#Importance of affirmations in Black homes

[successfulblackparenting]

Beyond Mirror Affirmations: Words That Strengthen, Uplift, and Guide Black Children

SPONSORED POST Article by Azizi Tuere In the Black experience, words are more than just communication—they’re survival, freedom, and revolution. As a mother, author, and advocate for language, I’ve seen firsthand how the right words can transform our children’s futures. The way we speak to and about our children shapes their confidence, their identity, and their ability to navigate a world that…

[madridfangirl]

Jude in a Suit

(Jude Bellingham blurb)

1.7k words. SMUT.

Summary: What Jude in a suit did to you. Then what you did to him. And then what he did to you.

It was a lazy Saturday afternoon. 

Jude was at the Bernabeu, on a sponsor shoot for the club. While you were at his place, enjoying a siesta after a hectic week at work. Sprawled on the couch, Sangria in hand, your comfort show playing on Netflix. Waiting for him to return. The plan was to have an early dinner & crash - his week had been super tiring too. 

You were scrolling through your phone, when THOSE pics dropped.

HIM in a SUIT. Tight fitted back suit.

It disrupted your brain chemistry. And set your body on fire. It didn’t help that you were ovulating.

You had seen him in tight fitted suits before. But this time it hit different. He looked sharper, sexier, bulkier, stronger, more mature. This was a man, not the boy who had arrived from Dortmund last summer. One year at Madrid had turned him into a beast - a physical specimen, a mentality monster, a true-blue footballing legend in the making. 

This was a man who knew he was on top of the world. You couldn’t wait for him to get on top of you. 

‘Come home ASAP. Keep the suit on.’

Jude was intrigued when he saw the message, but the chaos around didn’t let him dwell on it too much. He just wanted to go home, to you.

He had barely gotten out of the car, when you practically ran out of the door and jumped on him. His chauffeur drove away swiftly, while Jude laughed & grabbed you with one arm, holding his bag in the other hand. Your arms and legs wrapped around him in a koala hug.

He effortlessly carried you inside, while you nipped and kissed every inch of skin on his face and neck you could get to. Exhaustion was long forgotten, as he tried to connect the dots of what was getting you so riled up.

But you were desperate. Feverish with need. Ready to combust any second.

‘Bedroom.’

It was an effort to peel your lips away from his skin long enough to utter this. But then you saw his charming toothy grin, which turned you on even more.

‘I’m sweaty & dirty.’

‘Good. Now move.’

You bit his lips. Hard. Not the gentle tugging he was accustomed to. But actual harsh digging of teeth into plump skin. Showing him you meant business. That time was not to be wasted.

He understood, swatted your ass in acknowledgement, and carried you upstairs to your shared bedroom.

Once inside, you took charge. Again something he wasn’t used to.

Pushing him to the middle of the room, you started undressing him. Ripping off his perfectly tailored coat, battling with the buttons of his skin-tight shirt, tugging at his tie harshly. But when he tried to do the same, you batted his hands away.

He cocked his head sideways, looking at you curiously, while you jostled with his belt buckle.

‘What’s gotten into you?

‘What’s important is what NEEDS TO GET INTO ME. YOU. But you aren’t moving FAST ENOUGH. Now sit.’

Amused, he sat down on the edge of the bed, still sizing you up. While you got rid of his trousers, shoes and socks. Leaving him in his black briefs. The bulge starting to show.

Jude had understood it was gonna be a different kind of a night. It was unchartered territory for both to see you so bold & forthright. He licked his freshly bitten lips at what was to come. But, he was also an eternal opportunist and knew when to pounce.

‘What do I get if I do as you say?’

‘Ummm SEX???’

‘Yeah - but your way.’

‘Fine. What do you want?’

‘You know what I want.’

‘NOT THAT.’

He wanted you to swallow, something you had been holding out on.

‘How about the other thing, then?

He wanted a sex tape, had been yapping about it for a while. 

‘Maybe. If you be a good boy now & play your cards right.’

His dick shot up at the words, struggling against his briefs, a movement both sets of eyes followed. No further verbal affirmation was needed.

‘Lie down.’

Obeying in bed was new for him. Especially with you. It had always been him tossing & bossing you around. Manhandling & manoeuvring you to his liking. But he decided to comply, for the sake of his prize. And for a new experience, which was starting to become thrilling.

You looked around for something to restrain him with, settling on his discarded tie. As you tried to tie both his hands together to the headboard, he chimed in with a helpful suggestion.

‘Belt will give a tighter grip.’

‘It will hurt.’

‘It won’t.’

But you didn’t want to take a chance, going with the tie instead. You tugged at the knot, satisfied. Then looked down at his almost naked, tied-down form. 

Jude had always been sexy, the sexiest man you had ever laid eyes on. But lying down like this, all obedient and pliant and inviting, ready to do your bidding, with a tentative smile & semi-anxious eyes, made you want to eat him whole. 

Stripping down to your undergarments, you sat on his waist, legs on either side of him, as your hands ran over his bare torso, admiring the rock-hard muscles. To him, you looked like a lioness on the prowl, sizing up her prey, before devouring it. He couldn’t wait to be devoured, itching for it now.

You pinched his perky nipples, hard, then bent down to suck on them ferociously. He hissed, as you repeated the action over & over, gazing into his eyes. Making him wonder if that’s how you felt the zillion times he had assaulted your tits like that. It was pleasurable, but it also made him super sensitive, almost sore, as he squirmed under your wet mouth.

With one final tug & flick, you let him go, moving to bite his flexing biceps. Leaving teeth marks all over. But tomorrow was an off day for him, and you. Enough time to recover. His team-mates won’t see the marks in the shower or in the sleeveless jerseys he was so fond of.

You slid down, tasting his abs now, licking the sweaty tight skin, tracing the dips and curves with your tongue. He was all hard muscle there, no fat. Your fingers played with his belly button, another trademark Jude move on you, and his back arched, feeling ticklish and needy now. 

Cupping him over his briefs, you stretched up to somehow find his lips in a sloppy kiss, while your hand slipped inside, finding him more than ready, his resulting grunt drowning in your mouth. 

‘Get on with it. Stop teasing now.’

Jude didn’t even need to look at you to know what you were doing. He had the habit of making you come on his fingers or mouth first, to open you up, before fucking you proper with his dick. You were returning the favour, stroking him vigorously, making him whine.

‘Please, not like this. Inside, please.’

You bit your lips seductively, batting your lashes at him, hand unwavering.

Removing the briefs, you took the leaking tip in your mouth, swirling your tongue around it. Your hand continuing to stroke the base. He arched his back and nearly leaped off the bed.

Your mouth moved to his meaty tree-trunk like thighs, grabbing hold of a mouthful of tight skin, biting down with abandon. Marking your territory. Revelling in the purple patches that were starting to form on his taut skin.

He twisted & turned on the bed, as you went back to lick the length of his member.

‘Please, baby. I love you. So much. Inside, my love.’

The bastard. He knew you would yield with this. And you did.

But also coz you really wanted to. Waiting to get him hard a second time was not an option, you could feel your own need soaking up your panties.

Ridding yourself of the remaining clothing, you started to slide down on him, hands planted behind on his thighs for balance. Jude moaned filthily, thankful for the familiar wet heat, squeezing him deliciously.

You rode him like your life depended on it, following your pleasure, learning from his moans too. Nails digging into his thighs and abs as you shifted balance, grinding on him, taking him deep, trying to find that spot which he usually found in only a few strokes.

‘Let me.’

You shook your head, this was going to be your thing. But no matter how much you tried and how good he felt inside, you knew he could do it better. Take you higher & deeper. Make you scream your lungs out.

‘C’monn doll, let me give you what you need, yeah?’

He knew your body, what made you tick, better than your own self. How, you had no clue. 

The moment you nodded, he pulled his hands away from the so-called hold, sitting up in bed, pinning both your hands behind you with one of his palms, while the other grabbed your ass.

You stared dumbfounded. Of course the grip was too meek for him. Of course he was just playing along for your sake. 

But you couldn’t dwell much on that since his mouth had found your chest, taking out all pent up need on your tits. The familiar sting unlocking mind-numbing sensations in you, like he knew it would.

His hips, thighs and one hand worked together to bounce you like a rag doll on him, and just like that, in a few seconds, he made you cry out by hitting your sweet spot. He hit it repeatedly, and your head spun, your body shuddered, your eyes watered, and your lips gasped his name. Your marauded fucked-out state and your clenching walls drawing him closer too.

You nearly came together, him a few seconds after you, but as always, he kept stroking sloppily, till every drop was safely inside, while you shuddered and shattered in his arms, on his cock.

You threw your head back and he slowly pulled out, laying you on your back, hovering over your spent form.

’10 minutes. Then my turn. And I’ll show you how a belt doesn’t hurt.’

He whispered in your ear, then slid away to find his DSLR, an extra skip in his step.

..............................................................................................

This man has ruined my life! I am not ok!

[novemberheart]

{overview} The two alphas in the pack are warming up to you and you can't help but feel the same

{warnings} a/b/o dynamics, fem reader, a bit of reader backstory, poly 141 x reader

Chapter 7 <- Chapter 8 -> Chapter 9

“Sweetheart, I want you to promise me two things.” John began as you started your walk back home. “Number one, if there's a question on this thing-” he nearly growled, holding up the envelope he was carrying for you. “that you don't want to answer, don't. Nobody's business if you don't want it to be, understand?”

“Yes, Alpha.” the title slipped from your lips out of instinct. You were so focused on your own embarrassment to notice the sudden rise in his body temperature, or the way he began holding the envelopes lower. “I’m sorry-”

“Don't be,” he insisted. “You can call me whatever you want, whatever feels comfortable to you,” he assured, causing your heart rate to slow. The title ‘alpha’ certainly fits the Captain. It also felt more personal- more intimate than John. You hoped the outside air would be enough to waft away the growing sweetness in your scent.

“What was the other thing you wanted me to promise?” you reminded.

“That you'll seriously think about getting chipped. If it's a hard no, I'll understand, but it's important to me- to all of us that we set you up to be safe should anything happen.” he requested.

The butterflies in your stomach were fluttering around at lightspeed. The alpha was close to you as you walked. The overwhelming urge to just tuck yourself under his strong arm so he could make good on his promises. A whine left your throat at the understanding that you couldn't touch him yet.

Alpha's were built to keep their omegas warm. Your omega was throwing a temper tantrum at the denial.

“I’ll stop pressing you, sweetheart. I apologize.”

You quickly realized he was referencing your whine. The sound made his stomach flip.

“No- I wasn’t whining at that. I'm not sure where that came from, to be honest.” you lied. “It's probably a good idea actually. It'll help me feel safer too.” you didn't know who had taken over your mouth. Maybe it was desperation. If you got chipped that would be one step closer to being his.

“Come on, pup.” You poked your head outside your door, peering at Simon as he shut the TV off and stood up from the couch. He winced a bit as he tested how much weight he could put on his leg. He stood still watching you with dull eyes. You quickly got up and trotted over to him.

“Do you need something?” you pondered.

“Time for your walk,” he smirked down at you, making his way over to the kitchen, where he grabbed his key card and a pack of cigarettes out of the drawer. He then grabbed a black balaclava and tugged it over his head. Your brows furrowed at the tease in his voice, but you complied heading back towards your room to grab a pair of shoes. “Need to get you walking shoes.” he ‘tsked’ eyeing your flats. There was a subtle limp in his walk and you could tell he was trying to downplay it.

“Do you need a cane or something?” you poked. He shot you a look, but his hand reached up and rested on the back of your neck, causing you to erupt in goosebumps.

“This’ll do.” he shot back, giving you a gentle squeeze.

“You like being outside don't you?” he observed, watching the way your breathing deepened and a glow appeared on your face as the sun hit it. You nodded your head.

“I grew up in a crowded city. Every summer break my parents would take me to the countryside to be with the rest of our pack,” you explained.

“Split pack?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you affirmed softly.

“That’ll serve you here.” Simon commented. “You already have experience being away from the majority of your pack, along with knowing how to manage the emotions that come with it.”

“For when you guys have to do your jobs?” you clarified. He sucked air through his teeth, then hummed in agreement. When you were at the Omega house you would lie awake thinking about it, growing anxious even though you had no relationship with them. Now the thought of them leaving wasn't an entirely negative one. You hoped that they wouldn't all leave at the same time. It would give you a chance to bond with those who stayed and miss the ones who left. “How often do you leave anyways?” you questioned.

“Eager, huh?” he gave the back of your neck another squeeze. “We never know. Sometimes we’ll go a few weeks without being called away, other times we’ll just be here a few days out of the month.”

“Do you all leave at the same time?” you held your breath.

“Sometimes.” he drew out. “That might change with you though, at least in the beginning.” he sighed. He guided you behind a large building, releasing your neck. He leaned against the side of it, pulling the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, rolling his mask up, and placing the cigarette between his lips. “You don't smoke do you?”

“No.” you nearly spat.

“Good, nasty habit.” he praised, lighting it. All was quiet between the two of you and you focused on trying to listen to the birds between the distant sound of gunfire, whirling machines, and shouting. “How’d you end up in an omega house?” he asked suddenly. He watched as you frilled up like a spooked cat.

“When I was fifteen my mom left us.” you began. You avoided Simon’s gaze even though you could feel the burn of it. “My dad reclaimed shortly after and along with that came a new pack. I didn't adjust too well.” you trailed off.

“Their fault or yours?” he questioned. You paused for a long moment mulling it over. You finally lifted your eyes from the tree line, merging with Simons. Cold and unreadable.

“I'm not sure. Mix of both,” you whispered. He got the last bit of cigarette he could before putting it out against the lid of a trash can.

“Tell you what.” he started. The grip on the back of your neck returned, as he headed back towards the pavement. “I’ll let you know whose fault it is after I get to know you a bit better.” he offered. You rolled your eyes, ignoring the slight sting in your chest at the memories.

“Hey, Peaches.” an instant smile appeared on your face at the familiar voice.

“Hi, Johnny.” you smiled up at him. You had just gotten back from your walk with Simon when John and Kyle came back to swoop you up for lunch. After they dropped you back off you were determined to finally finish unpacking.

“Need any help?” He asked, taking a seat in your doorway.

“Not really.” you sighed, looking over your horrible wrinkled clothes. “Thanks though, Johnny.” You smiled. He smiled back, getting himself comfortable by leaning against your doorframe. “Can I ask you something?” you asked hesitantly.

“Course, bonnie,” he replied instantly.

“How come you don't have an omega yet?” his smile remained on his face as he shrugged.

“I always wanted one, and I know Kyle has been thinking about it a lot lately, well, ever since Laswell had brought it up. I think the Captain was putting it off because he's a worrier. Simon is just a prick.” he whispered the last part, his eyes snapping over to the couch where Simon had passed out. You giggled, following his gaze. “I hope we didn't hurt your feelings, bonnie. I know Laswell wanted to pair you up with us sooner and we”-

“Rejected the idea?” You finished for him. He nodded his head- regretfully.

“Didn’t know it would be you though.” The smirk returned to his face, as his eyes drifted up and down you playfully.

“I don’t think Simon’s a prick.” You defended softly, wanting to change the subject. “He’s been quite nice to me. Well- all of you have.” You sighed happily.

The words he wanted to say were at the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it back. The truth was you seemed rather oblivious to your impact. The closest way he could describe you was addictive. Your scent, your eyes, even the way you scowled when you didn’t approve of something. You had flipped a switch in the brains that had been dormant their whole lives. It wasn't just him either. He watched the way John eyed the clock and practically sprinted out the door when it was time to pick you up for lunch. He noticed the way Kyle picked out a deep, forest green shirt today because you had absentmindedly shared you had liked the color. Just the idea that you had been chosen for them. You had been selected with the intention to be theirs. And even though you still hadn't bonded with them or been marked, the prideful beta in him rumbled at the thought.

Instead of saying all that he settled with:

“Give him some time, Peaches. He’ll come around.” he snickered.

“If you say so.” you huffed.

“We should throw your things in the dryer, Bon. Can't have you walking around like nobody’s takin’ care of ya.”

It was dark out before you knew it. You had already eaten dinner, orange chicken with white rice. They didn't have a dessert, but Kyle quickly raced to the vending machine to get you a candy bar. You smiled, curling yourself deeper into your blanket.

All of you were together, for the first time since you had arrived. John is at the very end of the couch, with his feet up on the coffee table. Kyle lying next to him, his feet nearly on his lap. Johnny was also sprawled out, he and Kyle sharing a pillow. Simon sat stiffly next to him. His pain meds must be starting to wear off. You could always tell because an annoyed scowl would appear on his face. You were curled up on the other side of Simon, and you took it upon yourself to slowly inflate your scent. You weren't sure if he knew you did it on purpose, but you felt giddy when you saw his tense muscles begin to relax.

It was John's turn to pick what to watch- although he offered to forgo his turn if there was something that caught your eye. You politely shot him down, already feeling your eyelids grow heavy. He had settled on a ‘How It's Made’ episode about kayaks, safety boots, electronic signs, and cereals.

All in all, it was the perfect recipe for sleep. A pack that you were beginning to feel comfortable with, a calm voice on TV, a full stomach, and a soft blanket.

John watched as your eyelids began to droop. You were comfortable. He was pleased with how easily you had adjusted to their pack. He knows the first day wasn't easy- or what you had hoped for. If he could do it all again, trust him, he would. But here you were drifting in and out of sleep, the smell of warm peaches and vanilla filling the air. It made his own restless mind slow, and the ache in his temples dissipated.

“She asleep?” Johnny whispered. It was then he realized the show had ended. “Should we move her back to her room?” The Scot questioned, peeling himself off of the couch. He stretched, his back popping loudly.

“Best leave her out here with me,” Simon said all too quickly. Three heads snapped in his direction. “Fuck off,” he growled. “You want me to get better or not?” he reminded. They all agreed, not voicing any other theories about why he wanted you there with him.

Hi friends! Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I'll see you in two days for chapter 9! 🧡

[sato111u]

rich boyfriend gojo, who is 8-9 years older than reader (who is a master degree’s student in this fic)!

sees you for the first time on the lobby of one of his big chain hotels.

a cup of black expresso in the table in front of you while you worked on a project.

he approaches you confidently, fully transparent about his intentions.

expresses his feelings, by saying you were the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life, and how he couldn’t take his eyes off of you.

he managed to get your phone number, and a few days later, gojo politely asks you out on a date.

gojo was always a true gentleman, picking you up, opening doors for you, taking you home and making sure you go to sleep safe and sound.

but there was something else that brought gojo immense pleasure. taking care of you financially.

gojo always had money. since the moment he was born, he had already his life taken care of.

spending a few millions was like nothing to him.

but there was something about spending money on you that made gojo’s heart feel so warm, even if it was a few dollars on acrylics. it brought a feeling of accomplishment, knowing he was taking care of his girl. he felt his stomach doing cartwheels when you sweetly thanked him, your gentle eyes looking up to him.

far into the relationship, gojo made sure he was paying for your education, and other expenses you had, such as acrylics, salon appointments, dinners with your girlfriends, etc…

but at first you felt uncomfortable, and expressed to him that you genuinely liked him, and you were not with him just for the money. he simply respected you and asked you just to accompany him so he could buy new suits, telling you that your opinion on the matter was more than important.

and there you were sitting pretty on the expensive chair watching your boyfriend try on suits.

after that, gojo innocently guided you to other stores, to see if anything would catch your attention.

and for your surprise, gojo wanted to buy almost everything you layed your eyes on.

a few mall visits later, and you were already more comfortable with this idea.

having your tall, attractive boyfriend, enter lingerie stores with you, making everyone in the store feel slightly uncomfortable.

gojo, with no shame, would point at the most sexy lingerie’s in the store and confidently say “this would look so good on you princess, let’s buy this in red, black and white. maybe blue too so it can match my eyes” as he lowers himself down to give you a quick kiss.

passing by fancy clothing shops, stopping and pointing at dresses and affirm that he was 100% sure that the dress was made for you, which was an excuse to buy it in at least two different colors.

the dates were always super romantic, either taking you to really nice restaurants, or going more for a casual vibe, taking you to museums, walks on cute parks and so much more. and of course, everything was always taken care of.

he loved bringing you to his apartment. cuddling with you on his big king size bed. playing with the strap of the cute pijama he bought you, as he fought against his sleepiness. loved to fall asleep on top of your chest, making him feel safe and loved.

waking up to you playing with his undercut, telling him that he needed to wake up or else he would be late for work. but what difference did it make? he was the CEO after all.

you made his house feel like a home. your love was such a beautiful energy, and everytime you left, he felt like his house was empty.

-

“satoru, baby, if you don’t get up i’m going to by squashed by you!” you said giggling. gojo was laying on top of you, head in between you breasts.

“'m so cold … ion wanna leave…” gojo said, still half asleep, hugging you tighter.

“then how about i change positions with you hm?” you said caressing the side of his face.

“mkay” gojo slowly got up, guiding your hips so you could lay on top of him. he didn’t wanna waste a single second without you being on top of him.

you gently sit on his lap, and lower your head to his chest. one of his hands instinctively goes on your lower back, while the other one plays with your hair.

“can i ask you something?” gojo said, his voice sounding a little bit more awake.

“yes” you said.

“do you want to move in with me?” he asked.

“you don’t need to answer right now, but i really needed to ask you. the last 10 months have been so great, all because of you. you make me want to be a better person, with better habits and better experiences. waking up without you on my side feels wrong, therefor i ask. would you like to live with me?”

-

read the bonus here

IN MY DREAMS, I HAVE A PLAAANNNN IF I GOT ME A WEALTHY MAAAANNNNN

anyways ty for reading 😮‍💨🙏

[bobbeshwar]

i fw him on the low

ੈ✩‧₊˚ art by yakoi.yoo on instagram

ੈ✩‧₊˚ I had a couple of shots at the bar, im finna play with that dick in the car…

ੈ✩‧₊˚ you’re tipsy at the bar and find yourself sending a message to your fuck buddy kenji sato

ੈ✩‧₊˚ word count: ~3k

ੈ✩‧₊˚ warnings: model!fem-reader, secret relationship(or more secret shagging), car sex, oral (kenji receiving), fingering (reader receiving), creampie, unprotected sex, overstimulation, a dash of possessive!reader, reader is a lil tipsy but she’s mostly acting voluntarily, kenji adores you

ੈ✩‧₊˚ a/n: took me a month but here we are

You glanced down at your phone once more, ignoring the goosebumps pimpling across your bare legs as the chilly night air breezed at your skin. Kenji had read your message thirty minutes ago, responding almost instantly at your heavily misspelled, ‘come get me’. 

This was such a bad idea, your manager would have your head if even a blurry photo of the two of you found its way onto the internet. Kenji Sato was the rookie baseball star that had fans crawling out of the woodwork. A photo of any woman standing even remotely next to him had them reeling. Releasing personal information, sending death threats, stalking. 

Despite your popularity you wouldn’t be spared. As a world-renowned supermodel, it was important to show only the most perfect parts of yourself to the media. No scandals, no messy pap photos, nothing that would make you appear as anything less than the irresistible beauty that the world admired and covetted. 

But here you were, freezing your tits off in the tiniest slip dress ever, standing outside some swanky club—you had to keep up appearances— and staring at your phone waiting for the fuckbuddy who could potentially get you canceled. 

You blew out a stuttering breath, the movement slapping your tiny dangling purse against your leg. You truly couldn’t help yourself once you downed that first shot of vodka. As you smiled at mutual celebs and models inside that club, nodding along as they talked at you, all you could think of was the last time you and Kenji met up. Of the feeling of your thighs slapping against his as you rode his cock like it was a mechanical bull. God, you had some tension that needed to be released. 

Two shots later you were sliding him a message and lying to your manager about being home. 

You were jolted from your thoughts when a sleek black Bugatti rolled up to the curb. You bit your lip to hold back your smile as you stumbled to the car. Finally. 

Kenji glanced through his tinted windows at the sight of you, stunning as you always were in a short silky dress that showed off those perfect legs and a foreign smile on your lips. He couldn’t help the surprised grin that pulled at his lips at the sight of your text. From the moment that he approached you behind the scenes at one of your fashion shows and you nonchalantly handed him your number, you’d been anything but desperate. But this message—uncharacteristically riddled with typos—told him you definitely were. Or intoxicated. 

He stepped quickly out of his car, narrowing his eyes at the sort of dazed smile on your face and the slight stumble in your usually flawless stride. Definitely drunk. He’d never seen you this way, a touch disheveled, so different from the perfect model persona that he and the world were lucky enough to see. Something about the sight of you now made his dick twitch.

“Hey, babyy.” You lulled when you finally approached him, sliding your hands around his waist and pulling him in. Okay, he was half hard now. The nickname caught him off guard, it was what he always called you, despite the glares you shot his way in response. You’d constantly affirmed that this could never be a serious relationship and still, he persisted with charming you. He knew you liked him, despite how much you rolled your eyes and glared at him when he flirted at you. A poke and prod more, and you’d be his. 

“What type of club were you at, hm?” You giggled at him, your hands sliding down to his ass and giving it a firm squeeze. He let out a noise of surprise, cheeks flushing, “Okay, baby let’s get you home.” He popped open the passenger door and maneuvered you in the car as you whined slightly in protest. 

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he reached over to the glove compartment and pulled out a bottle of water, twisting it open and guiding it to your mouth, “C’mon baby, you gotta drink.” You reluctantly opened your mouth and drank the water, before grabbing the bottle from his hands and chugging it gratefully. “Good?” 

“Mhm.” You nodded, leaning back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed. Kenji buckled you into your seat and started the car, beginning the drive to your apartment. 

He couldn’t help glancing at your calm figure, the slow rise and fall of your chest. He didn’t think he’d ever seen you so vulnerable.  

You opened your eyes and another smile pulled at your lips as you glanced at Kenji. The water helped, but that slight buzz of intoxication still clung to your mind like a wet towel. How the fuck could he be so gorgeous? His sharp eyes trained on the road, big hands tight against the steering wheel, dark hair falling into his face. 

Without thinking you combed your fingers through his hair and Kenji jolted, “And here I thought you passed out.” His lips pulled up in a small smile, and you felt your pussy throb. I think I’ll die if I don’t fuck him right now. 

“I missed you soo much, Kenji.” There was still a slight slur in your voice, but even if you weren’t partially intoxicated your need for him would have loosened your tongue anyway, letting those words spring free. Your hand slid down his hair to his flushed cheek, then to his mouth, fingers brushing against his lips. You bit your lip at the softness, eyes fluttering closed as you remember how they felt sucking marks into your inner thigh and buried into your pussy. “Mm, I missed that tongue.”

“Fuck, y-you’re drunk.” Kenji breathed, hands tightening around the wheel as he tried not to look at you. God, his cock was already straining against his pants and your fingers against his lips were not helping. 

“Just a little.” You hummed. Kenji released a relieved breath as he felt your hand leave his face, trying his best to focus on the road and not you sitting beside him, staring at him like he was dinner. 

But before he could rest easy, he heard a click and the sound of shifting against leather. When he turned to you again, you were facing him, that same evil, aggravatingly gorgeous smile on your lips as you moved down towards his lap and undid his jeans. “And I really missed this cock.” 

Kenji makes a strangled sound as you pulled his cock from his jeans, “Uhm, b-babe, you—”  You gave a kitten lick to his already weeping tip before you closed your lips around his tip, moaning gratefully at the contact. Kenji let loose a groan of surprise, nearly stopping the car in the middle of the goddamn highway. “Fuck, oh my god.” 

“What about you? Did you miss me?” You murmured, hand stroking his cock as you spoke, “Did you miss my hand fisting your fat cock?” Kenji let out a pathetic little sound at that and you couldn’t help giggling, “Or is it my mouth?” Your stroking slowed slightly as your tongue lapped at his tip, “Did you miss fucking it?” 

“B-Babe, ah—you're gonna get us killed.” You laughed again, the vibration of the sound against him shooting a whimper from his lips. His hold tightened against the steering wheel, his sight seemed to blur as he stared at the road, he was still miles from your apartment, meaning he was completely at your mercy. 

“So you didn’t miss me, Kenji?” He could hear a pout in your sweet voice, you almost sounded innocent. Despite the fact that you were about to make him cum on the fucking highway. He could feel your other hand snaking into his lap, cupping his balls and giving it a squeeze, “It’s not a hard question.” 

“Yes, fuck, of course.” Kenji blurted between moans, head falling back against the headrest as he struggled to keep his eyes on the road. 

You gave a dissatisfied hum, releasing him with a resounding pop. “And you haven’t fucked anyone else since we last met?” Your stroking resumed, the wet sound of your slick hands sliding up and down his cock filling the already tight space. 

Another moan as Kenji’s foot nearly lifted from the pedal. Shit, it really had been too long, and you’d never been this eager for him before. Sure you fucked, but it was never passionate, you were there for pleasure and pleasure alone. But right now you were sucking him off, moaning around his dick like you’d been starved and it was a four-course meal. Fuck, he was going to crash. 

“Words, baby.” You sang, and that nickname nearly drove him over the edge. 

“Uhm, ah—ffu—no one, of course no one.” Kenji managed, pulling his lip between his teeth to hopefully stifle the groans falling freely from his lips. The green exit sign was up ahead, just a few more minutes of this torture. 

“That’s right, because no one can handle this cock like me, right?” You asked—no demanded, cupping his balls tightly in your left hand. Fuck, you were gonna cum, all over his expensive leather seats just from stuffing his dick in your mouth and listening to his moans. It was really unfair how perfect he was, that face and his cock. No wonder his fans were obsessed.

And it was all yours, “Kenji,” You sang, loosening your grip around his balls, “You can’t cum unless you answer me.” 

“Fuck, fuck, w-wait, we’re almost at your house.” Kenji got out, chest heaving. 

You rolled your eyes, stroking him at a harsher pace. “This is my cock, right?” His answer was just another stream of moans and pleas, you could feel his thighs twitching against your body, and you slowed your movements, he didn’t get to cum yet. 

But you couldn’t continue your merciless edging because all of a sudden you were being pulled upright onto Kenji’s lap as his eyes bore into you, cloudy with darkness and lust. “We’re at your apartment.” Is all he said, and before you could give back a tipsy response he closed the distance between the two of you and caught your lips hungrily with his, practically swallowing you whole, teeth gnashing against yours, rough little moans as he basically devoured you, hands sliding down your waist to squeeze a handful of your ass tightly. “Shit, I need you so bad, baby.” He breathed between your lips, voice nearly a whine. You could do nothing but moan as you felt his hands pulling at the fabric of your tiny dress, the skin of your ass heating as it pressed against the cool leather of the steering wheel. 

“Yeah?” You said with a smirk, sliding your hips against his exposed cock, “Hurry up and fuck me then.” 

Kenji did not hesitate, pulling your legs further apart so he could slip a hand past your underwear and against your pussy, “Fuck, you’re so wet.” He says, lips sucking marks into your neck, “Is this all for me?” 

“Oh plea—ahhn!” His hands, God, his hands. Those long fingers were toying with your pussy, thumb pressing at your clit as his fingers stretched you open. 

“Mmn, I missed this.” Kenji sighed against your lips, muffling your whimpers with a messy kiss. “Missed being inside of that perfect pussy, making you squirt all over my fingers—” 

You trembled at the thought, then moaned as you felt his other hand sliding up to squeeze your tit and thumb at your already hard nipple. Your thighs trembled, pussy tightening around his fingers as you came, “F-Fuck, Kenji, put it in, I’m ready, I can take it.” 

He smiled, pressing his forehead against yours as he rubbed his cock against you, the mix of precum and your juices making a wet sound that had you letting out a low whine. There was a slight, delicious pain as his cock slid slowly inside you, your pussy spasming as you trembled against him, still coming down from cumming on his fingers just a second ago. Kenji pressed a kiss against your shoulder, “You good, baby?” 

You rolled your eyes, heart panging at the sound of his worried voice. You hate how much you love his concern, choosing to sink the rest of the way down on his cock in response and savoring Kenji’s surprised groan at the feeling. 

You take a second to adjust before raising your hips, his cock sliding inside you and then out, nearly cumming on the spot from the feeling of his thickness pressing at that spot inside you. “I missed this,” You found yourself moaning thighs slapping down against his own, “Missed you.” 

Kenji pressed a kiss to your lips, this one not nearly as heated, but just as desperate. It felt tender, made you just a touch uncomfortable, from the way your stomach fluttered and heart throbbed. No other person’s kiss ever made you feel this good.

Kenji’s hands latched on your  asscheeks, taking control of the slow torturous pace that you set. His cock fucked up into you, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as you struggled to keep kissing him. Well it’s not like you could fall back, his grip was deathly as his lips chased desperately after yours while you moaned like a slut into his mouth. 

Kenji was in love at this point, or maybe it was that perfect pussy of yours squeezing around his dick as he pumped into you, hitting that spot that he knew had you whimpering. A dark part of him wished that this would last, that he could put you in a state of perpetual tipsiness so you could be spontaneous and horny for him. He was sure once his cock was out of you and you came to your senses you would be blocking him, working the memory of you losing so much decorum to a man with exercise or more shows. 

“Fuuuck, how can this cock be so good.” You whined, your voice slurred from pleasure, “It’s mine, right?” You said, eyes locking sternly with yours, or however stern you could come across with a flushed, fucked-out face, “You’re mine.”

Kenji let out a rough moan as he felt you tighten around him again, head falling back against the seat as he resisted the urge to come at the sight of you, determined, possessive. You came first, always. “So good, you’re so perfect baby.” He breathed, quickening the pace of his cock inside you. Your head fell down against his shoulder as you clutched whatever was closest, in your case the foggy car window and came with a whiny moan. Kenji followed you soon after with a groan of his own, cum shooting ropes into you and trickling out all over your trembling thighs. You fought a whimper as you heaved out a breath and slumped against Kenji’s body. 

A pleasurable silence washed over the two of you as you processed the ridiculous things you said in the midst of pleasure, but for some reason you weren’t all that bothered. Maybe it was Kenji’s hand rubbing circles along your back as you caught your breath against him, or the feeling of his cock still inside you, warmth filling you up in a way you didn’t understand. You had to face the facts, Kenji was growing on you. 

“I’m yours, huh?” You could hear the smirk in his voice, and that pleasurable feeling drained away as you lifted off of him, now fully sober. 

“Oh shut up.” Your heart panged at the sound of his words though. You can’t get attached, you reminded yourself, “It was just in the heat of the moment.” 

You moved to get off but Kenji gripped your waist, eyes meeting yours, “Yeah? So what you’re saying is I just gotta fuck you senseless for you to admit you like me?” His cock twitched inside you, as if responding to that suggestion. 

“I’m never texting you again.” 

Kenji pressed a kiss to your cheek, “You sure you don’t want to call me baby?” He teased, mouthing at your ear. You let out a shaky breath, still sensitive as Kenji’s cock pulsed inside of you. 

“I hate you.” You murmured as your lips moved to capture his, grinding against his thick cock stretching you open. 

“Mmm, sure you do.” He gripped your sides, pushing you up against his cock so he could fuck you again—

A loud vibrating ring cut through the tension as you jumped at the sight your purse glowing from it’s place on the passenger seat, you paused your movements, relishing Kenji’s slight whine at the loss of your lips. “Work over me?” He pouted.

“Of course.” You reached for your phone, recoiling at the bright light before your brows drew together at the sight of the multiple missed messages that your manager had sent you and the call buzzing on your phone. You shot Kenji a warning glare as you answered the phone, feeling a little tempted to ride him as you spoke to your manager. “What’s up?” 

“Check your messages, now.” Is all she said, voice tight with aggravation over the phone. 

You opened your messages in confusion and clicked on the image your manager sent you. Your eyes immediately widened at the sight of the screenshot: an instagram gossip page with a picture of you and Kenji in the car. Very. Clearly. Fucking.  

[leclsrc]

more than anyone ✴︎ cl16

genre: childhood friends to enemies to lovers (a mouthful), smut, humor, Fluffff!!!!, angst

word count: 13.7k  

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen with an unrepaired friendship hanging by a thread. Ten years and a whole lifetime later, you’re forced to work with him confront it all over again.

auds here… hi hi hi!!!! HAPPY 4k to us guys!!!!! i am so insanely thankful for all of u and i will make this a longer note when i wake up tomorrow because i have so much to say but have this for now. i hope u like it,i love love love u guys forever also i changed the banner because i wanted to

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... penetrative sex, semi public sex, praise central, size kink (pretty tame smut in auds world)

You know it’s bad when your assistant-and-friend-aka-friendsistant (her vernacular) Rachel walks in with a free coffee without a quip about how dependent you are on this exact order of coffee (she’s a millennial, so caffeine and lack thereof are in her arsenal of Funny Jokes). You fear you didn’t correctly anticipate just how bad it was going to be when she stays instead of leaving to work on your schedule, combing a few fingers through her fringe and sitting herself on your couch stiffly. Maybe you’re intuitive, maybe you spend too much time with Rachel and you can spot the way she scratches at her eye, maybe both—but it’s bad.

You don’t take a sip from the Starbucks that sits idly on the coaster, opting to watch the latte sweat instead. You do stare, though, at Rachel’s stagnant posture, scrutinizing her every movement. She takes a few deep breaths and drops the bomb.

“David sent me to tell you he has good news. But there is, um. Bad news.” Dread writhes through you at the mention of your manager with bad news, and you clear your throat to compose yourself.

“What’s going on?”

She purses her lips. “He’s on his way over here. Just…” She cocks her head sharply to the glass door of your home office, expression antsy. “Sorry. Wait for him. I can’t tell you anything yet.”

You take a swig from the pity coffee. “Am I getting blacklisted?”

“God, you dumbass, no—” She makes an incredulous noise, but before she can open her mouth to elaborate, your manager walks in with an excited expression on his face, pocketing his Juul to take a seat by your table. His smile is the radiant one of a man over forty with a comical amount of Botox.

“Rachel told me you had”—you stifle the adjective—“news.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, tracing the edge of your table. “Did you enjoy Paris Fashion Week?”

Beside the brash Frenchmen, God-awful timezone differences and consequent calls at half past three, hungover show attendances, posing for pictures until your ankles blistered, and a temporary diet of black coffee, cigarettes, and stale croissants—sure, it was fun. It was your job to attend anyway, your obligation to shake hands with important people and be photographed in designer clothing and benefit from the PR, but how often could people call work fun? 

“Sure.” You take another gulp off your coffee. “It was… fun.”

“Well, since your movie’s doing well,” David pauses and hums, “how do you feel about another few weeks of fun?” 

“Like Paris Fashion Week—weeks… this month?” You frown, eyebrows knitting together. Is this a new Vogue thing? You’re not sure how many updates they give the schedule, but you wouldn’t mind too much if you could travel again for a little bit. “So soon after spring? Did Anna want this?”

“Iiiit’s, er, Vogue’s new project. Capsule shows in Europe, coastal and summery. She wanted an exclusive guest list. She asked for you by name,” David says smugly. “Well, she called my office, granted. But to ask for you—”

“Are you fucking serious?” You stand up, and if you hadn’t had some fix of coffee you would’ve gotten dizzy. “David, tell me you’re serious.” Time seems to have suspended itself as you await his answer—which, if affirmative, would be a pretty big deal to you. 

“Yeah, I am.” He plays off a grin. “She loved your movie with Greta, and would love to send you to Europe to do PR on a few shows and pair up with some guests on a couple features. Exclusive stuff.”

You sit back down, mouth slack. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” Your eyes dart to Rachel, who’s caught between a smile and an awkward purse of her lips. “Fuck! This is huge, David.”

“Yeah—okay, yeah, it is.” David shifts in his seat and crosses, then uncrosses, his legs, then his arms. He stutters for a second. “Good and bad news, remember?”

You blink a few times. You’d nearly totally forgotten the fact that this good news—and it is overwhelmingly good—comes with a bout of bad news, so bad apparently that it’s noteworthy enough to state alongside this massive deal. But it’s. Fine. It’s whatever. Worst case scenario, you’re going to need to fucking swim to Europe sans oxygen canister.

“So… the shows? Events, and shit?” He watches, waiting for you to signal that you follow. When you nod, he continues, averting his gaze to the face of his Patek. “They’re all in Monaco.”

Wrong.

“Monaco.” You repeat, deadpanning your delivery. It’s not out of the ordinary, the glitz and coast of the city being a perfect venue for high fashion. But Monaco is different for you, vastly different, and you tend to avoid the place to the best of your abilities. “Monaco. Are—you’re sure?”

“Mmm,” he hums in affirmation. “I know, I know you’re not exactly privy to Monaco because, bleh, childhood shit, whatever. But this—like you said, this is huge! And I don’t think we should jeopardize that.” He pulls a piece of paper from the folders tucked in his arm and waves it around.

“Well—yeah, I suppose. I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah.” He sucks his teeth, eyes gliding over the scenery of L.A. that your window offers. “Okay, that’s it, so. Byeandhaveagoodlunch.” He slams the paper onto your desk, jostling you a little, but as he makes his exeunt, Rachel raises her arm to stop him.

“Is that it, David?” She asks, an edge to her voice.

You pick up the paper as they make hushed, stifled conversation, and find that it’s a call sheet of sorts, listing all the collaborators traveling to Monaco and what or who they’re in charge of, or paired up with, there. Models, athletes, celebrities, influencers—all making TikToks, or appearances, or brand deals, or interviews, or YouTube videos, the whole shebang.

“Yeah,” says David dismissively—nervously? “That’s it.”

You search for your name. “Okay. Um, hey.” Rachel turns to you, trying to catch your eye, which is busy scanning the sheet. “Did, um—did David mention you’re paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature? Because you are. Paired up with Charles Leclerc for a feature, I mean.”

David sucks his teeth. “Thank you very much for graciously reminding me of that, Rachel.” 

Still half-distracted and growing increasingly worried with the exchange happening in front of you, you make haste in your search—eventually, you find your name, printed in plain letters beside one you’ve wished to never read over ever again.

“Wait, my Charles?” You pause and look up, suppressing a yell as your eyes widen, and you blunder over a pathetic self-correction. “I mean—no, sorry—Charles, as in Charles Leclerc? I can’t work with him, you know this!” 

“Wh—well, Vogue apparently wanted a really good Monaco-born pair and they seriously lucked out on you two. Also,” Rachel says, adamantly defending herself, “you’re always saying you can work ‘with anyone’!” She raises two comically vigorous air quotes to further her (moot) point.

“I didn’t ev—I never say that,” you lie straight through your teeth, mouth dry. You definitely do. You can place all the exact moments. “I would’ve known if I did. Rach—David—I cannot, absolutely cannot work with Leclerc. He’s my… we…” You shut your eyes and sneak two fingers upward to massage your temple, slowly caving into defeat.

David makes an oh well face and shrugs passively. “Fine. Then it’s either Anna Wintour’s special job that will help the Academy campaign or not meeting the ex-bo—”

“—friend.” You look up to cut him off, eyes narrowed. “Ex-friend.”

“Alright, kid. Suuuure.” David leans against the back wall of your office as Rachel comes to comfort you, her eyes already sympathetic and droopy. It shouldn’t be so bad, right? She asks sweetly, nudging the latte closer to your catatonic figure. You have seen him since, anyway.

With a despondent gaze, you just remain silent, refusing to state the negative aloud, opting to stare at the latte. At your disagreeable silence, Rachel continues, tone anxious: You have seen him since. Right?

You moved out of Monaco at fourteen, right after the school year finished and your father had gotten the opportunity to transfer out. The whole thing would’ve—should’ve, even—been a sentimental affair, full of tears and dramatic caresses of your bedroom wall, whispering thank yous to the city air in French and Italian, but it wasn’t. Months prior, you’d been preparing yourself for this kind of goodbye; but when it came to it, you merely kissed your extended family goodbye and slept en route to the airport, silk sleeping mask pulled taut over your shut eyelids. The only thing you left in the city was a letter written only to Gi and Cha about how much you’d miss them, with your email address scribbled at the bottom for an added touch, in case they felt like sending you longer messages.

“Do you two at least get along?” David asks, noting how genuinely aghast you appear.

“It’s not that simple.” You tap a nail against your desk a few times. “But I think it’ll be fine. I hope, at least. We used to be… good friends? As teenagers.”

You feel like an alien hearing yourself talk about it, talk about him and the whole circumstance a decade later. Your friendship with Charles was the only thing that mattered to your adolescent self, all lemonade stands and long car rides and stealthy conversations about your futures (racing and acting, respectively). It was happiness, in what you consider to be its truest form, it was lovely and real. And it ended abruptly, no goodbyes, no nothing.

“So it’s a no.”

“I’m just saying it’s impossible for me to work with him, and in Monaco no less?!” Your eyes are wild with frustration and anxiety at the prospect of your past whipping you in the face, full-fledged. “I don’t even talk about the guy or the city, how can I spend time with him there?”

“Are you seriously going to junk this amazing fucking opportunity just because of some petty childhood fight?” David’s tone is comparable to that of a dad’s, scolding and horrified, almost. “Look. If you don’t take this, career-wise, it doesn’t mean much. You get paid a shit ton, you’ll survive—you’ll do well. But emotions-wise? Maturity-wise? Be the bigger person and do it—I mean it.”

You stare back at him because you know he’s right. “Maybe it won’t be a big, long feature?” Rachel offers as some advice, some comfort. “If you reject it, his team will know, and so will he.”

And yes, you were fourteen, and yes it was petty and unexplainable even for fourteen—but there was a catalyst to all of this, a reason why the move became easy and forgetting childhood memories became second nature. A reason why you’re selective with who you make contact with from home. A reason why Giada and Charlotte are selective with topics they choose to bring up with you.

So, fuck it, really. That’s how you end up in Monaco, booked for the next three weeks, sharing a studio and public appearances and a 24-hour shoot with the last person you’d ever want to be in a room with. Ten years later—the person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

—

“MAMAN!” Charles’ voice was loud, loud, and so incredibly loud. You followed not far behind, legs running at full speed to try and leap onto his lanky figure and wrap an arm around his head to quiet him. It’d been futile: he ended up at the dining table facing his family with a victorious smile on his pink face. He breathed heavy, waiting for everyone to turn their attention to him.

“Charles,” you chimed in warningly, breathing even harder with the effort you had exerted to chase him from the sidewalk to here. “Don’t.”

“Guess who got the lead spot in the recital.” He slowly turned to point at to your angry face, and then bent, rifling through his already messy, grubby knapsack for something that he raised with glee: a headress that read…

“But-ter-cup.” Hervé sounded amused when he looked at your fuming expression. “You?”

“Yes, Papa! Maybe, just maybe,” he sing-songed, using the term wrong yet again, “she got the titular role!” He walked over to you and placed the headress square on your head, beaming. 

“There is no titular role in a school recital,” you seethed, burning with embarrassment. Your stellar academic record had apparently granted you incentive to be centre stage during the routine year-end recital, where years were lumped into twos or threes (in your and Charles’ cases, Years 8 and 9) and the student body would dance or sing a variety of teacher-selected music.

In your case, it was Build Me Up, Buttercup, complete with choreography you’d be practicing over the next month and a half. Charles laughed at your pouting expression, didn’t stop laughing even when you’d both sat down and twirled through forkfuls of spaghetti, didn’t stop chuckling even when Lorenzo got the turn to speak and he started talking about how Bringing Up Baby was his movie of the month.

You allowed him to laugh—even laughed yourself at some point—because all day, you’d been absently wondering how you’d break the news about your moving away to him.

—

Charles is not okay. He’d gotten off a red-eye from a short vacation stint, and now he’s back in Monaco, sleepy and a bit jetlagged, being briefed on brand deals and press junkets he has to accomplish by three p.m. today. “On the dot, sharp,” said his assistant, like the two didn’t just mean the same fucking thing. He’s patient, though, smiling through the exhaustion, through the dressing room, the tape around his waist and legs to measure clothes for this fashion… thing.

“A meeting for Ferrari, two TikToks, a vlog for your personal YouTube channel, three stories by noon… oh, and in the next few weeks, you’re going to film a Vogue-sponsored 24 Hours With… with—”

“D’accord, thank you,” he cuts in, already exhausted from the spiel alone. He’s a professional; no matter what people believed or what gossip rags liked to say about him, he maintains a well-kept reputation of being polite and kind to people he works with. Maybe it’s the jetlag, maybe it’s the lack of sleep, maybe it’s the heat outside, but today he just wants to close his eyes and sleep for days.

But the assistant follows, clipboard and Excel sheet and all, still spouting all his media obligations lest he forget (and mark his words, he definitely will). “Sorry,” he says. He’s new, probably assigned as a part of the Vogue team, lanky and tall and nervous looking. “I’m new. I’m Greg.”

Briefly, Charles is left alone to stare at his tired reflection while the assistants reconvene and connect. There’s several of them, each assigned or already committed to a different celebrity. Charles should know more details, but there’s only so much reading of a call sheet he can do before he’s conked out on Ambien; he trusts he’ll be around people much more famous than he is, probably American or English, actors and athletes alike. He’ll figure it out.

Yeah, she’s almost ready. Is Charles here? One of the assistants says, a bright-eyed American. They need to be introduced before 11. Her voice is quiet, quick and hushed, and Charles has to focus to hear what she’s saying. Greg chips in with something he can’t decipher; in response, the American whispers, Yeah, I’ll get her to sign it for you. Bring Charles out in five.

In five, he is indeed being brought out to the lobby of this hotel; the outdoor area is decked out with models, cocktail tables, Vogue signage and a carpet for pictures. It’s even busier inside, wait staff and event coordinators conversing in angry, aggressive French—table settings, mineral water, extra forks are needed. Greg keeps a steady pace transporting Charles through the indoor throng, and at 10:59, Charles is outside, by the pool.

“Um, right, yeah. Okay, uh—wait here. Your partner—not really partner, but like, mate? Fuck, definitely not. Um, partner. She’s on her way heeere…” He checks his phone. “Okay. You caught her name, right?” Charles nods to fend him off. “Okay. So, wait here.”

There are cameras taking pictures of him when Greg departs, some microphones waved his way; in the distance he spots fans waving crazily, sporting Ferrari merch. Charles is doing what he’s told (waiting, maybe posing a bit) when an even bigger crowd appears, surrounding one person; with their arrival, ameras click even faster, and an uproar follows. Greg waves him over, pointing at the person frantically, so Charles smiles, extends a hand, and when the crowd parts—

There you are, in all your glory. Pink dress, hair clipped into a bun, a tanline on your exposed skin, lithe hand coming up to shake his. Your eyes are flat but the lack of expression doesn’t inoculate them from beauty; they remain sparkling and pretty all the same. Cameras snap the interaction, seemingly innocent, seemingly the first.

He fights, he really does, to keep his hands shaking yours. He forces himself not to hug you, press a kiss to your cheek even if that might look friendly, caress a hand across your cheekbone, brush the tendrils of hair out of your eyes. It’s a valiant effort.

A valiant effort that pays off because, as soon as you’re ushered into a room by yourselves, your smile turns into a scoff; your hands are kept to yourself, slipping a pair of sunglasses on, and; underneath them, your eyes begin to roll. “I need a drink,” you huff, not even looking at him. 

You’re on two couches opposite each other, in what he assumes to be a foyer to a hotel room that’s much bigger than the one he was in earlier. A-list fame and that. The girl he’d seen earlier scurries off, mumbling something about a martini. Greg, beside him, goes: “Do you need a drink, too?” But he shakes his head.

“Are you voluntarily working for this guy, Greg?” You refer to his assistant by name, offering a sarastic, honeyed smile. You adjust the strap of your dress and he blinks his gaze away.

“Oh, no. I mean—yeah. Kind of. I was assigned to him.”

“It’s okay, I don’t expect you to do it of your own will,” you joke, crossing your legs.

Charles laughs dryly. “Who asked?”

“So he speaks…” You ping off his retort without missing a beat, a sardonic smile playing at your lips. 

“In the two minutes we’ve been around each other, you’ve insulted me and my assistant. I’d prefer silence, your highness.”

“Aww, did my joke and asking Greg a question piss you off?” You suck your teeth. “You must be fun at parties.”

“Do you two, um. I don’t want to, like, overstep, but do you know each other?” Charles notices that Greg’s forearm is signed by you and realizes he has no allies here, with an inward grimace. “Or if you don’t, like, are you two just… not in good moods or something?”

The girl comes in then, saying here’s the martini and catering you a sweaty glass with a smile. You offer up the empty space beside you, patting the white leather for her to sit down on. Your eyes meet his again briefly, catty and a bit challenging, before you turn back to the girl. “Sit.”

Maybe Charles spends too much time with Max, because he’s starting to become more and more inclined to getting the last word in lately. “Bossing people around, eh? Fame really does change you.” He offers a smile of his own.

“She’s my assistant, Rachel,” you say sweetly, but your smile is gritty. “We need to check my schedule.”

He wants to slap himself. “Too busy to open your calendar?” Nevermind, he’s a god.

Your sarcastic smile drops. “And what’s on yours? P6 this week, P7 next, DNF after?”

Fuck. The tension is so thick at this point, it’s almost steaming hot. Both the assistants stare at you, waiting for Charles to wedge something in, but he bites himself back. Thankfully, right as the silence just begins to settle like oil on water, the door swings open and one of the coordinators steps in, noisily rattling off the week’s plans and proclaiming you’re both free for the remainder of the day before things pick back up—Schiaparelli show at noon, both of you, front row—tomorrow.

The four of you filter out of the room, and you make a quip about your autograph on Greg’s arm, which grants your assistant some face time with Charles. She turns to him, combing a hand through her hair and furrowing her thick eyebrows. “Hey, I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Charles.”

“I know,” she says sheepishly. “Listen. I know you two have history, she—we—she’s, um, told me about it before. I don’t know the whole story, and I’m not… like, I’m not saying I do, so I respect it, whatever it is. But I hope you can find it in you to work with her properly. It’s a huge gig for you both. So—yeah, uh. Great job, and good luck.”

She smiles with a nod before exiting the room, leaving Charles alone and stirring with thoughts and memories woken from wild unrest.

—

“Alors,” Charles had said, not turning from his position in front of your vanity mirror. He’d been picking at his face, stopping only when you tsked at him not to. “What is the problem?” His eyes flicked over to you, your lying figure on the bed exhaling little puffs of frustrated air to the ceiling. “Are you missing the recital?”

“Quoi? Non.” You gnawed at your lip, accepting your defeat. You couldn’t lie for much longer, not when you’d been keeping this under wraps for two months. “Listen. Charles.” He nodded, clearly preoccupied with something. “Charles.”

“Hmm?”

“Can you ple—look at me.” Your voice hardened.

He’d noticed it then, the curt cutoff of your voice, the absent look in your eyes. He knows you even through a mirror, even in the low light of your room. “Desolé. This pimple won’t go away.”

“Charles,” you said, groaning but allowing yourself to laugh. “Listen.”

“Okay.” He turned to face you, a spot on his chin red from how long he’d been scratching at it.

You shrugged then, suddenly scared to deal with the realness of it all. You didn’t understand why you felt so torn. “It’s something to do with me,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m moving.” You rubbed at your nose, the cold draft coming in through the window causing you to sniffle. “Out of Monaco.”

A beat. “What?”

You closed your fingers around your necklace, scratching absently at the divots of the pendant. One, two, three little dips in the gold locket, tiny but comforting. “Yeah. In a few months, like, after school. It’s Papa—his job. It’s a whole thing.”

“Europe?” You shook your head. America.

“What… well, what does that mean, then?” His expression didn’t waver but if anything did, it was his eyes—desperate, seeking more answers, wanting them with a guttural, belly-deep desire. You’re his best friend, so if he has to let you go in this life, he at least needs to know everything about the move. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” you reassured, kicking your leg to further your point. “You were bound to get busy with karting anyway, so it’s like. Ça revient au même.”

“It isn’t the same,” he said, his voice thin and cracking. 

“You’ll be fine.”

“You have a very misguided idea of who I am.”

“Shut up. Come off it,” you laughed, sitting up straighter. “We’ll call everyday, and I’ll meet all the famous people who’ll get me a real acting job, and I’ll come for the holidays or summer or something. Things won’t change. Not that much, at least.”

“Maybe, just maybe.” He pauses. “Will you be here for my birthday, at least?” He’d made a big deal all year of his turning sixteen on the sixteenth.

“Charles,” you sighed. 

“No, yeah. I get it.” He looked down, rubbing his thumbs together, like he’s just been hit across the face. He will tell you one day it felt infinitely more painful than that. But at the time he shook his head and looked up at you, reached his pinky to yours, a thin slip of paper around the finger that matched your interlocked one, and didn’t say anything else.

Just: “We’ll be okay.”

—

You could pin a lot of adjectives on Monaco: picturesque, without a doubt; warm, glamorous, but you’d sooner die than pin the word home over it. The city is sprawling even with the little surface area it possesses, and only few things seem familiar. Your lodging is a hotel in Monte-Carlo, a penthouse suite that requires you to travel very little. It feels like a vacation.

And you embody the role of a vacationer very well—the first five, six days of your stay in Monaco went great, mainly appearances that lasted a few hours at most and several junkets to promote Vogue and your latest film, before you were free to do whatever you wished. You’d gone the touristy route already: shopping more times than you could count, trying your immense luck at the casinos, and eating at Michelin-starred restaurants; eventually all the fun blurred into each other and you found solace in naps instead.

Your troubles are not far behind, however, and they finally come after you on Day 7. The event coordinators had informed Rachel, who in turn informed you, that the first of next week’s agenda would be a photographed tour of the Musée Océanographique de Monaco, a grand seaside building right at the edge of the water. Today is, apparently, a day for you to “fraternize with” Charles, which meant you would once again need to put a façade over your less-than-kind appearance toward him.

Those are the concluding words of David’s very firm text, encouraging (read: coercing) you to settle things with Charles into some approximation of civility. You resolve things by calling him to skip over the awkwardness that comes with texting. It takes you all of twenty minutes and twice your body weight in courage to press the green telephone button.

“B’jour,” he goes, his voice quick. French people (he will hate that you called him French, even if it was just in your head; you relish in this) always talk rapidly. After some silence, he clears his throat: “Hello?”

Butterflies—some form of them, whatever—flutter in your stomach. “It’s me.”

He drops formalities and adopts a disinterested voice. “Huh. What do you want?” The butterflies have rotted to death.

“I need to talk to you.”

“To insult me again?” He sounds a little amused even over the phone, a breath of laughter landing in your ear. “Bah, I get it. We are enemies. You have no interest in reconnecting, et cetera. C’est tout ce que tu as à dire? I gotta go.”

Your face warms at his accusatory tone. “Wow, leave it to a guy to be charming, huh?”

“Why should I be charming with you?”

“At least be polite,” you taunt, but your voice lacks its usual edge. On the other line, Charles lets his own defiant tone ebb downward.

At least be polite. It’s the least he can owe you after ten years of forgetting. It wasn’t as if you two had a mutual agreement then, in 2013 when you moved away, to stop becoming friends. For months before you moved out, he completely stopped talking to you, like he’d forgotten you two were even connected, were even friends. What little words you two shared became petty and abrasive, and suddenly Monaco lost its color. The closeness you had with him, which for so long you’d convinced yourself was once-in-a-lifetime, was ripped from you, robbed from you—by him, no less, which hurt all the more. You’d given up on finding out why at some point. You waited for him to reach out. Maybe, you told yourself, just maybe, it would take a few months, a year.

Ten years of radio silence. He owes you that: politeness.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say to nobody in particular, in an effort to segue into the topic of your choosing. “Look, we’re supposed to be friends. In… on camera, at least. It’s disastrous if we look like we, you know, hate each other. We need to be professional.”

“For the cameras,” he says back, solemn.

“Yeah.” You wind a finger through your hair. “Just… for the sake of civility.”

You hear his little hums of consideration. “D’accord,” he says after a few minutes. “Truce, then.”

“Sure.” You smile a little. “I have to go.”

—

You were halfway through your mess of clothes when your mum peeked through your door, her hair held back by a headband. “Call you yet, poppet?” 

“Non,” you said, decimating your voice to a monotonous murmur. You looked up from the dress you’d been folding and offer a half-hearted, sardonic smile. “Je t’ai dit qu’il ne le ferait pas.” You were right: he wouldn’t call. What difference did a month make, anyway? This time, though, the usual victory of being right settled into an ugly disappointment in the pit of your stomach.

You wanted so badly to be wrong. To clamber to the telephone, to your Skype, to your cellphone, any of the three, and see his name flashed across the helm or his voice in your ear. Maybe he was dialing your number now, to ask if you wanted to grab dinner after the year-end recital, or to update you on karting, or to tell you Pascale wanted lunch.

She could tell, as all mothers can, that you’d been upset. The knit in your brows that didn’t go away, the bottom lip being chewed, the tight clutch of your fingers over the already-folded dress. She sighed. “I’m sorry, baby.” 

“It’s fine.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended and you have to roll it back, recede it, to sound more relaxed, more at ease. “It’s… fine. I’m fine.” She knew better than to pry, closing the door softly to continue packing up the living room.

You heaved a dry sigh to express the nausea that came with his absence. It began a month ago, two days after you first told him about it and poked at the zit on his chin. He’d buried his head in your shoulder until tears seeped into the cotton sleeve of your shirt, and you let him. You felt guilty, after all, for keeping it a secret for so long. You would leave in September, you told him. We have time.

Two days later he walked you home as always, on the “dangerous” side of the street, lanky legs skipping to the tree in front of your house. You pointed at the beginnings of clementines on its dewy branches, smiling, inviting him in, but he remained leaning against the trunk, playing with his mop of hair that covered his forehead.

“Bah, trop dramatique,” you said, poking fun. Lorenzo had showed you both some art house films he studied in class, and with the bout of French cinema, you and Charles had grown obsessed with making fun of overdramatic stills that often included the classic leaning-against-a-surface. “Come on, Mum made bouillabasse, I smell it.”

“We need to talk,” he eked out awkwardly. “I have something important to tell you.”

You dropped your knapsack, leather scratching against the concrete of the steps to the front door as you walked over to him. “Ouais?”

“I…” His lips moved, wobbled, but nothing left, so he shut them and his eyes, like he was considering something. His breathing slowed into one rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching, just two kids looking at each other in the dusky breeze of Monaco, the orange sun casting shadows over the clementine tree. You closed your hand over his, a tight clamp over his knobby wrist with certainty. “I…”

“Say it.”

“I want to.” His eyes were shut. Exhale. Inhale, open. “I… I’m going… going home.”

You breathed out apprehensively and relaxed. “Oh.” You blinked. “That’s it?”

“Ye—ouais. Yeah. I gotta.” Already he was climbing to the gate, waving a half-hearted goodbye. “Save some for me, oui? Bye.”

“Charles,” you warned after him, voice tinged with concern. “That’s it, promise?” Your hand flexed around air.

“Cross my heart!” The last thing he ever said with any bit of something genuine.

—

You reunite with Charles at a meeting; under the guise of your truce, he makes the barely-necessary small talk. The rest of the staff file out of the restaurant in due time, but you both stay. You ask about Lorenzo and Arthur, leaving out questions you’d rather not listen to him answer, and he tells you they’re both alright. That his mum asks about you sometimes. That makes you smile. He asks if you’re still dating the guy you’d most recently been partnered with in Us Weekly.

“God, no. We never even dated, the… um, tabloids always make shit up.” You purse your lips. “Anyway. Is Lorenzo still in film?” You ask, turning your head a little. You don’t think you’ll ever forget his affinity for cinema.

“Not professionally, but I still sit through hours-long… you know, reviews, and stuff.” He laughs when he sees you laugh, eyes half-closed and meeting the ceiling.

“He introduced me to some of my favorite movies, especially when I got into acting and I was kind of… like, I wanted some inspiration, acting-wise. But not my actual favorite movie.”

“Which is?” He segues into a more personal topic. “Is it still Bambi?”

“Oh, it was, for the longest time!” You almost squeal with excitement. “Not anymore, though. It’s been dethroned, ha ha. I think it’s… I’d say it’s maybe Casablanca now.”

“How American.”

“Shut up.” Your face warms. “It’s so romantic. When he says—when he goes, um. We’ll always have Paris. And then, God—when Ilsa goes, I said I would never leave you—and Rick goes, And you never will… isn’t it so classic? Romance movies nowadays are—I, I, I… I get scripts sent to me that are just so bad, and they’re either too idealistic or too pessimistic, or too indie or too commercial, and.” You sigh. “It’s like nobody gets love right anymore.”

“Us Weekly disagrees,” he says weakly, after a period of silence.

“Stop,” you laugh warningly. “And don’t act like you’re not being paired up with different girls, too.”

For a minute you sit with the realization that you’ve both been keeping tabs on each other all these years, even just a little bit. It’s a bit jarring, it’s a bit warm, it’s a lot confusing. You make a move to ask for the bill but Charles is quicker, opens his mouth to implore your presence.

“Come see me tonight.” He says it like he didn’t mean to, like it escaped him on a whim, a blurted out confession born out of your memories and conversation. His voice is dreamy, faraway. “Earth to…?”

“Wh—sorry. Fuck.” You clear your throat and deduce your next words. “Where?”

“I’ll text you. A club, near your hotel.”

“Yeah… yeah, sure.” You hum an affirming noise. 

—

Your name is on the list, though you’re sure it doesn’t matter whether or not it was. No ID is needed, and paps catch a bouncer being dispatched to guide you through the nightclub toward the elevated area with significantly less people. It’s low-lit, smoky, vaguely blue and purple, smelling of flows of alcohol and fresh ice. An Azealia Banks song is playing, pounding through your head.

Tabloids don’t care about nightclubs. They care if you come out drunk or with a smidge of snow under your nose, neither of which have happened to you; entering is fair game, a fun affair, especially in a district like Monte-Carlo. You don’t have any explaining to do, not even to questions like are you clubbing with your professional Vogue collaborator, Charles Leclerc?

The collaborator in question is the first to greet you, getting up and approaching you with a smile so obviously tense. The picture in front of him is like if he’d conjured up a forlorn fantasy of his to life—your hair fell loosely over black lace, a hand pinched around the hem of your dress. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

“So.” He realizes he’s in charge of the socializing, and turns to properly introduce you. “Um, guys, this is my—friend—you already know”—he fusses over your name, which everyone in the world knows, anyway—“and these are my friends. Pierre, Alex, George, Lando, Daniel… you know Joris.” He points to each guy's face as he goes, eliciting a beam every time he gestures.

You wave with a polite smile before you station yourself beside the only one you know: Joris, with whom Charles shares a longtime friendship. He greets you first, with a side hug. “Long time.”

“Yeah, it’s been.” You watch him turn toward the low table, and back around with two shots, offering them to you with haste.

You thank the Lord that he makes quick, dextrous work of it, and before long you’ve downed a glass or three of some strawberry four seasons thing, socializing with the different people around the table. One of them, Lando, talks about your latest film for five whole minutes (“I rated it five stars on Letterboxd. I left a review, if you wanna see”) before he leans close and asks: “Are you his girlfriend?” His is obviously referencing Charles, and you pull back from the proximity to shake your head.

“No,” you holler to emphasize it. “We used to know each other. I grew up here.”

“Oh shit! Native!” He whoops, offering you another glass. This must be your fifth, maybe, fifth G&T or Cosmo or something or other of the night. You take it, drinking as you walk, planning to collect your bag to take with you to the bathroom—another hand takes yours, though, dragging you down the steps. Halfway through, you realize it’s Charles.

“How’s the drink?” He asks, brows straight.

“That’s all you wanted to ask?” You raise your voice above the bass. “Someone needs to teach you fucking… proper small talk.” A laugh involuntarily bubbles past your lips, eyes crinkling. 

He laughs, too, despite himself. “Non, I was—I was just asking. We should—I brought you over here to—so we could…” He realizes he’s been talking too fast without getting to the point and pauses, resetting himself with a pinched sigh. “Dance.”

Your heart pulses. Dance? You hear yourself ask. For wh…Why?

“For the sake of the truce.” His voice is light. “We should try being closer.”

“We were close once,” you say, loose. “Did you forget?”

He’s looking right at you, and you’re warm all over. “How could I?”

It feels too real. Not the words—yes the words—but the alcohol, the alcohol is what you’re referring to, and all those shots and drinks suddenly seem not as harmless as they’d seemed earlier. You scan the periphery for the WC sign and try your best not to look deranged on your way there, offering the same pretty smile to recognizing passersby. Behind you, Charles calls out; but you wave him off, heaving dryly.

The restroom is clean because the nightclub is outrageously expensive; you push yourself into the available stall that’s in your direct path and crumple above it. You heave. Heave some more. Nothing comes. The nausea rises and recedes, so you decide to wait it out.

The bathroom door hauls open, bringing with it a few seconds of noise before it swings heavily onto the frame again, sealing the sterile silence. The momentary return of the bass from the dance floor sends your head spinning all over again and you freeze, willing yourself not to wind up hurling your guts into the toilet. It’s a futile effort, though, because you’re feeling nauseated beyond your limit again, and you need water and maybe a salve or something.

“This stall is open,” somebody says, a chipper American voice that grows in volume as it nears you. A gasp follows, and then: “Oh, my God. Are you okay?”

You turn, your face flushed and lips parted. “I’m so sorry. I just—I’ve been nauseous all night.”

“I have water,” she answers, reaching her arm outward, as if seeking it. “Carmen, the water!” A bottle of Evian is thrust into her hand by another girl (Carmen, you presume), and she doesn’t hesitate to bend next to you to feed it into your mouth. She stares for a second, then goes: “On the off chance I’m lucky, and you’re the famous actress, by the way, I just want to say I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Eyes wide, you lock eyes with her and pull away from the water. “Oh, God. Yeah, that’s me. I’m so sorry—this is so humiliating.”

“It’s not—it’s normal,” she assures, nodding. “We’ve all… y’know, puked into a club toilet before.” From the stall doorframe, Carmen nods. “What’d you drink?”

“Fruity stuff,” you recall, eyebrows knitting at the memory. “And shots.”

They both grimace at the same time, knowing the exact feeling, the exact taste, it seems. “Are you heartbroken or something?” Carmen asks; Lily shoots her a look that can only really mean don’t ask the world-famous actress if she’s heartbroken. But you laugh it off, shaking your head.

“No. There’s a guy, though, and he’s… we’re… it’s a lot. I think I thought alcohol would absorb all of it, but… clearly, it did not.” Your lips simmer into a straight line and you’re quiet for a few moments before remembering you’re on a dingy club floor being supported by two nice girls who are strangers. “Anyway! Sorry. I’m clearly, um, delirious.” You get up on semi-wobbly feet, swallowing the nausea as you go. 

You walk to the sink, and behind your back, the girl and Carmen share a telepathic exchange (should we ask her to elaborate? Yes! Should we really? Fuck, no.) You rinse your mouth out, washing your hands and focusing on your reflection—your tired eyes, your smudged lip gloss, your fussed-up hair. You turn after rinsing, offering a small smile. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing,” says the first girl, offering her hand and a tube of lip gloss. “I’m Lily, by the way. And just so you know—I’m so sure that guy has nothing on you.” Carmen, beside her, nods in solidarity, and your heart blooms.

Your smile grows as your hand shakes hers, accepting the lip gloss. “You’re too kind. Thank y—” 

“Lil? Baby, are you puking?” Comes a disembodied male voice from the door, ajar ever so slightly. Lily visibly cringes and walks over to the door, pulling it open further. On the other side—the detective of sorts—happens to be Alex, who you’d been introduced to a few hours ago. At the sight of you, his eyes widen with recognition. 

“We’re fine. Leave us alone,” replies Lily in a conspiratorial whisper. “Carmen and I have a new friend.” She doesn’t even need to drop your name; your face alone is enough to make people recognize who you are.

Alex, however, refuses to admit defeat. “Try harder next time.” He pumps his eyebrows. “We were introduced earlier.” He looks up and waves to demonstrate his truth; when you smile back, Lily’s jaw drops as she turns to her boyfriend again, aghast.

“What the hell? How?” A pause. “No offense. It’s like. Two levels of fame, right there.”

He makes a pinched face. “She’s Charles’… friend? I don’t—coworker? Something, something. They were both vague about it. Actually, George and I were talking about it, and we both think something is up. With them.”

“Wait—you might be right.” Her eyes are hyperfocused, and her voice drops to a whisper for a second. “Let’s talk about it at the hotel.”

You and Carmen watch their hushed exchange, and eventually Alex leaves you three alone again with a loud goodbye, which allows Lily to rejoin your conversation. “Sorry,” she says with a smile. “That was my boyfriend, Alex. I didn’t know you two were introduced! He told me you knew Charles?”

“Oh.” Your shoulders relax. “Yeah, um. We knew each other as kids, but I moved away and we kind of—we drifted apart, so. I’m here on a business trip, and he’s just welcoming me.” You try to reduce the decade-long mess into a sentence.

“So you’re friends?”

“Yeah.” You feel like vomiting all over again. 

—

The sky’s a searing blue at noon, silver clouds lining the horizon. Charles has to press a finger to the high point of his cheek to test if he’s sunburned from the heat, and the cameras catch it; he doesn’t doubt the fans will spin that into something cute later. You’re somewhere else on the property, this big, massive thing of a museum that’s crashed into by the waves.

He remembers Andrea first telling him about this whole arrangement. He and the team had deliberately left out any mention of you, like they could predict the immediate veto. He wonders if you knew, or if you, too, had been surprised when seeing him, a ghost of your past looking into your eyes. He wonders if you, too, are now in this endless emotional turmoil. Inside there’s a photoshoot ongoing, with you but also with some models in varying aquatic-related poses to convey the intent of the building; he’s done his share of pictures already, just needs to sit down with you for an interview. 

“And a B-roll of you guys, um, like, walking, like—around?” Greg’s voice invades his head again, the nervous man beside him running through a to-do list like this is boot camp.

You’d left him hanging at the club—he couldn’t blame you though. A truce hardly called for the bringing forth of memories you two are now supposed to have buried beneath you. Memories he buried first. But alcohol had loosened him, and maybe you had, too, your eyes in the vaguely bluish light and your smile.

He wishes to apologize. He makes up some excuse and finds you nursing an Evian by a faraway corner, against a screen of stingrays. Your eyes widen when you see him, in recognition. He waves and then, with a thumb, gestures to the catering outside.

You end up by the water eating one of the caterer’s churros, a recommendation he deems “very special.” (“Have you worked with these caterers before?” “No.”) It’s also his excuse to cheat on his diet and eat a churro or three—chocolate dip included, always. You rave over the taste, smile, enjoy the view. Charles realizes this looks deceivingly like a date, and at the same time realizes he would not stop to correct someone if they assumed so.

“Our truce seems to be working.” You say in-between chews, voice flat but eyes bright.

“It seems so. I owe that to my personality.”

You really laugh at that. “I didn’t know you had one. It’s very fit for someone as unapproachable as I am.”

“Who said that?”

“No, noth—nobody.” You comb a lock of hair behind your ear. “Aw, putain. I’m ruining my lipstick. Pat’s going to kill me. I look awful.” There are no reflective surfaces around you to affirm your statement, but you sound so sure of yourself.

He smiles. He enjoys the illusion, the mask that you two seem to wear, albeit involuntarily. The chocolate syrup he squeezes on your little paper box of churros. The muttered back merci when he’s finished. Your flushed face, eyes darting from the delicacy to the ocean, eyelashes fluttering, lips smiling, curving into a laugh at some random realization. Briefly he imagines what he might tell somebody if they stopped to ask if you were dating.

Some old woman, French accent and short in stature. You two are so cute. Si mignon! And she would ask how you two met. Charles would tell her the story. But that is imagination. He blinks out of it and focuses on the beauty in front of him, so very real.

“No. You are very pretty, you know.” He says then, and it’s taken him all his nerves and then some just to wrangle it out of his mouth and past his lips. Anticipatory, he watches you, waits for your response.

You comb the hair out of your face messily, licking over the cinnamon sugar on your lips; then you smile up at him, turning your head in question. “Sorry,” you laugh, and his heart’s frozen because it’s the prettiest sound he’s ever heard. “What did you say?”

The wind roars in his ears, so Charles barely hears himself when he says, stuttering, “What? Nothing, I said nothing.”

You make a face—confused, suspicious—but all your allegations quell once you bite into another churro, stepping yourself a path along the area. Having blocked off the building, production staff and models are all that populate your surroundings, big headphones and even bigger cameras, rolling around racks of monochrome and Hermés, Birkins to match Loro Pianas. It’s easy to get lost in a crowd—in a city—where everyone looks the same, and knows the other’s name. Perhaps that’s also why, even at fourteen, you were excited to leave, he thinks.

“The coast was always my favorite part about the city.”

He notices. The way your eyes have softened, become more fond than when you’re in the centre of it all, in the bustle. Here it’s busy, but less busy; the distinction, perhaps, matters. Your gaze is not one of distaste, of disdain. It’s nostalgic, homesick, yearning. He supposes he describes this gaze so well because it’s the way he catches himself looking at you over the week. 

“I wanted to…” He trails off. “I wanted to talk to you because, ah. I’m sorry. It was foolish of me to put you on the spot last night. I should’ve been more… yeah. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay.”

You stare at the sea and nod quietly. Instead of responding, you launch a story: “I always…” You’re clearly lost in a different sphere of thought, and you have to fall quiet while finding the right words to say. “I remember, um. In Year 3, we—I came here with my mum. And I was super mad, because I got, like, three mistakes on my Maths paper?” You laugh and he does, too, but more because your storytelling is so effortlessly enthralling and funny and he needs to shut himself up.

“Anyway.” You pace around again, and he follows. “So, I’m mad, and she’s trying to cheer me up, buys me glace and everything, but no. So I go sit myself on a random bench. It must’ve been around here, I think.” You look around and point at an empty area. “There. But it’s—they must’ve ripped it out. Whatever. So yeah, I’m sitting there, and moping, and all of a sudden All You Need is Love by The Beatles comes blaring into the entire area.”

Charles’ eyebrows knit confusedly. “What, the bench area?”

“No—the whole pier, I guess? Like, it was loud, I almost jumped. And then this guy comes in holding this huge—this, um, board? Sign? Poster? And he’s got half the pier in on his whole thing, and I’m totally… it was just… yeah.” You smile. It’s the biggest smile he’s seen on you since you got here and the fact that he’s even around to see it gets him all warm.

“So what happened?”

“It was a flash mob. You know those—yeah, they’re usually insufferable, but that one was a little calmer. Nobody was, you know, dancing and yelling. It was just a bunch of people cheering and all, and the guy was actually proposing to his girlfriend. It was so cute.” You sigh a little, a brief exhale of air, and it turns into a smile. “I’d love that.”

He raises his eyebrows and, despite himself, laughs. “Vraiment?” 

You turn to him, ready to defend yourself, mid-laugh. “Heeey. Everyone says they find big, romantic gestures cheesy, but I think deep down, if you trust the person enough, you’ll like it. Maybe not a proposal, though—can you imagine the pressure?” You pause. “But I don’t know. There’s something so nice about just knowing that person loves you so much they think it’s worth it to share it to everyone around you. So even if it’s cheesy, I wouldn’t mind much. You?”

“It’s cheesy for me,” he disagrees, shrugging. “But I see your point.” Truth be told, he didn’t see you as a romantic type—but all he’s ever seen you do lately is work, and even back in childhood, all you ever did was study. He likes learning these little facts, ones you wouldn’t share in interviews—likes knowing you feel comfortable enough to share with him. “Dancing is a bit overboard.”

“Oh, definitely.” You throw your head back to laugh, eyes half-shut and crinkled and reflecting the sun. Would you look the same if he was dancing to The Beatles, proclaiming all the words he hasn’t had the courage to say?

—

Next question is who your first love was—we’re rolling in three…

“First love?” You laughed a little, facing the camera to continue your Screen Test interview with W. The questions had been candid and lovely, but they were about your career, which you answered with familiar ease. First love is different—uncharted, private territory. But you’d realized all this too late, and the director called go, and you let words spill out of you like a bag popped open.

“I want to be funny and witty and say acting, but that would be a lie. Um, my first love was a childhood friend. We lived near each other, our parents were friends, and I… I really did, I liked him a lot. But these—there were so many factors at tension with each other, like me moving away in 2013—that’s, what, six years ago now? And us being young and not really knowing how to communicate. When you’re a teenager, you’re kind of just like, oh, no worries, um, that’ll sort itself out, and then you grow up and look back and realize, these things never do. But I miss him a, a, a… a lot, and I think of him always.” Your smile didn’t reach your eyes when you looked at the camera again. “We learn a lot from childhood loves.”

Cut. Lovely. Just lovely.

“Thank you, Lynn,” you said with a small smile. A pause as silence creeps up onto the room, and then, quieter: “Could we omit that? I—sorry. I could answer anything else. First kiss, or something? I’m sorry, I just. Sorry.” For the first time in five years, you realize, you’ve conjured his memory again.

—

“Okay. What else do you remember?”

“I… do you remember the recital song?”

“Of course I do! The dance is… that’s a different story.” You’d been at Charles’ hotel room earlier to go over some video shoot regulations for a 24 Hours With video you’re doing in a few days. You stayed because—that’s beyond you at this point, and you’d rather not delve into the rationality of it all. You’re content with thinking about how nice this conversation is, a trip down memory lane.

“The dance, mon dieu, the dance.” He smothers a hand over his face, smiles fondly. “You were at the center!”

“Stop. Stop,” you protest, letting laughter settle into quiet. “It’s crazy, you know? How we… like, we share a life. Not—but like, we had a whole childhood together.” 

“And nobody knows.” It’s not something you keep a secret on purpose—it’s just that neither of you feel like name-dropping the other. Some stories have surfaced, but none of you have fully commented. Somehow, that’s a good thing for you.

“Do people ask?”

“People ask, yes.” His accent is a reminder of your past—you’d once had the same thick wraparound, the loose reign over English you’ve now grown to master. Now your accent is a lot thinner, to the point where it’s barely perceptible, and if it is, your coworkers and fans call it cute, chic, use it as a jumping off point to ask where you grew up. But in this hotel room, legs folded underneath you and glass of wine in hand, you have no coworkers or fans, it feels like; no one to perceive you but Charles. Charles and his accent, nostalgic and so very his, which you wouldn’t describe as anything but home.

“What do you tell them, then?” Quickly, you add: “The truth, or…?”

“That we knew each other as kids,” he says, smiling absently. “That is the truth, no?”

You cover a smile with the rim of your wine glass, nodding. There’s no revisionist history in that statement, but it hides a lot of the truth, the nitty gritty of it. You know it, he knows it, you both know it. “What would you want me to say?” His voice is soft and thin and imploring, so different from the boisterous voice he uses in public, from the slurred voice you heard in the club. This sounds real. This sounds like a conversation you would’ve had years ago in your childhood bedroom before everything went—

“Nothing, that’s fine.” You cut your own reverie off, clearing your throat. You even laugh, to alleviate the tension, but he sees right through you so many years later. “Unless you’re privy to telling people how we didn’t talk for months before I left.”

He blinks, smothers a palm over his face again, and sighs, eyes meeting yours. “I’m sorry. I don’t—I… I’ve wanted to bring it up.”

“I’m not mad.” It’s a half-lie. “Okay, no—I am, a bit. It just—it would’ve been nice to hear it two weeks ago.”

“I know.” He doesn’t even need to say it, but him saying it sends a low thrum of reassurance in you. Charles has found, in the two weeks of being in your company, that he accomplishes a sense of self—a sense of quiet, a sense of privacy—when he’s alone with you. Perhaps it’s your natural ability to bring out the best in people, to talk and loosen tongues and make everyone around you feel safe. Or, and this is on a likely front, maybe he misses being one of those people. 

He pretends he’s back to last week after another club rendezvous left you tipsier than the first time, dropping you off at your hotel room with two hands taut at your shoulders, one pinching a keycard. You’d been muttering something under your breath, stumbling as you went—you weren’t tripping too much, really; he didn’t need to hold you, but he told himself he had to—and leaning against the doorframe of your room, staring at him blankly. When he met your eyes, you said: maybe, just maybe. Just those three words. If he tries to remember right, you’d been smiling, but he was sufficiently tipsy, too, so he could just as well be wrong.

He does remember a few things right. The eyeliner smudged across your lower eye, lipstick smacked to a point where it looked like you wore none, beads of salt by your lip, your hand wrapped around your necklace. 

The silence is anything but awkward; still, he resolves to break it. “When you were drunk last week.” He looks up. “You said—you kept saying, maybe, just maybe.”

A laugh escapes you, stilted and a bit nervous. “Oh. That was—yeah, okay.”

“What’s it mean?”

“You seriously don’t remember?” You’re laughing for real now, your hair bobbing with it, eyebrows furrowed to emphasize your confusion. “Oh, my God. Charles, it’s all you ever said in Year… what, 7? I don’t… anyway. But when we were maybe twelve, I…”

Momentarily, you’re stunned by the memories of him—you’d forgotten they were even there. You press a few fingers to your lips and clear your throat. “Sorry. Yeah, I, um—I think you heard it in a movie or read it somewhere, and for ages it was your favorite saying. Maybe, just maybe.”

“I don’t underst—”

“—You were always just saying it,” you cut in, laughing, your voices layering as you discuss the origin of his former favorite term. “No, you really—”

“I don’t—I do not ever remember say—”

“—Well,” you say,  “I remember.” He stays silent for a few seconds, the intensity of your stare and the little smile on your face and everything beating down on him. For a split second he thinks of opening his mouth and getting on his knees and telling you everything, all the apologies, all the things unsaid in the months and years you became strangers. He seriously does. The pressure is almost physical, beyond overwhelming.

“I have to go.” You swallow the lump in your throat, disentangle your legs and clamber off the couch, setting the empty glass on his coffee table. “Good?”

“Yeah,” he says, blinking. “Yeah. Take care. Should I drive you?”

“God, no.” You laugh breathily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

He closes the door after you leave, stares at it, as if that will conjure you back to him. It occurs to him, jolts him almost, that he’d almost let slip a quiet utterance of love you as you slipped out. His stomach boils. With thankfulness over not having said it, he wonders—or with regret?

—

“Best friends now, are you?” Lily, Carmen, and Rachel look up to the sound of your voice, their serious faces breaking out into smiles. If you could chart the time you spent here, there are definitely people you’ve spent the most time with—these three are at the top of the list. You hang your coat and drop your Chanel bag on the entryway seat, already picking up on the British noises of Love Island UK from the telly.

“Wait, so she’s hooking up with him?” Lily asks, confused; her train of thought is cut off by your flopping onto the bed. “Hiiii. Where’ve you been?”

Muffled by the bedspread: Charles’ place.

Silence. The television switches off and you hear the precarious preparation of three girls readying themselves for a debrief-or-sobfest of a lifetime, a noise you’ve heard and partaken in countless times over your life. You suddenly feel too watched, too spectated; you break the quiet by looking up, displaying your tear-streaked face.

“Talk to us,” Rachel encourages, her voice raspy with unuse (Love Island will keep one occupied and quiet for hours on end). Three of them are touching you in some way or other, reassuring grips on your hair or shoulders. “Did you two fight?”

And, oh Christ, fight? It’s not like you’re dating. You aren’t even halfway to that (not that you want to be, but that’s a discussion for another time). The idea of a fight with him is so terribly juvenile, so horribly reminiscent of secondary school and Monaco and being together and being friends. You can’t fight with a guy who’s not your boyfriend. You can’t fight with a guy you’re not close to, for Chrissake. You squeeze your tears out of your eyes and breathe hiccups out.

“Do you want gelato?” No, no.

“Love Island?” In a minute.

The truth is, you want both, but you really just want to sort everything out with Charles. It was no use—hating each other was futile, but pretending everything was fine in some pathetic attempt at a “truce” seemed even worse. You just want to talk everything out, even if it excavates feelings you’d once been able to suppress.

“What kind of crush doesn’t disappear after ten years?” You ask through tears. It’s almost funny, but the question comes straight from the heart. “I’ve dated guys, lived across the world, started a whole new life pretending he never—pretending we were—fuck. Pretending he didn’t exist. It was—I’m not lying, it was easy, pretending. But one glimpse—I see him one time and suddenly it feels like all of it was in vain. It’s the same crush I had before, coming back, like it’s never going to leave me alone.”

“Maybe it’s not a crush,” says Lily, slowly.

“So what is it then?” You ask, hopelessly. What is this—this revival of memories? This little feeling, this sense that no matter where he is or what he’s doing, you’ll be just as in tune when you reunite even if it takes a decade? A decade spurred by months of being given the cold shoulder? What kind of magic is that?

She doesn’t answer, because you already know.

—

“Hey Vogue—I’m here with Charles Leclerc, and we’re here to take you along with us on all our little adventures here in Monaco.” Your smile is rehearsed, the perfectly-orchestrated blend of fun and serious, and when the cameraman calls cut, it falls into a more natural resting face. It’s the one Charles turns to and observes for any signs of a grudge.

The day is busy, which is precisely why it was chosen as the film day: three shows in the morning, press junkets for your movie and Charles’ season in the afternoon, and then a gala in the evening, hosted and attended by Anna Wintour herself.

The day’s business is only trumped by its tension, which reaches its crescendo in the janitor’s closet of the fourth floor of your hotel. It’d begun with a fight over the color palette, then a fight over last conversation you shared, then a fight over him fucking up the color palette, and then kissing against the door. Ironically enough, this floor houses a fair number of honeymoon suites.

It’s ironic beause hardly anything about this is or should be romantic—it’s a temporary fix, a pause from the turmoil, his hand squeezing your thigh. He’s gentle but you feel his possessiveness, lingering longer, higher and higher up until he’s playing with the high hem of your skirt. You knot your fingers in his hair, smell the shampoo and hairspray and cologne in the wispy curls there.

He kisses your jaw, then downward, until he’s licking, nipping at your throat. Charles.

“Yeah?” His voice is rough against your pulse point.

“Make it—we gotta—quicker.” Your hands tremble, heart hammering loud and bold in your chest. His voice is sure, gravelly, quiet, and you have to focus on something—so you centre on his hands, up your thighs and slipping under the lace of your skirt, bunching the fabric up around your hips. His hands, big and calloused, fingers resting on your hipbones, on your ass.

He’s hard against your thigh, straining against his jeans. You could cry. “I want more.”

“I know, baby. I know.” The pet name, so new but so natural, sends you into a dopamine rush.

You squirm when he doesn’t let up on his touches, over every inch of your body, groping you. He wants to take his time—he hates that he can’t—and counts on the possibility of a next time. You pull him in for a spit-slick kiss, needy and whimpering, sloppy and tongues knotted. It feels good—fuck, it feels like this was all you were ever made for, his touch. 

You buck your hips into the air desperately. “We really—fuck. We don’t have time.” Cameras, a shoot, a video; reminders ring in your head like alarm bells. He nods, goes I know, and you pick up the strain in his voice as he tugs his jeans down just enough to rub his clothed cock under your entrance, hard and drooling through the fabric.

You moan softly. “Please, I can take it,” you breathe. You’ve never been this wet, this worked up, this teased. You need to feel him, be full of him; he presses you flush against the door with a hand at the small of your back to keep it from aching too much, and drops forward as he pushes into you. Your noses brush and he goes deeper, air thick and muffled with little moans and whimpers.

His mouth is against your jaw, thrusting slowly to get you used to the size of him. The angle gets you dizzy, draws a burst of wetness out and gets you clenching around him. You’re flushed and sweaty, moaning. Feels s’good. So good, Charles, so, so good. He fucks harder, the door rattling, dirty talk cooed from his lips to your ear: Yeah? Feels real good? You’re so good for me, baby, come on.

Your needy voice, needier movements, are driving him crazy, getting him to fuck you harder, licking over his lips as he watches you fall apart on his dick. Relax, he slurs. You squeeze around him and moan, wretched and raw. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re so big. You’re getting his dick wetter and wetter with every thrust, shiny and drooling with cum.

Yeah? He says it so well, the best kind of reassurance. Come on, we don’t have time, baby. Let me feel you cum.

I know— you whine. I’m cumming—it feels too good—

You cum first, thighs shaky around him and lip curling into your teeth. You lean forward, mouth to his shoulder, and bite at the cotton. Fuck, he grunts, and releases then, a groan spilled into your hair. You watch, laughing breathlessly, and feel the world click into something different. 

You two will do anything, apparently, but talk this all through.

—

The gala is big and extravagant and you’re seated not with Charles this time, but with a roster of celebrities straight out of an LAX red-eye. Anna is at the table adjacent, andy you were able to talk to her about the experience, though not without leaving out bits with Charles in them.

You’re beside Florence and she’s talking about something, about a new movie she’s working on, and you chip in with jokes and laughs but your smile doesn’t really reach your eyes. You’re still caught in a web of fragile confusion. “I need to excuse myself for a moment,” you say after a while, after you’ve done nothing but smile and push broccoli puree around on your plate.

Consolation comes with isolation, at least tonight, at least right now. You find an empty balcony on the third floor, stare into the black sea. You try and try to remember what life was like three weeks ago, but it’s irrevocable now, the change that’s come since then. You tap the glass of your beer bottle against the marble banister, solid and probably expensive—a match for the rest of the hotel, you realize. It’s starkingly clean and smooth, and white, the kind of things you’d only say about a marble banister when you’re trying to avoid an adult introspection.

Behind you: “Are you okay?” 

In response, you say, “We shouldn’t have had sex.”

Charles settles himself into a spot near you, not totally beside but not too far—he, too, holds onto a bottle of beer. There are fancier drinks around, but somehow the dry taste of ale is all that brings you comfort right now. Your gears turn and, without prompt or question, you spill yourself forth.

“It was hard, when you didn’t… when we didn’t talk, and you didn’t ever tell me why, so I didn’t know anything. I keep remembering it, even now, what—ten years later, ha ha, even after… I don’t know, after the fact. We’re supposed to have moved on from shit that happened to us when we were fifteen but I’m finding it to be the hardest thing in the world. It was so… like, I had no trouble saying goodbye to anything else but you. And I’m famous now, my life is a whole thing, a—this whole party, and I’m supposed to… fuck.” You shut your eyes, and you can feel, through the thick fog of embarrassment and delirium, the tears that stain your cheeks. “It’s like. You know when you’re a teenager and you see all of it in movies and TV, this, like, moment where you’re staring at someone from across a room, and you’re smiling and talking to other people and you’re happy because you know in a few hours, you’ll be with that person anyway? At home, rearranging furniture, feeding the dog, eating leftovers? That… I always thought you’d be that person for me. Maybe because you were the only—you know—the only love I ever knew, and now, what. Four? Boyfriends and ten years later, you might expect me to feel differently—hell I expect myself to feel differently, but, unfortunately for you and me, I don’t. Sorry. I’m not—I’m not drunk, or anything.”

He stares at you, his expression soft and unreadable. It feels like it’s just the two of you in the world today, twenty-somethings, ten years later, unearthing all you left buried. “I…” he says, before pausing. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

You nod in response. 

“I always thought you would forgive me.” His face is sullen and handsome and your heart seizes. “I wanted to be your person.”

“How could I forgive you without an apology?” Your voice comes out fragile. “I leave in three days. You’ve fu—you’ve… you’ve kissed me, had sex with me, flirted with me. You’ve done everything but that.”

“I did apologize. I don’t think it was enough, but—”

“But you didn’t,” you reply, a jagged response. “You never said anything.”

“I wrote you.” His eyebrows knit. “I wrote you.” 

“You wrote me.” You repeat, deadpan. Your head spins with it. “What, a letter?”

“An e-mail. Before your first film came out—2014? A year after you… yeah.” He’s quiet and timid and nervous. “I forced Gi to tell me your address.”

“I didn’t… I wasn’t using that e-mail anymore. I haven’t in years.” You pinch your nose and let the silence settle like fine dust onto the room, an unspoken bomb that explodes over the both of you, raining regret and unsaid words. “I have to go.” You push yourself off the banister, turning already to the doors of the balcony. He stops you before you can step any further, a hand closed over your wrist, rough and warm.

“If you find the message,” he says, “will you read it?”

“I don’t plan to,” you lie. “Goodnight.”

—

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Urgent!

hey buttercup, I asked Giada for this email address. my bday in 2 days. Will you be home for Xmas this year btw? ill show you some new places that open ed + we can bike around. mum misses u a lot too. parfois je souhaite que tu ne partes pas… not sometimes but always. i think i need to edit this a little let me try ag

From: Charles Perceval Leclerc <cmhpleclerc@gmail.com>

Date: 14 October 2014

To: You

Subject: Buttercup

j’appellerais mais je ne pense pas que tu veuilles répondre. it’s been more than a year since you moved out, in two days i’ll be celebrating my second birthday w/o you. i’ve been karting a lot, things are looking up, just like we always said they would :) just want to say i miss you a lot, and i hope you’re doing good. i would say i hate radio silence but i know it’s my fault all this happened in the first place. i’m sorry i stopped talking to you last year when you were moving away. i was being childish, but the truth is it was the only way i could handle it - by pretending we werent friends at all… i don’t want to make you pity me or anything (ne pense pas que je suis) but yeah you’re my best friend and you always will be. i’m sorry for being a knot head.

i was always scared to tell you but it’s been there since forever: i love you. i should’ve enjoyed your months here instead of leaving you in the air. i know i ignored you but it’s the 1 thing i regret. should’ve done a lot more, i know.. but i didn’t. we have a lot of promises i broke because i was being selfish. i kept the paper ring to remind me. remember that? we had a “playground wedding” when we were 5/6?

tu ne me dois rien - i just want you to give me a chance to make you happy, even if it’s just in the way we’ve always been (as friends). if you write me back i’ll try and fly there. mum is always asking me if we’ve talked yet. if not, that’s ok. i love you all the same and i will love you as you reach your dreams. this will never change. 

charles

p.s: est-ce que je te manque?

p.p.s: call me if you can and wish me a happy birthday?

—

“Rachel, I would sooner die than wait another two hours for the tarmac to clear again.” You try to up the firmness in your voice but it fails, only serving to make you sound less angry and more agitated. When all you get in response is a muffled I’m coming! you grumble and hang up the phone. Your plane was delayed all of three times, and the instant it arrives and is scheduled to take off on time, your friendsistant is nowhere to be found.

Lily and Carmen had thrown you a goodbye party the night prior, with sprinklers and music and cocktails, and promised to be on the next flight to L.A. Vogue and David had emailed you for a job done spectacularly, and to watch out for the videos and interviews’ release dates. Twitter is raving about your movie. Everything should be good, and yet, it’s not.

You check your inbox. IM COMJNG LILTIERALLY IM RUNNING THRU AJRPPRT!!!!!! You scoff again, hoping the plane doesn’t somehow take off for the fourth time, and take a seat on the VIP waiting area sofa again, shaking your now-empty chai latte. The room, sectioned off from economy and business, is fairly full.

A woman paces over to you, a bright grin on her face. “Hi. I’m a huge fan.”

“Thank you,” you smile, despite your tiredness.

“This is so embarrassing—but do you happen to have the time?”

“Sure”—you tap your phone open—“half past four.”

“Great,” she says. “Thanks, Buttercup.”

You’re opening your mouth to say you’re welcome, but it catches like cotton in your throat. You watch her depart like nothing happened, a strange feeling settling in your chest. You have barely any time to answer it, because a flight attendant is tapping you on the shoulder, addressing you by name, thankfully. She maintains a tone of professionalism all throughout her announcement that the aircraft under your name will have to evacuate the runway in ten minutes or less.

“I know, I know—I’m just, um. I’m waiting for somebody. She should be near now, though.”

“Tremendous. Merci, Buttercup.”

“Wh—” You stutter, blinking and watching her leave. “What?”

She doesn’t turn, walking to the kiosk to exchange information with her coworkers. You look around the airport, for a camera hidden somewhere maybe. Perhaps you’ve been unknowingly listed in some Impractical Jokers skit.

Rach hurry you text instead, leaning back and hoping you’re in some grandiose delusion. Your phone dings. Omw promise! It reads. Then: Look up buttercup

Your head snaps upward faster than you can register what you’ve just read, matching the opening notes of a song you’ve grown all too familiar with in your lifetime. The opening beat to Build Me Up, Buttercup flows like honey through the room’s intercom and floods it with life.

Mouth agape, you watch as the staff and guests perform the routine you’d learned at fourteen, complete with hops and turns you were too embarrassed to do even then. They’re smiling and whooping themselves and each other as they go, finishing the entire first verse before turning collectively to the entrance of the room. There, in all his glory: Charles, wearing an entirely too-small headdress that reads Buttercup, worn dusty from years of being stored away.

He’s dancing, too, closer to you. You refuse to budge for the express purpose that he dance some more, which he complies with, though not without an eyeroll and an exasperated sigh. Your heart beats with something irregular and warm. You’d told him about this before. He’d listened.

The music settles for a little and the dancers do, too, so he takes the time to raise his sign. Will you forgive me? It reads. No pressure. Except kind of. You laugh, throwing your head back at the gesture, at this entire affair that must have taken some amount of effort to prepare. As the lyric comes on, so does his sign: I need you… more than anyone, darling.

He drops the sign when you approach him, arms crossed over your torso. He removed the headdress and places it gingerly on yours. “I believe that belongs to you.”

And, hyperaware of all the eyes and yet the complete lack of cameras—you’re grateful for it—you finally, finally, finally pull him in for a kiss. You’ve kissed before, done your worst, but still means volumes to the both of you.

In-between kisses and cheers (from voices belonging to Lorenzo, Rachel, Lily—so many familiar ones), he says it again: “I’m sorry. I’ll make it all up to you.”

“You better,” you tease into his lips, smiling. “I know. I love you.” Ten years later—your person still is, and no doubt will always be, Charles Leclerc.

[magewritesstories]

[ ɢɪʟᴍᴏʀᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜱ ] ᴅᴀᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

ᴊᴇꜱꜱ ᴍᴀʀɪᴀɴᴏ — ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴄᴀᴛ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

♠  Jess is the black cat boyfriend no debate

♠  his favourite activities are browsing bookstores in New York to find the most ridiculous books and having movie nights at with home-made pizza

♠  his gifts are usually consist of annotated books and/or CD’s he’s burned for you

♠  so touch starved, like so touch starved, his love language is definitely physical touch

♠  would do just about anything if you just bat your eyelashes at him

ᴘᴀʀɪꜱ ɢᴇʟʟᴇʀ — ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪᴇʀᴄᴇ ɢɪʀʟꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

♦  study dates, study dates, study dates

♦  probably mistook your flirting for picking a fight until Rory told her that you were flirting with her or you just straight up told her you wanted to kiss

♦  loves to do things for you just because, carrying your bags, making you coffee/tea when you working, because you deserve to be pampered, her love language is acts of service no doubt in my mind

♦  when it comes to gift giving it’s usually offhanded like, “Yeah I saw it in the store and bought it, no big deal.”

♦  she’s pretty stubborn so getting her to do things is hard but she ends up doing them because it’s you, and she would do anything for even if she complains 70% of the time

ʟᴏɢᴀɴ ʜᴜɴᴛᴢʙᴇʀɢᴇʀ — ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴅᴠᴇɴᴛᴜʀᴏᴜꜱ ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

♣  he takes you to so many places, sometimes it’s places he’s been other times he spotted a new restaurant on his way and he decides to take you there next time the two of you go out.

♣  his favourite thing to do is go shopping for you, particularly enjoys buying you clothes and accessories and then seeing you wear them

♣  Logan’s love language is definitely gif giving, and more often than not the gift are expensive (read: birkin bag.)

♣  whenever he plans dates it’s the out there stuff he thinks you’ll enjoy doing, but he doesn’t mind having dinner at home with a good movie or some music either

♣ he would also do anything for you, even the things you ask him to do halfheartedly or jokingly

ʀᴏʀʏ ɢɪʟᴍᴏʀᴇ — ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪɴᴅ ɢɪʀʟꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ

♥  her favourite kinds of dates are the calm ones, like browsing bookstores and going to museums

♥  she loves to sit with you on the couch until ungodly hours just talking about random things or having deep conversations, although the ones about the future are her favourites

♥  love language is words of affirmation, mainly because growing up Lorelai thought her how important communication is in all her relationships

♥   Rory doesn’t really like dates in crowded places, she enjoys the occasional concert or outing to a busy place, but low-key dates will always be superior in her opinion

♥ getting her to do something she doesn’t want to is impossible, she’s very stubborn and when she doesn’t want to do something it’s very hard to convince her to do it

[locketsvault]

「 AYATO WITH INVESTIGATOR S/O 」

pairing: ayato kirishima x gender neutral reader

tags: gender neutral reader, established relationship, first person, no pronouns/afab gender used, fluff

warnings: canon angst, discrimination mentioned, fluff, sfw “nudity”, back massage with no shirt on, kissing, strictly sfw I promise

request: Hii, can i request some fluff with Ayato (tokyo ghoul) with (an investigator) gn reader? (original request found here.)

word count: 835

a/n: this was honestly quite a hard topic to write about, trying to balance a character who’s angsty, usually mows down investigators happily, with an investigator partner and make it fluffy. I hope it’s to your liking, I did my best to make it fluffy!

You two are a match made in… I can’t say Heaven, that’s a stretch. But you’re definitely a match. How it came to be? That’s a little secret. Some rumors say that you rescued him from being executed, while others say he saved you from being eaten by another ghoul. No matter how though, it was hard to deny you two were a wonderful match.

It was like looking at the black cat and golden retriever trope. It didn’t matter if you were a black cat too, being an investigator made you seem much more lively than a certain emo.

Sadly you two had to keep your relationship a secret from everyone around you, of course with the treat of death on both sides. But after the events of :re you were able to see each other without that threat lingering over your head. And it only made you two closer. You were finally able to move in together, just the two of you in your small apartment near his sisters coffee shop. It was home.

“You’re late.” Ayato stated the second you walked through a door, a false look of annoyance gracing his features.

“Paperwork,” you whined as you took off your coat and shoes. “He’s the worse boss ever, I swear. He makes me write the dumbest reports up, and he always tells me to do it right before I come home.”

“Then quit.” His tone was dead serious, you knew it, and you shot him a light hearted glare for it.

You knew you couldn’t though, you worked so hard to get where you were. He knew how important your job was to you. And he appreciated an open minded investigator among all the well… close minded humans. But he still sometimes wished you quit, for your safety. He also feared having to fight you or accidentally killing you without realizing it was you. That wasn’t fair though, he knew your scent by heart.

You dragged your body to the couch and collapsed onto him with a soft groan. His fake annoyance disappeared, instead replaced with a look of amusement. He can feel your body tense against his, and one touch down your back answered to him exactly why.

“… you were dualing again weren’t you.”

“Yes, but, I didn’t expect to today so I didn’t properly stretch.” You answered as you gave him a guilty smile.

This time he actually gave you a look of annoyance. “Sit up.” He commanded, quiet but affirmative.

“Noooo, I just laid down.” You whined, burying your face into his neck.

All you needed right now was him, to be in his arms, and all the pain would go away. However, that did not work. He huffed and made you both sit up before turning you so your back was facing him. A few sputter and whines later, your shirt was removed and thrown haphazardly on the ground.

“I can practically feel how tense your body is as if it’s my own. No fighting me on this.” The words “let me take care of you” left unspoken but was clearly there.

And how could you say no? So with a faux pout you stayed still as he grabbed some muscle relaxer and started to work it into your soft skin. You couldn’t help but release a hard sigh at the feeling. Your job could be so physical demanding and it wasn’t always easy to take care of your body. Your eyes closed as you took in his touch and warmth. You always cherished soft moments like this with him. He had changed so much since you first met, he had changed for you. You needed this, and you needed some unwinding with him.

“Thank you…” you whispered, breaking the soft silence between you.

You could feel his touch hesitate a bit, still not used to hearing such words in a genuine way. You could hear the almost silent huff and could practically feel the smile he was trying to keep in.

“All done, feel better?” He asked, wiping off his hands before getting up.

You rolled your shoulders and moved around a little. You couldn’t deny, you were feeling much better now. He came back and handed you one of his own shirts, much to your pleasure. You happily put it on and wiggled out of your work pants.

“Thank you my love.” You reached out, pulling him down for a soft kiss.

“You already said that,” he mumbled against your lips before picking you up, “come on, time for bed.”

“Man, my night was just getting started.” You grumbled, rolling your head back.

He rolled his eyes and laid you down, turning off the lights before laying down with you. He pulled you close and caressed your cheek, before kissing you again. It was gentle, more gentle than you were used to from him. He must been feeling extra domestic. You weren’t going to point it out though, it was cute and you loved it.

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[luxiomahariel]

Remembering the victims: Torrence Hill

Torrence Hill, 35, was the founder and owner of Evollusion, a hairstyling and beauty salon in Atlanta. “Hill’s salon offered a much-needed safe space for the Black, LGBTQIA+ residents of Atlanta and its surrounding areas,” Gaye Magazine reports. Hill “wanted to cultivate a space of safety where you can also get the affirming look and style you want, and he did exactly that,” Mathieu-East wrote on Instagram, noting that Black barbershop culture can sometimes be homophobic, and Hill provided an alternative. And his friend Derek Baugh told the Human Rights Campaign, "The loss of Chevy is devastating to not only the Atlanta trans community and his family but to the world. Chevy was a bright light whose mission it was to help others shine on their own. I met Chevy when I founded my organization Ubuntu that focuses on serving Black transgender men. Chevy was one of the first people to ever support me and the organization. He faithfully attended our group, even on weeks when there were two participants-he always showed up. He was well known for his skill as a barber and for welcoming people of all genders and sexual orientations into his barbershop, Evollusion. He was such a good guy with a big heart and he deserved better than this. I will miss seeing him. I want people to understand that gender-based violence affects trans men in a despairing way too. Although he is now a risen ancestor, we must continue to lift his name & others in the struggle against gender-based violence." Another friend, Sylvester XX, told HRC, "Chevy’s memory will be forever etched in my mind, heart and spirit. I met this amazingly caring and head strong human many years ago on his search for affirming resources. His ability to motivate, protect and take care of those he loved was evident from the first time we spoke. Familial support was so paramount to Chevy. So for his life to be taken this way is very disheartening. Some of the larger conversations we have to have are about mental health in Black communities, how rampant gun violence is in this nation, the heightened violence BIPOC TGNC (transgender and gender nonconforming) masculine people endure and how Black communities of marginalized people face overlapping social and economic determinants that no other communities have to navigate. Society learns to devalue Black and trans people’s lives through the many false narratives that have been created and spread by those who oppose LGBTQ+ equality. So, it is important to remind society that we all are human, we all deserve protection and policies in place to keep us safe. Chevy may not have known his true impact, but his legacy and the way he showed up for his community will continue to inspire and change the lives of people who look like him."

https://www.advocate.com/crime/black-trans-man-killed-atlanta

Verna Hill Wilcox, Chevy's mother, told GLAAD her son had let his cousin Jaylen, who was going through some difficulties, stay at his home but that Jaylen had begun to abuse Chevy's generosity. “TK had apparently purchased him uniforms and shoes to start another job,” Wilcox said. “TK had finally reached a point where it was like, no matter what we do for you, you still have a sense of entitlement, and you’re not showing us the respect and love we’re showing you.” “TK got into a verbal altercation with Jaylen,” she continued. “He was chastising him for using their stuff. Terri let them use their vehicle, and he stayed gone for four hours. When he came back, he had an attitude about somebody else’s merchandise, and TK reprimanded him for that and told him to leave.” She believes that led to the shooting.

[thisismeracing]

The phantom of miscommunication | LH44

― Pairing: Lewis Hamilton x black!plussize!reader (she/her) ― Word count: 1.8k ― Warnings: not proofread; suggestive content; angst with a happy ending; mentions of an argument. Minors DNI! ― Summary: Dating a professional athlete is hard, and it’s even harder when you are famous too, and your schedules just keep crashing. how will their love beat their insecurities?  ― A/n: I took forever to finish this request, but I hope the waiting was worth it and I did the request justice 🤍.

⁕ Based on this request. ⁕ my masterlist and my taglist ⁕ you can support my writing by reblogging, and leaving a comment (don’t forget to follow me if you like the piece)

You often hear about loving someone being easy and natural, a fall that you would pray the other catch you from. Turns out, as Yn discovered with Lewis, it feels natural, and she’s sure he’ll be there to catch her if she falls, but easy? Love wasn’t that easy. Or life was hard with it. 

That’s at least how it feels for her while she finishes getting ready for the last performance of her Broadway play. Alone. She’s ditching her favorite dress because it reminds her of Lewis and how he would look smug whenever she wore it because she would need his help to zip her up. Lewis loved being needed. Not in a selfish way, but in a way that meant he loved to be helpful to those he cherished. Loved to hear their joyful tones while they thanked him, or the warm arms around his body, and in her case, the cold lips against his. 

Lewis loved loudly. 

Maybe that’s why they ended up fighting that last week. Because if he loved being helpful and seeing others happy, how could he not cancel a meeting to watch her finish the play she spent months traveling around overseas? 

Yn loved silently.

It was as if she liked to feel him slide beside her in bed at night, rather than hear the noise of the door closing, and knowing he would be there. The silence that led to the moment was deeply appreciated by her. And her love somehow worked similarly. She wouldn’t ask more than twice for something she wanted, something important, something someone who loves her should know. To her, it was enough her dad showed up, he didn’t need to tell her she did a great job, no words of affirmation or bouquet of flowers and gifts whatsoever. Just their presence. And that was what Yn was expecting from Lewis: his presence. 

She felt a tear slide down her cheek and she quickly wiped it before grabbing her bag and keys and leaving her house, making her way to one of her favorite cafes. There was something so unique, it mundane on finishing her tour home. Just minutes away from the house she shared with Lewis. A quick walk to her favorite café. The view of a grey, yet very beautiful London being her company. 

Yn goes about her day doing most things on the automatic mode. Sometimes, she would think about how she always dreamt of this day when she was just younger. Starting on Broadway as a black girl was a hard task, that, in her case, was two times harder because she was also a plus-size actress. Some of the producers would reduce her to her weight, her skin tone, or just about anything, but her talent. She had to prove herself over and over until she finally became a phenomenon in the country and then, years ahead, she started to have a significant international impact. That’s when she met Lewis. She had traced most of her career, she had a name, and so did he, and maybe that was the first thing that brought them closer: the fact that it seemed as if everyone was attentively watching over them not because they wanted to appreciate the work they put on, but because they needed them to do something wrong, anything wrong, just so this wrongdoing could be talked about more than the rights.

It was hard. 

And having Lewis there to share this burden made it a bit lighter. 

Having him there to love her, and recognize her more than anyone ever would, was heartwarming. Being someone else’s first pick felt amazing. And though the ups and downs of their careers existed, they always faced it together. Just like they shared their victories together too. That’s why it felt so wrong not having him on her Musical ending show. He shared the struggles of her waking up early, and going late to bed just so she could grab each emotion needed, and memorize all the lines. She was the leading actress. The main start. Yet, she missed having him be illuminated by her light. 

Truth is, Yn felt sad without Lewis, not that her happiness depended on him showing up, but they had created those small traditions. He would always be on the final stops of her shows. She would always make it to his most expected races. 

As the saying goes, a dream you dream by yourself is just a dream, but a shared one is a reality.  It’s hard to create a reality while in a long-distance, or mostly long-distance, relationship. You gotta be ten times more attentive and understanding. So when Lewis told her he had to make it to an interview before preparing for his race weekend without even waiting for her response, it did not feel like an understanding relationship, he, for the first time, did not seem attentive. And that hurt.

“But, love, why can’t you reschedule your interview for Friday after free practice? Or maybe even Saturday after qualy?” Yn asked, a pout on her lips, while Lewis was finishing packing his suitcase. 

He sighed, “You know very well the rush after those two, Yn.”

Fair enough, “Well, then do it online! That way you could do it right before my play, and then come to the Teather after. It’s not that far from our house, you sure can make it.” She was full of solutions, to a problem that felt like Lewis himself created.

When his eyes found hers, determination written all over it, he didn’t even have to open his lips and tell her an audible “no”, she already knew, so she tried to practice healthy communication. “Look, Lew, it’s just that this is our last stop and they were okay with it being in London when most of the time it happens somewhere in the USA. You know how this city is important to me, and this play, it’s just- I can’t help but feel like you’ve been lacking in terms of support lately.”

The British finally stopped packing, dropping his shirt inside the suitcase, and leaving with a quick glance towards Yn, mumbling how he didn’t want to fight. 

“But I want you to fight with me. Fight for me!” She trailed behind him, stopping at the entrance of the kitchen. 

“Well, the world doesn’t revolve around you, Yn!” he snapped, and before he could apologize or backtrack she nodded, leaving the room. Love should never feel forced. She shouldn’t have to ask for it. 

The door slammed behind her as she made her way to the Teather to bury her head in work, sweat the hurt away, dance, and sing until the energy made her feel comfort. 

“Yn?” one of her colleagues asked, snapping Yn out of her memories. “They’re calling us for one last rehearsal before the show.”

She nodded and glanced at her phone, hoping to see a message, either an apology or a good luck one, anything that showed that he remembered, but there was nothing. Her shoulders slumped lightly and she made her way to the stage, the audience still deserved the best ending show, she deserved the best ending show. 

So that was exactly what happened: Yn shined along with the whole crew. They sang, danced, smiled, and even cried after the curtains opened to an outstanding ovation from the audience. That’s when Yn’s eyes found his, right on the front row, a bouquet of flowers on his seat, one of his shy grins, while he stood clapping the most beautiful performance he had ever seen Yn deliver.

Lewis was there.

Lewis wasn’t in an interview on the other side of the world.

He was standing there.

Smiling.

Clapping.

Proudly watching. 

And when her lips quirked up slightly he nodded as if knowing they still had to talk, but for now, he took the right decision.

When the curtains closed again and Yn made the walk to her dressing room, she wasn’t surprised to find Lewis there, “hey,” she said, closing the door behind her and staying glued to the wooden.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Lewis started. “Look, I’m-”

“Can we save all the headaches and solutions for when we get home?” She suggested, still a bit breathless from the play. “That is if you’re coming home tonight. Or are you flying to do the interview late?” 

There was a  sad smile on Lewis's plush lips, “I’m home, with you.” 

A breath of fresh air got into Lewis’ lungs when he noticed her shoulders relax with the news. She was relieved he would be home. She was happy to have him around. It wasn’t too late. 

“And I agree on saving the deep talk to when we get home, but I want to say I’m sorry I made you feel like I didn’t support you or love you enough to reschedule and work my way around my things. You’re my treasure, love. And I’ve been lacking lately, I’ve been stressed, and with my head all over the place, but I’ll get better. I promise,” and a Hamilton promise would always come true. You could count on that. 

Yn bit her lips, trying to hold back the tears, but they fell around her face like waterfalls just the same, and Lewis was in front of her in the blink of an eye, fingers brushing the wet splotches, lips kissing her delicate skin. 

“I’m sorry, I am so so sorry,” he whispered painly.

“I was so terrified we were about to get on a dead-end road. That you would stop showing up for my plays, and-”

“Sweetheart, breathe,” he held her face between his soft palms and Yn tried to even her breath with his. “I’m here, I’m always going to be here. You have my endless support and undying love, you can count on that.” He was a runner, one of the fastest drivers on the grid, but he could never run away from her and what she made him feel. What he could do was beat the phantom of miscommunication to the finishing line, get there first, say he’s sorry before it’s too late, and work so that this ghost won’t ever bother their relationship again. 

Yn nodded, gulping a bit more of air, and finally crashing her body on his in a tight hug. Lewis kissed her hair and found her lips with his, tasting their own tears and love. Yn mumbled how sorry she was for not being patient enough, and Lewis shook his head, kissing her again.

“I’m the sorry one, and I’m gonna make it up to it,” he explained. 

Yn arched her brows, looking into his honey eyes, “I know just the way you can express how sorry you are,” she smirked, undoing the bow for her white dress and making it cascade around her ankles. 

And Lewis did exactly that. 

He whispered apologies and love promises in her ear, the sound of a symphony with her body banging against the door. That was their private play. Their favorite one. 

― ⋆🪩 VOICEMAIL: Hiii!! I hope you guys liked it! I hope your Friday is amazing! Don't forget to reblog and leave me a comment if you can, it means a lot and it usually inspires me to write more *mwah*

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[artdecobish222]

HOW TO BANISH A SPIRIT/ENTITY

do you have a not so friendly ghost in your home? or even just a spirit who has invaded your presence? or maybe a entity whom you no longer want in your space? if so, then this is the perfect spell for you. follow each steps, and this spirit shall be no more. (it’s fine if you substitute ingredients/objects in this spell, as long as your intent is strong)

Disclaimer: (ESPECIALLY with this spell it is vital that you already know how to protect yourself using magick, and have done a protection spell before this. also if you feel intuitively that you should swap some ingredients that’s fine too! you don’t have to follow the exact way I preformed this spell)

BACKSTORY:

earlier this year, my sister became haunted by the presence of a spirit who was deeply attached to her and her essence. Like myself, and many other witches, i practice tarot, so ofc I did divination on this situation and steps to take to move forward. Obviously this “man” or spirit as you may call it was no good. So I successfully banished him with this spell that I’ve created. Now, it is important to note, if you know the spirit name that is powerful and could further more feed into the spell, so that the energy has a direct target. However, (like in my case) if you don’t know the spirits name that’s fine too. Just make sure the intention is strong.

WHAT YOU’LL NEED

-a white sachet bag

-a piece of paper

-black pepper- to ward off negative and unwanted spirits and entities from (name) and to banish them

-cinnamon- to provide (name) with protection from unwanted spirits and entities

-rusty nails- may anyone, people, spirit or entity that attempts to inflict harm onto (name) be reversed back banefully. May these rusty nails stand for a harsh protection.

-paprika- to speed up the speed of this spell, to protect (name) from negative energy, and unwanted spirits and entities

-garlic- to ward off and BANISH any unwanted spirits and entities and negative energies

-salt- protection, neutralize negative energy, ward off unwanted spirits

- a black candle

STEP 1:

now what you’ll want to do is cleanse the space with incense. (You should use a herbal incense that corresponds with protection) and ask your spirit guides or deities/ancestors (if you work with them) to protect and guide you during this spell.

STEP TWO:

write corresponding affirmations on piece of paper such “I banish any spirit/entity from my space, home, and essence entirely. I banish thee”. Fold this paper AWAY from you, then carve banishing affirmations onto black candle. Place black candle on top of the affirmation paper. Then add said ingredients as listed above onto the candle with the intent to banish this spirit from you or (someone else’s) life. Lastly you can light this candle.

STEP THREE:

as the candle is burning, play this banishment frequency, while mediating/visualizing this spirit leaving you alone forever. Along with saying aloud corresponding affirmations to the burning candle. You can play this frequency as many times as you like or what feels right for you.

here is the link to the frequency;

https://youtu.be/rfQVgVayXcc?si=io2fVFn6v6P4V65K

STEP FOUR:

now once the candle has fully burned on top of the affirmation paper, place this inside of the sachet bag. Below is a photo of the spell I did, it should look something like this;

[stellar-constellations]

An Alliance (part 1)

        Fem! Spy! (Y/N) x Yuri Briar

        Parts: Current part, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten (to be continued when Spy x Family has more Yuri content!)

        (Y/N) is given her own backstory that is important for the story!

        The setting for this story is based off West and East Germany's (because Spy x Family is heavily based off Germany in the 1940-1950) laws (or at least replicated to the best of my abilities since it's unknown what time period Spy x Family is exactly in, we'll go with 1950 for the sake of this story). 

        Historically-accurate women misogyny and mistreatment! Only small comments and historically-accurate laws (replicated to the best of my ability). 

        The story, plot, and settings might not match up to the Spy x Family manga as it's not completed and the manga is still being crafted.

        This series contains spoilers for the manga and anime!

        Almost three months ago, I was caught as a Westalis spy. I found out I was ratted by a fellow spy and because of it, I was in the hands of the Secret Police, where I met the second-lieutenant, Yuri Briar. 

        .

        .        

        “Tell me, what information have you given to WISE?” the man in charge of interrogating me spoke.

        “I told you, I didn’t do anything.” I affirmed, my eyes tired from all the fake crying I had to previously do.

        What's it been? Two hours now? I'm pretty fed up of this.

        “I’m sorry for whatever I did to gain your mens' attention, but I swear I’m not a spy.” I pushed.

        I’m lying. A spy lies all the time. Though I hate to lie, it’s necessary to help create peace between the two sides; or at least to the best of our abilities. 

        “I’ll ask you for the last time... What did you tell Westalis?!” he shouted, slamming his hand on the table.

        I fake-jumped, the handcuffs on my wrists clacking together as my eyes widen.

        “I didn’t tell them nothing. I only lived there for some time, then the war struck and my home was destroyed so I moved here. I was born a (birth country) civilian but I’ve lived here in Ostania since I was ten.” I explained, letting out a cough from how sore my throats been with all this fake crying, shouting, and screaming of my proclaimed “innocence.”

        "I ain't got time for this. My shift was over a quarter ago; I'm going home." The man sighed.

        The man stood up from his chair as did the transcriber in the corner of the room.

        I was left in the room for a good thirty minutes, keeping my posture slightly tense and observant as I looked around the room. 

        If there's any cameras, they'd be looking for any signs of guilt in my body language. Acting too careless or neutral would make it appear that I don't understand the gravity of the situation, or that I'm playing too natural and collected which would be suspicious. Being too tense would give away any signs of anxiety or panic at the possibility of being caught. If I look around the room too much, they'd believe that I would be searching for cameras and microphones which wouldn't look good for an innocent person; but if I'm not checking my surroundings, it could lead them to the impression that I've been in these interrogation rooms before under suspicion of espionage.

        A knock on the metal door was heard, pulling me out of my thoughts as the door opened.

        “Excuse me, I’ll be taking over from here. Your previous interrogator had to go home.” A young man spoke as he stepped into the room. 

        He couldn’t have been any younger or older than me by two years. He had deep black hair and piercing red eyes. He almost seemed innocent with those large eyes, that was until I noticed how the atmosphere in the room changed.

        Suddenly, it didn't quit feel like I was in control of the situation.

        He looks easy to fool. I thought to myself.

        I remained quiet as I watched him close the door, walking into the chair the other guy previously sat in.

        "Hello... (Y/N), right?" he asked, setting his hat down on the table and taking a seat across from me.

        "Yeah." I confirmed, feeling heart raise as I stared at him, stopping myself from sounding meek so he doesn't get any information on me.

         It's just cause he's a new interrogator, I thought.

        I memorized the previous one's body language and go-to patterns, I can figure out this one's too. I'll stick with my same backstory I gave the other man. I need to be calm but angry too, detectives use special techniques such as that new American Reid technique to extract information from people of interest; they'll be studying my body language, tone, words, and mannerisms. Leaving me alone for so long was one of the steps they've used in the technique.

        I'll admit, I was impressed at how young this guy was. I was also impressed that he pronounced my name correctly despite it not even originating from Germany, but instead in (your name’s origin). 

        "It's a pretty name—from (your name’s origin), correct?" he smiled, causing me to internally squirm in my seat, unsettled at his knowledge and hospitality.

        That other man was screaming orders and demands at me, and here this guy is, bothering to know where my name originates from.

        "Yeah... My mom wanted a unique name; I supposed all mothers want something that stands out." I replied truthfully.

        To create a flawless lie, you must also dab in the truth. Be detailed, but not too detailed. Create eye-contact and don't slip up on your words.

        "I see. And where is your mom now?" he questioned. 

        "She's dead..." I muttered, looking away from him, forcing myself to bite my tongue.

        It was a sour memory, my tone was truthful. I'd be seen as peculiar if I didn't show any emotions talking about my dead loved ones, spy or not.

        "And your dad?" he asked.

        "Same..." I muttered dully, taking in a deep breath.

        "I'm sorry about your parents. Do you have any siblings?" he questioned.

        "Well, I did." I scowled, showing my dislike for him and his questions.

        Remember, not too hostile. That was teetering the edge...

        He ignored my glare and smiled.

        "I can assume the same as your parents?" he spoke.

        "You can." I sighed, a weak attempt to cool down.

        I need to control my emotions, otherwise I'll slip up. Remember, no connections to your past.

        "So, you were born in (your country of origin), what brought you to Ostania?" he asked.

        "I was born in (your country of origin), then my family and I moved to Westalis when I was six. Then the war broke out, the bombs and all, and my family died except for me. I was found in the rubble, then I made my way into the Westalis army. During the war, I got injured and was forced to step down. Eventually, I made my way here to get away from the war since I heard there wasn't any bombings going on, supposed to be more peaceful." I explained, forcing myself to avoid eye contact since it wouldn't help me think.

        "You have to understand though, that doesn't make me a spy! I came here to get away from the war, the bombings, the threats, and all this crap here. I just want to live a peaceful life in Ostania for as long as I can." I concluded.

        "That's very unfortunate." The man frowned. "I'm sorry you had to go through something like that. How old were you when your parents died?" 

        "I was seven." I explained. 

        "And you're...?" he paused, waiting for me to verify. 

        "Twenty." I confirmed.

        "We're close in age." He smiled. "How come you decided to stay inside of Europe? Move into Ostania whilst in the middle of a war, nonetheless? You could've went to the United States or something." he questioned.

        "I didn't want to learn a new language. Since I was young when I moved here, it was easier for me to adapt to the language since I was growing up and learning it with other kids my age trying to write and speak it too." I explained. 

        "I see. I'm sorry for what you've had to go through growing up, I really wish it wasn't as bad as it is here; however I'm afraid I cannot do much on my own." The male flashed an empathetic smile, like he lived what I lived. "It's sad for you to have gone through so much so young." 

        "You're around my age and you're in this type of business." I pointed out. 

        He smiled, his eyes too squinted and his smile too big to be friendly. It was dangerously sinister, too sinister even for me.

        "This type of business? You make serving and protecting our country sound distasteful. What negative things have you heard, Miss (L/N)?" he questioned, leaning his head on his gloved-palm.

        He opened his eyes and lowered his smile, yet the smile was still present. 

        This lighting makes him look absolutely terrifying. I thought, suppressing the urge to swallow my fear, yet I had no control of how my hands and legs started to tremble. But also...kind of attractive, I supposed...?

        "You're the Secret Police, right? I hear you guys torture anyone who doesn't give you what information you want. Anyone can report someone as a suspected spy at any time, and they'll be brought here to be tortured for 'treason' and such. Even women who aren't married after 25 are suspected to be spies and that's completely ridiculous! You do know that the Salem Witch Trials in 1692 happened to have many innocents meet their demise, just because they were blamed, because some people didn't like them or were jealous? Some even put others to their death for entertainment! Do you see a pattern?" I questioned.

        "And where did you hear this? About the Secret Police?" he asked.

        "You hear it all over. The new gossip in the office, what's on the daily newspaper, and even on our TV's. It's happening right now, in this very room." I sneered. 

        "That's just word on the street." The man spoke, doing his best to keep his poker face as he ignored my last comment.

        I could tell he wanted to get mad, frown at me, maybe even yell, but he kept up his good-cop act. 

        "The war was originally word on the street too—look where we are now." I retorted. "And you wanna know something else? Despite all the bad things I've said about Ostania so far, Ostania is just as bad as Westalis.

        "How so?" he huffed, a scowl on his face as his manipulatively cocky smile was immediately wiped from his face, losing his composure.

        "I've been on both sides of this war. I can guarantee to you that Ostania is censoring its newspapers and screens so their people don't know what it's really like—just like Westalis did. Hell, probably even still doing. You work for the State Security Service, but the SSS works for the government—you're not the ones getting information when it first comes out. You gobble up what lies and little white truths they give you." I explained, leaning closer to him on the desk to further emphasis my point. "You're just a pawn in this game of chess. Me and you hold no power to the big guys up there, but just as the word on the street says; once you get captured by the SSS, there's no coming back. Guilty or innocent, the scale is rigged."  

        His fingers drummed at the desk angrily as he closed his eyes and knitted his eyebrows. I savored the sight of this. The frustration of a Ostanian officer, weak and forced to believe my words for this interrogation, but doubt them too. All the second-thoughts flashing through his face as he wonders if I'm right or if I'm screwing with him.

        "If that's how you see it, then I supposed I'd have to accept it." He sighed roughly, intertwining his gloved fingers together. "Enough of that. Tell me all the jobs you've worked."

        "I worked at a bakery when I was six, then the Westalis army at seven, moved here and had a mix of delivering newspapers and working in pet shops as an assistant when I was ten. I got a waitressing gig at eleven and kept it until I was nineteen. Finally, I started working at a local bakery down my street." I explained. 

        "So, why did you accept being recruited into the Westalis army?" he questioned.

        It seems like we're running in circles. I thought to myself, mentally sighing. We've already gotten past that bit.

        "There wasn't really anywhere I could go without needing money. I also wanted to give justice to my family and siblings; you would too, wouldn't you?" I questioned.

        "Yes. I have an older sister and I love her dearly. It's why I do this job, so I can understand where you're coming from. Do you have an older sister too?" he asked.

        "Yes. An older sister, an older brother, and two younger brothers. Believe it or not, but we were at each others' throats every chance we could get. But I never did get to tell them that despite all of our fights and bickering, they were my family and I love them." I explained, forcing myself to look away from the male as tears started to distort my vision. 

        "It's always important to tell them that when you still have them, yeah?" he smiled.

        I nodded, not having the strength to look up. There's no way I'm going to cry in front of this bastard.

        "Yeah, and—fortunately for you—the files we've been given have matched up to everything you've been saying and more. There's really nothing left." The second-lieutenant spoke. "I'm sorry for having my co-workers drag you here, but it's protocol." 

        "It's cool. I can understand." I sighed, not exactly believing that the interview was over.

        There's no way it's over. Every spy that's been captured by the Secret Police has never been seen again, even innocent people on the streets haven't been seen again either! I really doubt I'd be the first (guilty, but even if I was innocent [that'd be an accomplishment itself]) person to actually walk free from the SSS—as much as I'd like for that to happen. 

        I waited for any movement from him, waited for him to grab his hat and walk out, waited for him to speak again, anything really. But he just sat there, smiling at me, like he knew something I didn't, and I'm starting to become pretty certain he does. 

        "Are you going to uncuff me?" I questioned.

        His smile seemed to brightened yet darken at the same time, how he did that, I have no idea.

        "I'm glad you asked; but you see Miss (L/N), unfortunately I can't let you go." 

        I sighed, knowing that I was going to get caught one way or another.

        "And the reason why is...?" I paused, impatiently waiting for the answer.

        Luckily, he didn't let me ponder about it for long.

        "While you're innocent, you're still guilty." He answered.

        "But you just said I'm innocent. Innocence until proven guilty, correct?" I huffed, getting frustrated. 

        "Yes, but that's not how it works around here. See, I'm going to have to leave soon for my next interrogation, but I know there's more to your story." He spoke, no smile on his face. 

        "You said my backstory covers everything!" I exclaimed.

        "I did—from what you told me, that is." He explained. "(Y/N) (L/N) age twenty. A spy from Westalis. Code name is Vixen. Moved from (country of origin) to Westalis for your father's promotion at six. Served for three years in the Westalis army at seven. Got recruited to be a spy at ten, then went on missions for a decade—until now, that is." He explained. "Very impressive how WISE can implant work reports in company files, but the calligraphy is wrong. We would've never found out if the store owner didn't drop dead halfway through your employment at that local bakery you speak of. The owner's daughter took over and started writing the work reports, yet your reports remained with the same handwriting from the previous owner." 

        Damn it, I really can't fix that at all. Some in the letter forgery department was lacking—or slacking—information for the bakery. I thought.

        "I don't think you understand what type of spy I am. I'm a peacemaker spy! I stop terrorist attacks, threats from Ostania and Westalis, assassination attempts for the government. Hell, I even helped stop another nuclear bomb that would've killed at least 500,000 people in Hugaria!" I shouted. 

        "So you admit to being a spy now?" he taunts me with a smile.

        "I—" I paused, realizing what I said.

        Well, no going back now.

"Yes!" I groaned. "You were right, ya happy?" I aggressively huffed.

        "I'm glad we could come to an agreement, but you know, I'm a little sad now." The man spoke with fake sadness. "I was starting to develop a soft spot for you since you were so honest... for the most part." 

        "Bite me." I rolled my eyes. 

        "We don't usually do that in our sessions." He stood up from his seat and stalking towards me.

        Torture sessions... I thought to myself, feeling a sense of dread creep up me that I tried to push down. 

        My heartbeat's rhythm became louder and irregular, it boomed in my chest and as blood rushed past my ears, hearing a slight ringing in them.

        "If you're planning on killing me, I don't think you'd find much pleasure in it. I'm trained not to give reaction to punishment, no matter how severe." I claimed, fighting the urge to wiggle in my chair for a fruitless attempt of escaping, but it'd just make me look more pathetic then I do already. 

        "I have a few tricks up my sleeves." He smiled. 

        "It doesn't matter if you kill me or not. Westalis will still prevail just like Ostania will. My death will have no meaning to Westalis' or your victory to this war." I stated. 

        "I'm aware. We weren't really looking to killing you—or locking you up in a cellar either.... even though I believe we should..." he whispered that last part to himself like I couldn't hear it.

        "This isn't gonna turn into a low-budget porno if that's what you're thinking." I deadpanned.

        "I wasn't thinking of that either; but I'm flattered." He chuckled.

        I rolled my eyes, my skin flushed yet I was thankful that he agreed with me. 

        "So what are you planning on doing with me?" I questioned.

        "Well since you're so curious, I guess I can ruin the surprise." He spoke. "You were right when you said you're a peacemaker spy. In fact, there's not enough reasons for me to even put you in jail or on death sentence since your good deeds outweigh the bad. I was told to make a deal with you for my boss. I can keep you out of the troubles of being a spy (or ending up dead) if you become an SSS agent." 

        "And if I don't accept?" I questioned.

        "Death sentence; but that's not exactly favorable, now is it?" he smiled.

        "Okay... What exactly am I doing?" I questioned, a slight distaste in my mouth. 

        "Well. It's always nice to have information on the Westalis spies. It'd also be nice for someone to listen to bugged rooms and watch interrogation videos. I could finally get the sleep I've been needing—it's hard when your coworkers are being killed off by spies or quitting." He sighed dramatically. "Oh, you'll live with a SSS agent too, supervision 24/7 so you don't try any funny business."

        "You never mentioned I'd living with someone." I huffed, crossing my legs since I couldn't cross my arms with my hands still in cuffs.

        "We have to make sure you're not getting into any trouble, remember?" he smiled triumphally.

        I'm starting to realize that I hate this guy's stupid smile.

        "Who will I stay with?" I questioned

        "Eh, who knows." He smiled, shrugging his shoulders carelessly.

        I resisted the urge to grit my teeth and come up with something sarcastic to say. Instead, I bit my tongue and dug my nails into my palms as I sighed and huffed out a "fine."

        "Good! I know we're going to get along just fine around here." His smile deepened as I resisted the urge to run away.

        He leaned down and unlocked the handcuffs on my wrists, his eyes just daring me to do something stupid and see the consequences.

        “When you say information on the Westalis spies, are you referring to me committing treason on my own job?” I questioned. “I don’t see how that’s any different from treason on the country. I’m quite confused on your views of morals and justice.” I sighed. 

        “Then let me dumb it down for you.” He sighed. “I want to make this country a better place for my sister to live in, but with scum such as yourself and the Westalis spies, it makes it harder to do so.”

        “Are you sure insulting me is going to make me want to cooperate with you? Because I don’t work in places with workplace abuse.” I deadpanned.

        “You’re a spy; it’s nothing you can’t handle.” He smiled.

        Yeah, I want to punch that damn smile off his face.

        “Follow me, we’re going to go to the Director and inform him of our contract. Stay close to me and don’t wander off. If you try anything stupid then our contract will be breached and you can say goodbye to your ‘peaceful Ostanian life.’” The man explained.

        I clicked my tongue get nodded my head, showing that I agree. We exited the interrogation room and started walking down a dim hallway. The hallway had other doors connected to it with windows and I could see other people being interrogated. Some were being yelled at, others were being either punched or tortured.

        I’m surprised I didn’t get that kind of treatment. It’s probably since I’m a woman. 

        Living in 1950 in Ostania, it hasn’t even been 40 years (32 years, to be exact) since women officially gained voting rights, and even then, we don't even have equal rights! We can't work outside of our house without our husband's permission. With the war going on now, our rights have been pushed to the side and the main focus for women now is to take care of the kids. Even with our husband's permission, it’s still rare for women to be working in "men dominated" places such as the military, police, mechanic shops, and more.

        “Take your hands out of your pocket; you look suspicious.” The man spoke. 

        “Like I don’t already look suspicious, I’m the only woman here and I’m not wearing a uniform.” I spoke, rolling my eyes. “You boss me around a lot. If you’re going to be lecturing me, at least tell me your name, sir.” 

        “That’s not an option at the moment. If you want to find out, you’re going to have to earn it.” He spoke.

        “So what do I call out when dinner’s ready?” I spoke, sassy and sarcastic at the same time.

        “Sir has been working so far.” He hummed. 

        “Whatever…” I rolled my eyes, ignoring the heat on my face as I followed him without question.

        He opened a door, at least having the human decency to hold the door open for me. I stepped aside and waited for him, ignoring the stares of the men in uniform. The man lead us to a dark oak door and stopped in front of it. He knocked on the door, then waited.

        “Enter.” A voice from behind the door called out.

        The man opened the door again, letting me walk in before closing the door behind us. A man was seated at a desk, the Ostanian flag standing next to him as I looked at the man. He was old and wearing sunglasses…indoors?

        Weirdo. I thought.

        He stood up straight and saluted, “Director.” 

        “Second-lieutenant. And this is…?” the boss spoke, waiting for the questions to be answered.

        “(Y/N) (L/N). Otherwise known as Vixen, the Spy from the West.” He spoke.

        “Ah, yes. So, you’ve agreed?” the Director questioned.

        “Yeah...” I muttered hesitantly, shoving my hands in my pockets.

        It was short-lived as the younger man next to me quickly—and roughly—smacked my arm, making me sigh and take my hands out of my pockets.

        “I see. Come sit down in front of me.” The Director invited, but I could tell it was an order.

        I bit the inside of my cheek yet obliged, crossing my legs and arms. Second-lieutenant walked over and stopped at my side, side-eyeing me as he made sure I wouldn’t do anything bad. 

        I mentally rolled my eyes and waited for the Director to speak.

        “Sign this contract here on the line.” The Director settled a heavy packet in on the desk as he flipped three pages and pointed.

        “What am I signing it for?” I questioned.

        “Just to show that you’ve agreed to our contract.” The Director smiled.

        I glared daggers at him, rudely snatching the packet from the desk, flipping back to the first page and carefully reading each line to make sure I’m not signing something I don’t agree to.

        “I don’t agree with this.” I said, pointing at a line in the packet.

        “What aren’t you agreeing with?” The younger male asked. 

        He bent down and got in my personal bubble to read the page. I rolled my eyes at his closeness, ignoring the anxiety of my heart as I moved the paper a little closer to him. 

        “I don’t agree with ‘disclosing all of the Westalis secrets, including names, locations, meet-up places, and missions.’” I spoke.

        “Hm, and why is that? Are you expecting to return?” The Director's face darkened as did the unknown male.

        “No.” I rolled my eyes for what seemed to be the billionth time.

        Maybe...

        “I’m in debt to some of the people there, so there’s some information I can’t spill.” I explained.

        “Is your life worth those secrets?” the young male spat out harshly.

        “I wouldn’t be here discussing this contract with you if it wasn’t for them.” I spat back, twice as passionate in my anger as he was with his.

        His red eyes rivaled my own as we glared daggers at each other.

        The Director chuckled and spoke: "Okay, we can cross that line out." 

        "What? We're the ones making orders here!" the second-lieutenant complained.

        "You can't expect someone to cooperate with us if they don't get any benefits. This can't be two-sided." The Director spoke. 

        "They get to live!" the second-lieutenant hissed through his teeth. 

        "She's not the only person that could die from this contract too." The Director chuckled, then rested his face on his palms. "Our contract will be built on trust and communication. We'll give you information from the Secret Police that we see fit to give you, and you give us information about WISE that you see fit to give." 

        The second-lieutenant spluttered nonsense, exaggerating hand and body motivations as he tried forming words to complain.

        "Do we have a problem, second-lieutenant?" the Director darkly spoke.

        "Ack!" the second-lieutenant jumped in the air. "N-no, sir." He muttered, looking over to side-eye me. 

        I stuck out my tongue at him, proud of my small victory (if you can even call it that). In response, he glared at me again, fire in his obnoxiously vibrant red eyes. 

        "Here, sign this." The Director spoke, grabbing a different paper. "This one is our agreement that you're under our—the SSS'—care and protection for as long as you don't break our contract." The Director pointed to a blank line. "Make sure you add your full first and last name."

        "Okay..." I muttered, writing my full legal name down on the paper. 

        "Great. Now, second-lieutenant, you write your full legal name here." The Director pointed to a line next to my name. 

        The second-lieutenant hesitantly signed the paper with no questions.

        "Great. Here's your marriage certificate." The Director spoke.

        I choked on air as the second-lieutenant screamed at the top of his lungs in distress and rage.

        "NO WAY! GIVE ME THAT PAPER!" he screamed, lunging over the desk in a fruitless attempt to grab the packet and rip it to shreds.

        "YEAH MAN! WHAT'S YOUR PROBLEM TRICKING US LIKE THAT?" I screamed. 

        "Calm down. It's a cover for you two." The Director calmly spoke.

        "COVER FOR WHAT?!" We both screamed, slamming our hands on the desk.

        "(Y/N) is still legally a spy, and you, second-lieutenant, are still a member of the Secret Police. The government doesn't know that our methods are... frowned upon. And she previously lived in Westalis, so she's already in danger from just that. If (Y/N) is exposed to be a spy to our government, we may just be able to dig her out of that hole. And by we, I mean you, second-lieutenant." The Director spoke, using the lieutenant's low rank in a harsh mannerism. 

        Of course they're frowned upon, you're forcing innocent people to admit to being spies by beating the crap outta them. I thought, resisting the urge to roll my eyes as I bit my cheek instead to keep quiet.

        "Whose gonna find out?" the second-lieutenant deadpanned.

        "Traitors." The Director sighed. "Do you think that all of the members of the SSS are really focused on keeping our country safe? For all we know, me or you could be a spy too."

        I feel attacked. I thought to myself.

        "Wait. There's spies inside of our forces?!" the younger male exclaimed, shocked.

        "Are you stupid? 'Course there are!" I spat out harshly. 

        "Shut it!" he hissed.

        "Of course there is, just like there's members of the SSS in the Westalis spies." The Director spoke.

        "What?!" I exclaimed in my own shock.

        "What are you? Stupid?" the second-lieutenant mimicked. 

        "You shut it!" I hissed back.

        "Now, now. Let's not try to kill each other just yet. We have many things to discuss about, but let's save that for later. For now, let's get the living situations settled." The Director spoke. "Second-lieutenant, follow (Y/N) to her home and help pack her things. She'll be living with you." 

        "I never consented to this marriage." The second-lieutenant deadpanned, looking at the Director, then me.

        "What wife would she be if you two didn't live together?" The Director smiled.

        The man mumbled grips under his breath, another one being "still didn't consent."

        "I have the papers right here with your signature in permeant ink." The Director smugly smiled as I chuckled in disbelief. 

        Me and this guy? We're not going to get along at all.

        "Aw, don't be too happy about it, sweetheart. To be honest, this will be my first time too." I sarcastically cooed, blushing as placing my hands on my face to add more of a dramatic effect.

        "DON'T CALL ME THAT, YOU TRAITOROUS WITCH!" he screamed loudly, pointing a finger at me. 

        "OI! DON'T CALL ME A TRAITOROUS WITCH! I'M BEING FORCED TO WORK AND LIVE WITH YOU!"I screamed back.

        "I HATE YOU, BRAT!" he screamed.

        "DON'T CALL ME BRAT EITHER, YOU MUTT!" I screamed back. 

        "You guys are acting like me and my wife already." The Director happily—and depressingly—sighed, causing me and the mutt to look at each other. 

        "The day I call him my husband is the day I get executed!" I exclaimed. 

        "The day I call her my wife is the day a nuke drops on Ostania!" the second-lieutenant exclaimed.

        "Well, then get ready you two, because that day may just come sooner than you think." The Director sighed, causing the two of us to go quiet and stare at each other hatefully.

        Parts: Current part, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten (to be continued when Spy x Family has more Yuri content!)

        Want more Yuri content? Check out the Yuri Briar Masterlist!

        Have any requests? Check my masterlist to see the characters I write for: Masterlist (Please request, I have too much free time and too little fics).

[colorisbyshe]

As a white person, I'm not the person who should like... lead the conversation on this, but I do think it's important to know that today's strike down of student loan forgiveness is JUST AS RACIST as yesterday's destruction of affirmative action.

Black and latino people take on disproportionately more debt to attend college. The cost of college and other forms of higher education is just another barrier to racial equality. To maintain that cost is to make education less accessible. And to keep people of color in debt just furthers other forms of inequality.

Striking down student loan forgiveness is to bar people of color, specifically black people and latino people, from education, from employment, and from being able to afford things like home ownership, car ownership, or whatever else debt (or bad credit scores from defaulting on debt) would make impossible.

[gatheringbones]

[“Law enforcement officers arrest victims of violence to compel their participation in prosecution because they assume that prosecution is beneficial to victims and society. Arresting victims is acceptable when victims disagree with that assessment. Police officers justify arresting victims of intimate partner violence along with their partners because they believe that arrests make victims more likely to assist in prosecution. Similarly, police arrest people who are sold for sex to determine their value as witnesses and “persuade” them to testify. As law professor Sabrina Balgamwalla has written: “Detention, interrogation, and the possibility of pressing charges all serve to compel testimony.” Or, as one law enforcement officer explained: “They did [provide information] after they got arrested when we were like, ‘Do you want to be a witness, or do you want to be a suspect? Decide.’ . . . And they became cooperative witnesses. Which is what we wanted.”

Finally, police arrest victims because they do not see the people they arrest as victims—they see them as perpetrators. Victimization, gender studies professor Julietta Hua has observed, must be legible to state actors before victims are deemed worthy of belief and protection. Like others in the legal system, law enforcement officers have a binary view of the world: there are victims and there are offenders. Officers are conditioned to look for “true,” “deserving,” or “innocent” victims (the only people worthy of assistance) and rely on stereotypes to make judgments about victimization. To be seen as a victim, a person must conform to those stereotypes. For women, that means presenting in a manner consistent with feminine norms, being helpless and passive, afraid rather than angry, and cooperative with police. The further women stray from these norms, the less credibility they have, and the more likely they are to be arrested.

Victimization is also determined by identity. Again, the further a person is from hegemonic norms centered around race, gender identity, and social class, the less likely they are to have their victimization acknowledged. Women and TGNC people of color are seen as violent, angry, and threatening. When they use violence, that violence is characterized as aggressive rather than defensive. Law enforcement officers use the physical appearances of trans women to justify suspicions about their claims of victimization, questioning why someone they perceive as male wouldn’t be able to defend themself. The operation of these norms makes victims of color, low-income victims, and TGNC victims disproportionately likely to be arrested.

Victims of intimate partner violence are arrested when they affirmatively use force, when they defensively use force, when their partners persuade police that the victim is the aggressor, and when police are unable to determine what has occurred. Laws and policies designed to protect them have increased arrests of victims. The mandatory arrest laws enacted in many jurisdictions have created the same problems for adult victims as they have for young people. When first adopted, feminist scholars cautioned that mandatory arrest policies might increase arrest rates for women. They were correct.

As chapter 1 notes, arrest rates increased across the board after jurisdictions adopted such policies, but for women (and more specifically, Black women), more than any other group, without evidence that women had suddenly become more violent. In fact, as criminologist Susan Miller has found, no one in the criminal system believed that women had suddenly become more violent. Instead, they attributed the increases in women’s arrest rates to mandatory arrest policies and the training for law enforcement tasked with implementing these policies, which stressed the importance of making arrests rather than using discretion.

The reasons women are arrested vary: because police repeatedly respond to their homes when they fail to leave violent relationships; because they damage property in response to being assaulted; because they are “overly emotional” when they talk to police and are therefore considered not credible; because their partners call police first; and because officers don’t know the history of the relationship and therefore lack context for understanding the immediate incident. What is clear, though, is the importance of unambiguously asserting one’s status as a victim, staking a claim of victimization, to avoid arrest.”]

leigh goodmark, from imperfect victims: criminalized survivors and the promises of abolition feminism, 2023

[liviawildrose]

𝐞𝐠𝐠 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐞

hey loves, let’s talk about one of my favorite energy-cleansing rituals: egg cleansing. it’s a practice rooted in ancient traditions (think mexican curanderismo, filipino spiritual beliefs, and other cultures) and is all about removing negative energy, bad vibes, or even spiritual blockages. i’m obsessed with how simple, yet powerful it is. if you’re feeling drained, stuck, or like something just isn’t right, this might be exactly what you need.

here’s a step-by-step guide to help you try it out:

ingredients

• 1 fresh egg (organic if possible—keep that energy pure!)

• a glass of water, salt, (chilly flakes and black salt)

how to perform an egg cleansing

1. set your intention:

• before starting, center yourself. light a candle, burn some incense, or say a quick prayer/affirmation like:

“i release all negativity and invite peace and clarity into my life.”

2. prepare the egg:

• rub some salt on the egg (massage the egg with salt) hold the egg in your hands and infuse it with your intention. visualize it absorbing all the bad vibes, negativity, and heavy energy that’s been lingering

3. cleanse your aura:

• starting at the crown of your head, gently roll the egg over your body. move downward head, neck, shoulders, chest, arms, stomach, legs, and finally your feet. don’t forget your back and sides if possible.

• as you do this, visualize the egg soaking up all the negativity. you can say something like:

“this egg absorbs all that does not serve me.” “this egg is absorbing all the negative energy” “i can finally start on a clean slate now”

4. crack the egg into water:

• once you’re done, carefully crack the egg into a glass of water (add some salt too in the water). be gentle; you don’t want to break the yolk right away.

• look at the egg and water for any patterns, bubbles, or shapes. these can symbolize the energy it picked up:

bubbles or spikes: negativity or tension.

cloudy whites: emotional heaviness.

cloudy water: signifies confusion, stress, or emotional overwhelm.

blood spots in the yolk: can indicate psychic attacks, curses, or unresolved trauma.

multiple bubbles in the yolk: represents people or situations contributing to your stress.

floating yolk or egg white: suggests unresolved emotions or health concerns.

a clear yolk and water: you’re in the clear, babe!

5. dispose of it properly:

• pour the chilly flakes and black salt mixture in it and flush it down the toilet or bury it far from your home. never keep the egg it’s carried away the energy you want to be free from.

pro tips for the best results

• perform this ritual during the waxing moon or full moon for heightened power.

• try doing this while in showers (naked) i did it like that

why it works/ why i did it

it’s not just about the egg. the act of intentionally focusing on your energy, visualizing negativity leaving your body, and creating sacred time for yourself is powerful af. combine that with the natural spiritual conductivity of an egg, and you’ve got a low-key yet magical ritual.

if you’ve ever tried this or plan to, let me know your experience! spiritual hygiene is just as important as physical hygiene, and rituals like this remind us to check in with ourselves.

so, yesterday something huge happened in the cosmos—pluto shifted into aquarius. if you know anything about astrology, you know this is massive energy. like, i felt it immediately. this shift brought this overwhelming urge to reinvent myself, release the old, and just become. but before stepping into this new chapter, i knew i had to cleanse myself energetically, spiritually, emotionally. i needed to clear all the stuck energy weighing me down. that’s why today, i pulled out one of my favorite rituals: the egg cleanse. it felt symbolic, like cracking open a whole new version of me. with Pluto entering Aquarius, this is the time to embrace transformation, growth, and that next-level glow up.

if you want to join me on this journey of becoming a higher self. please comment, like, reblog, and follow let's embrace the glow of together.

[tiredwitchplant]

How to Use Herbs : Rosemary

Hwello there. We have talked about rosemary and its uses in a previous post. If you haven't read it, please click here: Rosemary

Now I shall provide some spells, tonics, recipes and etc on where you can utilize it. Let us begin :)

Author's Note: From I noticed a part is usually a teaspoon. You can add more according to your needs, but I would always start with that measurement first.

Alchemist Formula for Binding:

One part benzoin gum (Saturn, binding)

One part patchouli (Saturn,binding)

One part Solomon's seal (Saturn, protective)

One part rosemary oil (Saturn, protective)

One part frankincense oil (Sun, success)

Mental Focus Magical Tea:

I part rosemary

1/2 part spearmint

1 cup of boiling water

Mix herbs in a small jar

To brew, pour 1 cup of boiling water over 1 teaspoon of the herbal blend.

Steep for 5 - 7 minute. Strain and drink.

Spells:

Remembrance for Lost Love (Heartache Healer)

6 drops of rosemary oil

3 drops of peppermint oil

1 drop of lavender oil

White candle

Add the oil to the top of the candle, one at a time, in a clockwise direction around the wick.

LIght the candle and gaze into the flame

Visualize your fond memories of the person who left your life. As you do this say, "I thank you for the time we had together, I thank you for the love we shared, I thank you for being an important part of my life. We have parted, we move on, we remember. I wish you the best life has to offer and hope you have found happiness."

Allow the candle to burn out of its own and dispose of the remaining wax away from your home or bury it in the spot you and the past partner enjoyed together.

Broom Cleansing Spell

 Use one or any combination of the following botanicals: broom, cedar,fennel, hyssop, rosemary, sage, vervain.

Arrange the botanicals and tie them to the bottom of a branch withraffia, visualizing, charging and knotting. (Any branch may be used,however an ash branch is considered particularly powerful.)

Sprinkle with salted water or any preferred purification formula.

Sweep the area.

Disassemble the broom outside, away from the cleansed space.

 Bury the components in the ground or toss them into living waters, flowing away from you.

Ghost Keep Away Spell (Boundary Line Spell)

Place three peeled cloves of garlic in a bowl, together with one handful of sea salt and one handful of fresh rosemary leaves.

Grind and mash the ingredients together.

Sprinkle them to create a boundary, as needed.

Bad Habits Bath

Add the following to a tub filled with warm water:

Essential oil of clary sage

Essential oil of frankincense

Essential oil of lavender

Essential oil of lemongrass or May Chang

Essential oil of rosemary

Enter the bath and inhale the fragrance, and accompany with affirmations and positive visualizations.

Kitchen Witch Recipes:

Super-Quick Bonus Recipe for Gwion’s Red Onion Pickle Bliss

Fills one pint-sized jar

Prep Time: 10 minutes

Cooking Time: 20 minutes, plus 30 minutes to cool in the fridge

1 medium red onion

3 tablespoons sugar

1/2 cup water

10 black peppercorns

2/3 cup white wine vinegar,

rice vinegar, or apple cider vinegar

1/4 teaspoon red pepper flakes

1 sprig rosemary

1 clove garlic, peeled and halved

Slice the onion very thinly and place it in your clean, dry jar. Set it aside.

Add the rest of the ingredients to a medium saucepan and bring to a boil until the sugar has fully dissolved. Stir carefully so you don’t break the rosemary. The sprig is in there to add flavour, and you’ll discard it before the next step.

Let the pickling mixture (the water, vinegar, and spices) cool down for about 10 minutes. Discard the sprig of rosemary and pour the remaining

ingredients into the jar of onions. Make sure all of the onions are submerged

in the picking liquid. If you have to, use a spoon to push the onions down in the jar. Seal the jar and put it in the fridge to cool. The onions are ready to eat once they are cool, about 30 minutes.

Serve them on avocado toast, burgers, salads, or just with a fork straight out of the jar. Remember to kiss your partner or partners before eating the onions out of the jar, unless they’re into pungent kisses.

Goat for a God: Roasted Goat Leg with Grape Molasses

Great for Deities: Dionysus, Pan and Thor

Serves : 6

Prep Time: 30 minutes

Cooking Time: 2 hours and 30 minutes

1 goat leg (about 3 pounds)

1/4 cup + 1 tablespoon olive oil

2 teaspoons salt

1 teaspoon cumin

2 teaspoons black pepper

4 tablespoons grape molasses

2 cloves garlic, minced

1 teaspoon coriander

2 sprigs fresh rosemary

1 cup white wine + one glass for sipping and toasting while cooking (use mead if you're cooking this for Thor)

1 bay leaf

2 large carrots, chopped into

1" chunks

1 celery root, peeled and chopped into 1" cubes

Open the bottle of white wine or mead and take a hefty drink. (This is optional but deities do like when you drink with them but they can respect if you don't partake.)

Preheat the oven to 375° F.

Liberally season the goat leg with salt and pepper.

Rub the minced garlic all over the goat leg too. If it helps, poke a few holes in the goat leg so you can get the garlic right into the meat.

Place the rosemary sprigs and bay leaf in the bottom of a large roasting pan and put the goat leg right on top. Add the carrots and celery root around the edges. Pour the olive oil all over the goat and rub it around. Coat the carrots and celery root too.

Pour the white wine around the bottom of the roasting pan.

Loosely cover with kitchen foil and put the whole pan into the oven for 2 hours.

About an hour and forty-five minutes into the cooking process, it’s time to make the glaze.

Mix the grape molasses—which is a super-condensed syrup made of grape must—in a bowl with a tablespoon of olive oil, the coriander, and the cumin. You can substitute honey for the grape molasses if for Thor.

At the two-hour mark, pull the roasting pan out of the oven and paint the goat with the grape (or honey) and spice glaze.

Pop the goat and veggies, uncovered, back into the oven for another 20 minutes or until the internal temperature reaches at least 145° F.

When you’re ready to serve this dish, scoop the veggies into a bowl (fornow) and put the goat leg on a platter. If you have access to one, get a cedar plank and serve the goat on it.

Medical Tonics and Infusions:

Infusion- An infusion is the simplest way to prepare the more delicate aerial parts of plants, especially leaves and flowers, for use as a medicine or as a revitalizing or relaxing drink. It is made in a similar way to tea, using either a single herb or a combination of herbs, and may be drunk hot or cold.

Pot Infusion

For a cup:

1 tsp (2–3 g) dried or 2 tsp (4–6 g) fresh herb (or mixture of herbs) to a cup of water

For a pot:

20 g dried herb or 30 g fresh herb (or a mixture of different herbs) to 2 cups (500 ml) of water

Warm the pot, then add the herb.

Pour in water that has just boiled, replace the lid, and infuse for 10 minutes.

Strain some of the infusion into a cup. A teaspoon of honey may be added if desired.

Storage:

Store in a covered jug in a refrigerator or cool place for up to 24 hours.

Tonic Making

Standard Quantity:

200 g dried or 300 g fresh herb chopped into small pieces to 1 quart (1 liter) alcohol—vodka of 35–40% alcohol is ideal, although rum hides the taste of bitter or unpalatable herbs

Standard Dosage:

Take 1 tsp (5 ml) 2 –3 times a day diluted in 1 tbsp plus 1 tsp (25 ml) of water or fruit juice.

Place the herb in a large, clean glass jar and pour on the alcohol, ensuring that the herb is covered. Close and label the jar.

Shake well for 1–2 minutes and store in a cool dark place for 10–14 days, shaking the jar every 1–2 days.

Set up the wine press, placing a muslin or nylon mesh bag securely inside. Pour in the mixture and collect the liquid in the jug.

Slowly close the wine press, extracting the remaining liquid from the herbs until no more drips appear. Discard the leftover herbs.

Pour the tincture into clean, dark glass bottles using a funnel. When full, stopper with a cork or screw top and label the bottles.

Storage:

Store in sterilized, dark glass bottles in a cool dark place for up to 2 years. An amber glass jar is the best option.

Sorry this post is so long @_@ But please enjoy and use wisely. Bye byes~

Sources