don’t say that.”

“I mean it,” you said, chest aching. “I’ll stay. Melbourne was always the plan. We were the plan.”

Jake shook his head. “No,” he said, voice soft but firm. “You have to go. Please go.”

“Jake—”

“No,” he interrupted, brushing the hair gently from your face. “You got into Stanford. You earned that. You don’t give up a life-changing opportunity because some dumb boy can’t keep it together for a few months.”

“You’re not some dumb boy,” you whispered.

He smiled faintly, but his eyes were still sad. “And you’re not some girl who settles for a smaller school for someone else. You’ve always been more than that. You have to go.”

You stood there for a long moment, forehead pressed to his, your tears falling freely now too.

Eventually, you stepped back and took his hand. “Come inside?”

He nodded, and you led him through the door, into the quiet warmth of your house.

You sat together on the couch, knees pulled up, wrapped in an old shared blanket that smelled like his cologne and dryer sheets. He rested his head on your shoulder, and you stroked your fingers through his hair like you always did when he couldn’t sleep.

“I hate that we have to do this,” he mumbled. “The distance.”

“I know,” you said.

“But we’ll make it work, right?” he asked, more like a plea than a promise.

“We’ll try,” you whispered. “We’ll call every night. We’ll visit. We’ll find ways to stay close, even when we’re far.”

His arms tightened around you. “What if it’s not enough?”

“Then we try harder,” you replied, kissing the top of his head. “Or we wait. Or we fall apart and find our way back. But I’m not giving up on us, Jake. Not now.”

Neither of you had all the answers. Maybe you never would. But in that quiet moment on the couch, your hearts cracked but still beating in sync, you held each other like maybe, just maybe, love could stretch across the oceans and time zones.

Like maybe, it would be enough.

The airport was too quiet for what your heart was doing.

You stood with Jake in the check-in line, the weight of your suitcase nothing compared to the weight pressing on your chest. He held your hand like it was the last lifeline he had, like if he let go, he’d lose you completely.

Neither of you spoke much. There wasn’t anything left to say that hadn’t already been whispered between your tangled sheets, or mumbled on long drives with the windows down, or even scribbled into notes hidden in each other’s bags.

But that didn’t stop the tears.

Yours came in slow, steady streams down your cheeks. His were silent, but his lips trembled every time you squeezed his hand tighter. People passed around you, families saying goodbyes, kids running in circles, airport staff calling for final check-ins, but it all felt so far away. Like the world was moving on and you were frozen in this endless moment.

“We still have time,” he murmured, though the line inched forward, traitorous.

“Barely.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. His hoodie smelled like your house, like him, like safety.

“I hate this,” you whispered.

“I know.”

He kissed your temple. “But I’m proud of you. So proud. I need you to remember that.”

You nodded, biting your lip so hard it almost bled.

When you reached the counter, your hands shook as you handed over your passport. Jake stood beside you the whole time, his fingers trailing down your arm like he was memorizing every inch. The agent smiled politely, completely unaware of the heartbreak unfolding across the glossy countertop.

As you stepped away, the intercom crackled to life.

“Final boarding call for Flight 127 to San Francisco. All remaining passengers, please proceed to Gate 7.”

Your body turned toward the gate, but your heart stayed behind.

Jake pulled you into one last hug, full and trembling. You felt his tears finally fall, warm against your neck.

“This isn’t goodbye,” you whispered, but it cracked as you said it.

“It feels like one,” he choked out.

“I’ll come back in December. I pinky promise.”

“I’ll wait,” he said, holding you like he’d never get to again. “I’ll wait for however long it takes.”

You pulled back just enough to kiss him once, twice, and again like you could kiss the goodbye out of him. He smiled, for your sake, even though his lips were shaking.

“Go,” he said softly, eyes red. “Before I lose my mind.”

You took one step back. Then another. You didn’t want to look away, but you knew if you didn’t go now, you never would.

So you turned.

And you walked.

And you didn’t look back.

But Jake did.

He watched you until the very last second, until you were out of sight, until the boarding gate swallowed you whole.

And then he broke.

His body crumpled into a seat by the window, hands over his face as sobs tore out of him, raw and relentless. Strangers passed by, but none of them saw him. None of them knew the girl he loved just left for another continent, or how he’d told her to chase her dreams even if it meant tearing himself apart.

He’d been brave for you.

But now, all alone in that airport, he cried like he’d never stop.

Because he loved you that much.

#enflixx #enhypen #enha #enhypen jake #jake sim #enhypen imagines #enha imagines #enhypen x reader #enha x reader #enhypen fluff

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gullemec · 4 months ago

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Lion's Den

Golden Cage - Chapter Three

series masterlist 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 · 1 year 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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polaroidhugs · 1 month ago

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Rhiannon

Chishiya x reader

‘Rhiannon rings like a bell through the night, and wouldn't you love to love her?' Chapter 1 - Dancing with myself Chapter 2 - Poker face Chapter 3 - Rhiannon Chapter 4 - Hotel California

Summary: Hano and Chishiya emerge from their first game in the borderlands victorious, but not without injury. (Which may or may have not been Chishiya's fault) They find their supplies back at their base ransacked and decide to migrate to a gorgeous beach where the night sky connects them.

A/N: I have no idea if my wound-cleaning-fixing-whatever description was accurate... EXCUSE ME PLEASE!! Excuse any mistakes in writing I may have made and enjoy!!

Warnings: Bit of gore in the beginning, swearing, and reference to the Sukeban.

WC: 4297

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A cheerful ping chimes from my phone, cutting through the heavy silence. I’m glad I can’t see the lady from where I stand. I don’t want to. I can only imagine what she looks like right now. With the other guys, I felt relief, almost joyful when they bit the dust. But the Lady? Man… My fingers loosen, and I hurl my gun to the ground. It skids against the polished floor.

Chishiya pushes his chair back, the sound of it scraping against the floor echoing through the room. He removes the noose from around his neck and stands, unhurried. He begins to walk to the door and like a dog I follow him. It’s as if he doesn’t care. Scratch that- he doesn’t. I’ve been telling myself this whole time to not let any of this get to me, to be more like Chishiya, but how? How does he do it? Twelve hours ago, I was returning his wallet to him, running late and fuming because he barely even acknowledged me, and now I’m walking out of a blackjack game where four people just died brutally, out to the city devoid of life!

Another ping comes from my phone, so I pause, widening the distance between us. He stops and looks back at me, his hands back to where they know best; his pockets.

“Congratulations. To the survivor of the game, we will supply you with a visa.” On the phone pops up six diamonds, with the words ‘6 day visa granted: Players 99925 and 99926.’ Eh? I’m confused, which one am I? On top of that… These numbers are pretty close. We both were the first person eachother met here after everyone disappeared: Could that be connected to our close numbers? Hm. Interesting.

Another ping from my phone pulls me from my thoughts. I stop in my tracks, putting more distance between Chishiya and me. He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, hands where they know best- his pockets. His gestures are all so casual and it’s infuriating. I look down at my screen. “Congratulations. To the survivor of the game, we will supply you with a visa.”

Below the text on the screen, six diamonds shimmer. “6 day visa granted: Players 99925 and 99926.” Eh? I’m confused, which number is mine? And why are mine and Chishiya's so close? Hm… We both were the first person eachother met here when everyone disappeared. Is that why our numbers are sequential? Interesting.

Tall-hair had mentioned visas as to how much time we have left. The more games we play, the more days we earn. Aside from the whole death-by-lasers thing Buzzcut mentioned, that’s actually kinda sick. When I look up from my phone-or rather, Chishiya’s phone-he’s gone. No way, did this bastard really just leave me here?

I begin sprinting, desperately trying to find that bastard. As I round the corner, the bar’s door comes into view, swinging back and forth in the gusting wind, creaking on its hinge. Without slowing down, I shove through it, but the door snaps back with a force that catches me off guard. It smacks hard into my hip bone, sending a jolt of pain shooting through my side along with something else. A splintered piece of wood, maybe? It drags across my skin, slicing me deep. Shit! I hiss through clenched teeth, putting pressure on my hip bone: That’s it, if he’s gone, he’s gone, I’m quitting my chase. No fucking way.

I glance up, wincing, and there he is- Chishiya. He’s just standing there, watching me with an amused look on his face. I’m about to march over there and slap it right off him because nothing is funny about this!

“I was just going to wait for you out here.” He tells me, his voice calm, though I can hear the chuckle he’s trying to suppress: He isn’t slick. Oh, sure, laugh it up now. My hand is slick with blood now, and I can feel the dark red stain spreading across the fabric of my gray skirt, soaking into the material.

“I was looking at the phone for two seconds, you couldn’t have just stayed there instead of disappearing into thin air?” I groan, limping towards Chishiya, my hands still pressed tightly against my throbbing hip. Like the absolute gentleman he is, he doesn’t help me. Doesn’t even give a simple fake ‘are you okay?’ Instead, he just trails behind me like some shadow, hands stuffed in his pockets as I limp off to God knows where. Really classy, Chishiya. Real classy.

After what feels like forever of wandering we finally make it back to the damn starbucks.

Damn it. While we were gone, someone ransacked the place. Nearly eighty percent of our supplies- most importantly, the medical supplies. All that’s left is a single roll of bandages; and I’d have to stretch it like a corset just to make it fit around my hips just once.

“They took my cookies.” Most importantly, to me, I guess. That’s the first time I’ve heard Chishiya have a hint of dissatisfaction in his voice, and I definitely should have heard it earlier with what went on.

I shoot Chishiya a look that screams, ‘Did you really just say that?’ My hands press harder into my hips, the pain flaring as I wait for him to turn and meet my gaze. When he does, his slowly turns back to the basket where his prized cookies were supposed to be and starts digging through it. After a moment, he pulls out a roll of bandages, still wrapped in its packaging.

Chishiya’s redemption is beginning.

“Sit.” He orders, his voice blank as ever, but he emphasizes the ‘T’ in a way that makes it clear he’s not asking. So I sit. I wrap my arms around my legs, waiting for the next of his doctor-ly instructions. I can see the crossing through the bar stools and dark oak table. It’s even more beautiful without everybody there. I’ve always preferred places without people—less noise, less chaos. As weird as it is, even back when I was part of my gang, my biggest complaint was the way everyone would crowd and cheer at the smallest thing. Damn sheep, I’d think. All of you need to shut your mouth. It wasn’t the violence or the corruption that bothered me—just the crowds. Always the crowds..

“Take your suit off.”

Aye, aye, captain. I unbutton my suit, the gold buttons cold against my fingertips. The fabric slides off my shoulders and down to my elbows before I toss it in the direction of the barista’s counter. It hits something with a loud crash, making me flinch. The sudden movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my side, and I wince, the sudden movement I just made made my wound worse. Underneath my suit, I’m wearing a fitted white t-shirt, though at this point, it’s more red than white. Blood has soaked through my hip all the way up to my belly button. How is there something so sharp on the door it causes all this? That bar should be shut down, I don’t care if it doesn’t even matter at this point.

I can feel Chishiya sitting down behind me, then I can hear him pop something open. Liquid pours out of a can a few seconds before he places a wet towel on my wound. He popped open saline solution.

I feel Chishiya sit down behind me, and a moment later, I hear the sound of something being popped open. Liquid pours out of a can, and then he places a wet towel against my wound. Saline solution. I groan, biting down on my finger to stifle the pain. If this asshole wasn’t so mysterious, none of this would’ve happened. I should’ve flung my slippers at someone else—someone as smart as him but with a little more care for their actions. But then again, maybe there’s no one here as smart as Chishiya. Maybe I got the best of the best.

“No alcohol?” I laugh through clenched teeth, more to fill the silence than anything else. I don’t actually care why he’s using saline instead of sake. He’s a doctor, what do I know better than he does?

“Alcohol can harm healthy tissue.” Damn, not even a doctor's advise against using it?’ He’s one hard nut to crack, I’ll give Chishiya that.

As he works, I can’t help but wonder why Chishiya is like this: So nonchalant. Seriously, even my boss had more care for life than this guy. But then again, maybe we’re not so different. He doesn’t care and shows it. I don’t care and hide it. Before the death games, I was stoked on the peace of the whole city being gone.

Hey, me and Chishiya are at the point in our relationship where I can make sly comments-that-are-really-questions about his childhood, right? I mean, I’ve only known him for… I don’t even know how long at this point. But that last game had to have strengthened our bond, right?

He keeps the towel pressed against my wound with one hand while reaching for something with the other. My guess? Bandages. Ding, ding, ding! From behind, he extends his hand into my view, clutching the roll of bandages.

“Hold the end.” He instructs.

So I do. He begins wrapping the bandage around me, passing the roll between his hands. I can feel the pressure building as the bandage tightens, the pain gradually subsiding—not enough to disappear completely, but enough to make it bearable.

“When’d you know you wanted to be a doctor? Daddy’a genius, too?” I ask, my tone snide. “Daddy a genius, too?” No reply. Rude. I guess my attempt at prying into his background wasn’t as sly as I thought. I’ll have to work on that.

Chishiya finishes tightening the bandages and ties them off before standing up, his way of signaling that he’s done, I guess. I let out a loud groan as I get to my feet, feeling a bit foggy from the pain. I turn around, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t expecting Chishiya to have vanished into thin air again. But he hasn’t, thankfully. Instead, he’s loading some snacks into his pockets, along with some other things I’m not quite sure of.

Without a word, he begins walking outside. And like the mindless follower I am, I follow him. Get a grip, girl! I scold myself. He should be the one following you!

After a few minutes of walking, we reach a highway overlooking the lower parts of the city. I lean over the edge, scanning the streets below for any signs of life. Of course, there’s none. Emptiness stretching out as far as my eyes can see.

I know I sound like a broken record, but the city is truly breathtaking like this. No noise or crowds- just peace. If only the world could be like this everyday. When I used to daydream about a world where only tolerable people lived, this is what I had pictured: Barely a soul in sight.

The serenity wraps around me like a blanket as I enjoy the sound of ringing your ears produce when everything else is too quiet. Until the sharp thud of a car door slamming shut shatters that. I turn around, my eyes narrowing as I spot Chishiya on the other side of a sleek blue car. He’s walking away from it, his usual calm demeanor replaced by a faintly irked expression. He’s trying to get one to work, but it’s obvious he’s hitting a wall. It’s a waste of time. It’s obvious that cars wouldn’t work here: Most cars run on electricity, and there is none here. Wait— what about diesel cars? They run on petroleum, not electricity. Could those still work?

“Are any of those cars diesel, Chishiya?” I call out, limping towards him. “I don’t know.” He replies flatly, answering like I just asked the most idiotic question on earth. ‘How does she think I would know? I’m not a wizard.’ Is what I would bet money on him thinking right now.

Oh, you know what might work other than diesel, though? Hot-wiring. Agh, but it’d be so annoying to do with this injury. I could get Chishiya to do it.

Ha.

Yeah, right. This wound must be making me delirious. Besides, I’d need a screwdriver, and unless Chishiya has one stashed in the bottomless pit of his pockets, I’m out of luck.

I follow Chishiya, keeping to the opposite side of the car as we move from vehicle to vehicle, only catching glimpses of him as we walk from car to car. My eyes scan all the cars we pass, searching for one that might run on diesel. Come on, where are the SUVS and pickups?

Bingo. A range rover. I hobble over, relief flooding me when I find the door unlocked. I yank it open, wincing as the movement pulls at my injury. Using all the strength I have left, I hoist myself up into the driver's seat. I sit there for a moment, waiting in silence, watching as Chishiya finally notices I’ve gotten into the car. He walks around and slides into the passenger seat.

Thin strands of Chishiya’s hair fall across his face as he settles in, but he doesn’t bother to brush them away. “Range Rovers run on diesel.” I inform him, grinning like I’m high. I wait for him to ask why diesel is important, and when he doesn’t I just shut up and press the engine button, holding my breath. If it turns out my theory is wrong, this is going to be so embarrassing.

I’m right! The engine roars to life, and I can’t help but let out a triumphant laugh. Yes! I glance at Chishiya, my grin widening. I can see it in his face; he’s impressed- or amused, I don’t know! I’m just happy I made Chishiya feel something other than darkness. My wound still aches, but I don’t trust him to drive. I don’t know, I just feel Chishiya is a trash driver.

I press my foot on the pedal, easing the car forward as I navigate around the vehicle in front of us. Once I realize the highway is completely empty, I can’t resist. I press down harder, the engine growling as I begin speeding down the freeway.

I’ve slowed down now, and we’ve been cruising for the last 15 minutes or so. As I take a closer look at the darkened city through the windshield, the wind from the rolled-down window brushes across my face, cool and refreshing. The absence of people and electricity just amplify the city’s beauty. Chishiya sits beside me, his head tilted away from me to the window, his gaze fixed on the passing scenery. I can’t see his expression, but I can tell he feels it too–how beautiful the city is right now.

The air changes as we drive, the faint scent of saltwater and sand creeping into the car. We’re nearing a beach. You know, I always dreamt of living on the beach. Watching the sunset as the waves hit your feet right before going to sleep sounds luxurious.

Hold on. I ease my foot off the accelerator, slowing the car down as I spot the entrance to a beachside parking lot. The tires crunch over some gravel as I pull in, the headlights cutting through the darkness to reveal rows of empty spaces. Chishiya’s head turns away from the window to look at me. I don’t see him do this, but I can feel his gaze.

Instead of bothering to park properly, I just stop the car slanted between two spots. If no tickets can be given out, I don’t care how good my parking skills are.

Instinctively, my hand reaches for the seatbelt, fingers fumbling for the release. That’s when I remember–I never buckled it in the first place. I let out a small, amused huff and push the door open, stepping out carefully. Without a word to Chishiya I open the door and carefully step out, not trying to place any more stress on my body. The car door slams shut behind me with a thud, and I start walking toward the beach, the sound of waves growing louder with every step.

It’s been a few minutes now, and I can’t help but wonder if Chishiya is ever going to join me or if I just look like a crazy idiot that’s randomly sitting out on the beach like I’m the protagonist of some show. Even if that is the case, I’m not going to rush myself for him. He can think whatever he wants.

This view… wow. It’s extraordinary. Back in the city, when I look at the night sky, it’s usually from the cramped balcony of the apartment my parents got for me. My view is always blocked by towering skyscrapers and neon signs advertising some stupid kid’s plushie or the latest fast-food chain. And even on the rare occasion when I can see past all that, the city lights pollute the sky so I can’t see shit.

Here, though, with the city’s power grid dead and the city stripped of its usual noise and light, the sky is a masterpiece. It’s almost like I can see an entire other galaxy with the clearness. Paired with my slippers at my side, the soft sound of waves lapping at the shore, the cool water brushing against my feet, and the gentle rustle of the breeze, everything feels surreal. Life feels surreal. Why did this beauty have to come hand in hand with death games?

Finally, I feel the sand shift beside me as Chishiya sits down. There’s an awkward silence between us, thick and heavy, like neither of us knows what to say. I glance at him, then back at the ocean, and I can sense him doing the same. After a moment, he turns his head toward me again, breaking the silence.

“You’re a gangster, aren’t you?” he says, his voice calm but probing. “I’m surprised. Never heard of a modern-day female gangster- last I heard of female gangsters was the Sukeban.”

What? My brain short-circuits for a second. How the hell did he figure that out? Is he a mind reader or something? “Uh…” I stammer, my lips popping open as I struggle to form a coherent response. He’s right, but how? I never told him! “Uh, well, not now…” I finally manage, my voice trailing off. God, I am so embarrassing, I just want to dolphin-dive into the ocean and disappear.

He smiles faintly, turning his gaze back to the ocean.

“During the Poker game you caught everyone who was cheating, you even caught when I was. You also knew your way around that gun.”

I have to give it to Chishiya. He’s intelligent. I want to beat him up. “I didn’t think much of those things until I saw the tattoo on the back of your neck.” Fuck me. How’d I ever allow Takeru to convince me to let him tattoo me? There’s only one person I want to beat up more than Chishiya, and that’s 16 year old me.

He laughs softly. “I almost feel sorry.”

“For?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“You want to know about my past,” He says, his voice light but cutting. “You have nothing while I have everything.”

I scoff. “Whatever, man.” I’m annoyed. He’s right and I’m annoyed he is. I scoop up my slippers and slowly stand, brushing the sand off my legs. As I turn to walk back to the Rover, he beckons me with a simple, “Come back here.”

Now we’re getting somewhere.

I sit back down, this time studying the side of his face. There’s something I don’t want to admit: this man is gorgeous. Like, wow. I’d assume he has a girl back home, but his attitude probably scares them all off. Correction—his attitude probably doesn’t even allow him to want anyone.

“My father was a doctor too. A surgeon. He worked at the same hospital I do now.” Okay… That’s a start, I guess. That’s boring, but a start.

“And your mom?” I ask, trying to keep the conversation going. Chishiya pauses, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“A nurse.”

I purse my lips and nod. So he grew up rich and followed in his parents’ footsteps. That’s nice. Not exactly the most interesting backstory, but it’s something. There has to be more to it, though. I know there is. But I don’t press him. I’m smart enough to know that’s the best I’m going to get. Honestly, I’m flattered I got even this much out of him.

Another long stretch of silence settles between us, but this time it’s not awkward or heavy. It’s just… there. Comfortable. Peaceful. The two of us sit side by side, staring out at the endless sea, not feeling the need to keep the conversation going.

Five minutes pass before I decide I’m done. I’m getting tired, and if I want to survive this place, I need my beauty sleep. A large part of death ‘here’ probably isn't even from the games– it’s from what people do when there are no laws to stop them. Look at me. I’m already acting like a madman by my standards. What I imagine other people are doing is far beyond anything I’d ever consider.

“I’m going to sleep,” I sigh, grabbing my slippers and slipping them onto my sandy feet. I stand, looking down at the top of Chishiya’s head. “I call dibs on the back of the car. You can sleep in the trunk.” I turn and start climbing up the sandy hill, one hand pressed against my wound.

Honestly, the back of the car isn’t that bad, except for the fact that the smell of leather and stale air makes me nauseous. I’ve always hated cars—the longer I’m in one, the queasier I get. I don’t know why. It’s weird. You could never take my ass on a road trip..

The car door opens, and Chishiya climbs into the passenger seat. I almost forgot that was an option for sleeping. God, I’m exhausted. My brain is so fried I only saw the trunk and backseat as viable sleeping spots.

He glances at me, his eyes scanning me up and down before he faces forward again. “Good night,” I tell him, a genuine smile tugging at my lips. The bastard doesn’t reply. Not that I expected him to. I just wanted to say it– for the both of us.

There’s a faint buzz of chatter around me, muffled and indistinct, like voices filtering through a thick fog. My head feels heavy, my thoughts sluggish and disjointed. Chatter? I try to piece together where I am, but my mind is too loopy to make sense of it. The first thing I notice is the absence of that nauseating car smell. My hands are bound tightly behind my back, the rough texture of the rope digging into my wrists. Shit. My eyes snap open, and I jerk my head to both sides, scanning my surroundings.

To my right is Chishiya, bound just like I am. His eyes are still closed, his breathing steady. I notice the lump in his cardigan pocket—where he kept his precious unknown snacks—is gone. Whoever did this took them. How dare they.

“You’re finally awake.” I hear a man say. I puff as I look to see where the voice came from. In front of me stand four people; three men and one woman. There’s a guy with a buzzcut, his arms crossed over his broad chest; a man with prescription glasses and a blank expression, another man wearing oversized sunglasses that hide his eyes completely; and a woman with long, flowing black hair that cascades down her back like a dark waterfall.

I can tell the guy with the sunglasses was the one who said that, because he has this happy-go-lucky grin on his face, and I can bet his eyes are scrunched up to go along with it. But I can’t be sure with those big ass sunglasses.

“Aguni. Wake up the blonde.” The command comes from Sunglasses. Buzzcut the Second–Aguni steps forward. His heavy boots thud against the floor as he strides over to Chishiya, who’s still slumped and unconscious. Aguni’s hand clamps down on Chishiya’s shoulders with a tight grip. That’s gotta hurt, cause, goddamn, this guy is a unit. Aguni shakes Chishiya roughly and then strolls back to his original spot. He’s lucky Chishiya stirred, because if he hadn’t, it would’ve been really awkward watching Aguni march over and try again.

It takes a few seconds for Chishiya to grasp his consciousness, but once he does he does the same exact thing I did, look for the other person. Once he spots me, the side of his hair covering one of his eyes, he slowly turns his head to the group of four infront of us.

It takes a few seconds for Chishiya to fully come to. When he does, his movements are slow, deliberate, like he’s piecing together where he is and what’s happening. His head turns sharply to the side, his eyes scanning the room until they land on me. One side of his hair falls over his eye, giving him a disheveled, almost careless look. Once he spots me, he slowly turns his head toward the group of four standing in front of us.

“You two.”

Sunglasses claps, his voice filled with the same joy I had in that Rover I wish so desperately I was in right now.

“We want you to join us.”

Next chapter!!!

#chishiya x fem!reader #chishiya shuntaro #chishiya alice in borderland #chishiya x reader #aib chishiya #aib #alice in borderland x reader #alice in borderland #alice in borderland chishiya #x reader #fanfic #slow burn #romance #fluff #Spotify #fanfiction

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everlxndd · 3 months ago

Text

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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deke-rivers-1957 · 8 months ago

Text

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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wishitweresummer · 7 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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sincericida · 8 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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formulaforza · 2 years ago

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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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preet-01 · 1 year ago

Text

In honor of the Visa Cash App RB Car Launch and all the dosh content it gave us

When Josh had chosen to go to the Visa Cash App RB Car Launch, he hadn’t expected to spend so much time in a changing room hidden far away from where the main event was taking place.

Well, actually, he had expected to spend a lot of his time sneaking away with Daniel and shoving him in secret alcoves. So he supposes this should technically be the same. But instead of shoving Daniel up against a wall and taking everything Daniel would give him before he had to play the sponsor darling, he was in the changing room helping Daniel change into his third outfit of the night.

“Exactly how many outfits are there?” Josh inquires, taking the race suit that Daniel had thrown to him over the translucent dressing screen that someone from the team had probably set up during the day.

Daniel had already been in the team kit when Josh had arrived at the venue. Daniel had also been freezing in the team kit when Josh had arrived. When it had been time for Daniel to change from the team kit to the race suit, Blake had just handed Josh the bag with the suit and told him to help Daniel out. Blake had said something about managerial duties before going off to wherever it was. Josh hadn’t questioned it much because well it would be him and a naked Daniel in a room.

“This should hopefully be the last one,” Daniel replies by throwing his fireproofs over the screen. “Could you hand me the Hugo bag?” he asks.

Josh goes about folding the race suit while Daniel puts on the suit Hugo Boss had provided him with. He doesn’t dare look at the translucent screen, knowing that if he saw the shadow of Daniel’s naked body very little could prevent him from spreading Daniel out on the small sofa that was in the room. And while Daniel may not mind that, his team would – Blake would probably kill Josh for derailing the schedule that had been planned.

He would just have to wait a little longer. Unlike other F1 events that Josh has attended, he doesn’t have to worry about any of the other drivers trying to take Daniel away from him. No, they couldn’t be at this event because they were on different teams. Yuki was here, yes, but Josh is mostly sure that Yuki doesn’t want to fuck Daniel like the Dutch driver or the various British drivers.

“Fuck,” Josh lets out when Daniel steps out from behind the dressing screen. He’s got on what looks like a plain white shirt and a black suit from Hugo Boss. And fuck does Daniel look perfect. Like temptation, sin, perfection waiting to be ruined.

“Do you like it?” Daniel questions, showing off his third outfit of the night. Josh had loved every single outfit he’s seen Daniel in today and this one is no different. A part of him hopes that he’s pulling this outfit off of Daniel’s body when they can finally return to one of their hotel rooms.

“You look amazing, darling,” Josh replies, letting his voice fall into the drawl that Daniel always seemed to love so much. Unable to help himself, Josh has Daniel up against the wall before anything else could be said. “Can’t wait to take you apart later tonight,” he says, sucking a red bruise just under the collar of Daniel’s shirt.

He would go further, take him apart right here and now, but there’s someone knocking on the door telling them that some sponsor wants a moment to talk to Daniel.

Just a few more hours and he would have Daniel underneath him.

#daniel and his harem of boyfriends #dosh #f1 #daniel ricciardo x josh allen #daniel ricciardo #josh allen

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mamadarama · 2 months ago

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my jojos stands for a few enstars characters :p i put a lot of effort into them so i wanted to post them even tho its a looong post....

i chose the names based off music i think the character would like, not necessarily songs that apply to them. i tried to make the powers sorta match the names but i didnt prioritize it. shrug. theyre also maybe a little overpowered. oops. at least theyre cool, i think.

the only characters here are nagisa, ibara, jun, hiyori, mayoi, madara, tsumugi, makoto, tatsumi, sora, and wataru (i prolly wont do the rest of the chars this took me like all afternoon and most of this morning)

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*only works if the subject is in the line of sight of the user or stand. "line of sight" includes live camera feeds.

*nagisa - aphex twin;

can touch people to encase them in a layer of stone (sort of like in pompeii). this is permanent, but the stone can be shattered by outside forces (not easily) or undone instantly by the stand. the persons body is put in stasis and wont age. also pauses any healing wounds or illnesses. the person is in a coma like state inside, but are living a lucid dream until theyre freed. what the dream is depends on the person and can be anywhere from a better life than the one they live, to an unending nightmare. depending on how long they were trapped, when people are unfrozen it takes time for their body to get used to being actively alive again.

- can be used to "time travel" (the same way cryostasis could be considered "time travel")

- can be used to cheat death and save lives

- could be used to disguise people as statues i suppose

- can use it on himself, but wouldnt be able to undo it. someone would have to break him out.

*ibara - critical darling;

transmutes blood into hemotoxic venom (specifically that of the mamushi pit viper). this only works if the blood is visible (i.e, outside the body or open wounds that are still bleeding)

- comes with immunity to all poison and venom

- effectively an unlimited source of venom, as long as he has blood to transmute.

- can do this with blood mixed into other things, but only the blood will turn to venom. (mix water with blood, turn the blood to venom, the water will be as if the same amount of venom was used instead of blood)

*hiyori - man on the moon;

can control light. making it dark in pure daylight, and visa versa. can change the color, brightness, heat, and other properties. only works on things that can light up, or light that already exists. (cant light up a dark room if it doesnt have a lightbulb, etc)

- comes with night vision.

- can be used to basically flashbang people minus the bang

- can remotely change the brightness of screens and other electronics

- works with ANY light level. if theres even a little light, he can use it.

- can cause 3rd degree burns with the sun or light sources that can tolerate a high heat output (or destroy light sources that cant tolerate a high heat output too i suppose)

jun - punk tactics;

its a supercharged attack dog. very quick and can jump very high. he can communicate with it telepathically and is always aware of where it is. however it can only manifest within 9 miles of jun. disappears and returns to jun if it goes farther. its a german shepherd cuz thats how i imagined it while writing this. he can take control of its body in first person, but his human body will be vulnerable. in first person the stand becomes a physical flesh and blood animal and returns to being a spirit when he goes back to his body. he can remotely see through its eyes without leaving his body. the 9 mile radius is negated while in first person, but still not a good idea to stray too far from his body. if his human body is unconscious or dead, he continues to live as his stand until his body is brought back to life or wakes up (optional if hes sleeping normally). until then hes stuck as a dog and therefore cant talk and has no thumbs. he also will age in dog years, so the older he gets the more dangerous this becomes. if his current age is beyond the lifespan of a dog, he has exactly one year from the second he died to resurrect his body (assuming resurrection is possible in whatever world this is happening in)

- can be used for stealth surveillance

- can be used to cheat death temporarily

- can be used as a disguise

- can be used to get dog privileges like free food and no taxes. just dont get caught by animal control. or the police.

*mayoi - imaginaerum;

thick cloud of vapor. density determined by the amount of material that was evaporated. any vapor he creates is alive with animal level sentience and commanded by him alone. he can also turn his body into vapor and condense vapor into liquid at will. he can still move freely when hes evaporated but it can easily get him found out if theres no wind or hes moving against the wind. if his body was turned into vapor, condensing rematerializes his body. it can be any material, but the components of that kind of vapor must be present within eyesight. moisture in objects works too, but wont make that much vapor. they dont have to be mixed, but once mixed as vapor the components cant be separated if theyre recondensed. all vapor containing his body must be present for him to condense back into a person. if he tries to condense when not all of his body is present, only the parts of his body that are present will become solid. depending on what part and how much of him is missing, this can range from minor injury to instant death. he is always aware of where his body parts are though.

- comes with burn resistance. if he would be burned, the burned flesh instead evaporates into steam. it can be reincorporated if he turns the rest of his body into vapor and then back into solid form.

- severed limbs cant be reattached the way burned flesh can, but if the limb was burned after being severed it could be reattached that way.

- he can make parts of his body evaporate if theres a trail of vapor between solid flesh. (ex. can turn his arm to vapor, but have his hand stay flesh)

- vapor created by him cannot be dissipated by anything other than himself.

- can be used as a smoke bomb.

- can be used for stealth and spying.

- can be used to get through any opening.

- can be used to poison or suffocate people depending on what liquid is used (ex. he could turn into mustard gas if he had the ingredients)

*tsumugi - sweet talk;

all forms of hypnotism and telepathy.

can also manifest psychic bonds to immobilize enemies. hypnotism only works if the subject is paying attention to tsumugi in any way (that is, it cant be avoided by pretending to ignore him). the psychic powers dont require the subject to be attentive. either you pay attention to him and become vulnerable to hypnosis, or you ignore him and leave yourself open to psychic and other forms of attack. no one is immune to this, but it works better on people that are naïve, stupid, or gullible

- can be used to guide allies out of dangerous situations

- can be used to put enemies in dangerous situations

- can be used to control peoples thoughts and cause emotional damage

- can be used for normal hypnotism stuff like making people fall asleep and whatnot.

- can be used to immobilize objects as well as people

madara - twilight zone;

chronomancy. primarily can steal and redistribute time from his and other peoples lives. he also can tell exactly how long anyone but himself has left of their natural lifespan (cant tell if someone will die from something besides old age). he can only alter the lifespan of people when theyre standing still (willingly or not). he can only steal or give time at rates of either 30min/sec, 1yr/sec, or 10yrs/15sec. he can "carry" stolen lifetime to redistribute later by giving it to himself, but hes unable to tell how long his own lifespan currently is. he keeps count by writing on his arm with a pen. he can speed up or slow down time for objects or people and reverse time up to 3 minutes. this also works for parts of objects or people. (unlike the other stands in this post, twilight zones power wont work through a live video feed. the subject has to be visible in person)

- can be used to heal wounds by speeding up time in a specific area. doing this itches like hell and adds time to that part of the body making it older than the rest of the body. the same is true for reversing time, but its less consequential due to the 3 minute limiter. depending on how severe the wound is, the risk varies.

- speeding up time for an ill person could either heal them or kill them. whichever one would have happened regardless. also makes that person however much older.

- as long as they stay still, he could speed up time infinitely for one person until their body decays.

- if he managed to collect enough lifetime, he could curse someone with pseudo immortality (make someones lifespan like 10000 years)

- is effectively immortal himself, but after he reaches the upper limit of his own natural lifespan, he will only be able to stay alive by stealing time from others.

- its risky to speed up time for living things that havent finished growing yet because it will give that part a head start and end up bigger than the rest of the body. if used on the whole body, the brain is unaffected and making a kid grow up extremely quickly will not make them act like an adult.

- can be used to make plants grow faster but is a little tedious bc it would still dry out the soil so hed have to stop and water it every few minutes

(can you tell this power was already a concept i had worked out months ago but had nothing to use it for lol)

makoto - private eyes;

digital camera that converts peoples souls into image files through their eyes. if the person blinks or closes their eyes they cant have their soul taken. they dont have to be looking at the camera though, their eyes just have to be open and visible in the viewfinder. the camera doesnt have a flash but isnt affected by light levels, the image is always clear. the body is left braindead but still alive. the soul in the file is still sentient and conscious, but will not age, die, get hungry, etc. however the body will. the soul in the image can move but its not smooth movement, it looks like a series of photographs documenting a single action. they can only interact with objects and other souls in the frame. multiple souls can be captured in the same file, but the file size increases based on how many souls it holds. souls can talk to each other but to people outside the photo itll look like watching a mute tv. if the file is deleted or the device its currently on is destroyed, so are all the souls in it. private eyes itself cant be destroyed unless makoto dies. for the soul to return to the body, the body must see the picture that was taken of it on a screen of any kind (wont work if its printed out) souls can only return to their own body, if something happens to it they are stuck.

- can be used to escape a sick body until its healed

- viewfinder can be used to see in the dark

- could be used to escape death, but the soul would end up stuck forever.

- if given a pen and paper, the soul could communicate with the outside world making it possible for makoto to temporarily carry people in his pocket.

- makoto could use this on himself, but he wouldnt be able to reverse it. someone else would have to show his body the picture.

tatsumi - evelyn evelyn; (workshopping the name)

can make miracles happen. the less likely something is to happen, the more likely it is that he can make it happen (similar to the infinite improbability drive from the hitchhikers guide). however, theres a 50% chance that what hes trying to do will actually do something else similar, and a 5% chance that it will work with monkeys paw rules. like if he tried to make a turkey sandwich fall from the sky, theres a 50% chance that it will be a different kind of sandwich, and a 5% chance that a plane crashes nearby that happens to have a turkey sandwich on board.

- can be used for just about anything, but be careful.

- bringing back the dead is possible, but they might come back wrong.

sora - piano fantasia;

telekinesis, can manipulate the environment and change gravity*. he could turn the whole world physically upside down among other things that would change the terrain to give him the upper hand in battle. he can redistribute matter, but not create matter (ex. moving tree branches to a different place on the trunk, rearranging bricks that have already been mortared). he can also change the color of whatever he wants.

- gives him a hardier body. he can still get hurt, but it takes a lot more force for him to get a broken bone.

- can be used to make doors in solid walls

- can move peoples body parts around (can put someones head on backwards, switch their feet with their hands) this doesnt hurt but it is uncomfortable.

*i know gravity control is already c-moons power but whatever

wataru - beluga jump; (workshopping the name)

i havent come up with anything about this besides the fact that its basically just a combination of luffy and buggy's devil fruit powers from one piece. he can put his body parts back on however he wants and stretch around all silly. his hair is still prehensile, of course (and is also stretchy). ill edit this post if i come up with anything to add.

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aaanyways ty for reading all that hope u like them :p

#txt #whiteboard

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