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#we go viral every year for our ****** ******
novelistparty · 9 months
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I dislike the let’s-deepthoughts-our-way-to-what’s-really-going-on tiktok tone, especially around personal growth or healing stuff. (and it gets passed around in every other social media silo so I see it despite not every being on tiktok) it has the same energy as the twitter “”SHOUTING ABOUT THIS THING NOBODY IS TALKING ABOUT THAT IS SUPER URGENT *next day* sorry I got the major detail behind my rant wrong but I won’t delete it”” energy
related: everyone I know wants to be on twitter/instagram/tiktok/reddit LESS, especially when there’s infini-scroll video content involved
#about ten years ago I would doom-scroll video clip subreddits when I was extra-depressed and it was a terrible time#I don't have much to say about the 'feeds' in general except that decontextualized conversation underpinned by 'the algorithm' is 💩#there's brain hazard for everyone when it's just you infini-scrolling the most 'viral' stuff even if it's on a 'healthy' topic like healing#instead of the one or two noteworthy things in your day in your own immediate world#instead you can get a firehose of all the most interesting things that happened to everyone every day#is it 'bad'? idk. But it is really different than the before short-form video days#if everything is noteworthy in a global sense then would anything in your own life have feeling???#again not a 'good' or 'bad' thing here - its a 'these things aren't just like the things before it' conversation#taking stock of something new is difficult and often disorienting and lonely#you start to see things other people will deny and refute until the day when they're yelling about them#really looking into something new brings up loneliness bc it reminds you how far apart our experiences are in some ways#but if you keep going you notice that we're all so far apart in kinda the same way and feel a lot of similar things about it all#i like to say that we all literally are special snowflakes - every one unique - but very alike because we're all snowflakes#we all have feelings like feeling alone in a crowded room#we all feel a lot of boredom and feel stuck
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unimother · 1 year
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Unmasking the Truth Behind World Hunger – Part 3!
In this final installment of our three-part series on world hunger, we're going to explore the issue of overpopulation and how it's contributing to world hunger.
companies estimate that about 120 kilogram of poultry can be produced on one hectare of land so to produce 65 million tons of protein we would need at least 541 million hectares of land even more since it's not 100 protein that saves a lot of pesticides antibiotics herbicides and many other chemicals normally needed for food production this means that 541 million hectares of potential rainforest can be saved just by the protein produced by the black silver
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inkskinned · 2 months
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yesterday while feverish i wrote about how boats can moor next to each other like pigeons, cooing with the gentle rap of water against their hull. you once said that that the way i see things - birds in the water, feathers in marina paint - was "childish and naive." you said i'd been misdiagnosed - "it can't all be adhd. you might be just kind of stupid and lazy."
i still do certain things like how you taught me - turn the pillow case inside out before putting it on. drive defensively. hate myself entirely.
the prompt for this poem is "mahler's fifth." i wish it wasn't, but mahler's fifth was our song. it ended up in my book. every person that knows your name has promised me they'll give you one swift rabbit punch, right to the face. dean read the book and showed up on my front porch, drenched in sweat from running the 8 miles at 4 in the morning. he was shaking. pacifist and gentle - he works with children - i'd never seen him furious. a punch isn't going to do it, he said, and then said i'm sorry. i had to come to see if you were okay.
mahler's fifth was mine first, like my girlhood. i like the way each movement piles onto the next movement, each instrument bleeding into the next. i like the horn version the best. before i met you, i danced to it on grass still-wet from sprinklers.
later you would tell me that the way you heard it was somehow better. you understood something in it that i couldn't quite wrap my fingers into. once, on our anniversary, you asked the classical music radio station to play it for us. we missed hearing it because we were fighting. one of the things people get wrong about abuse is that sometimes victims are, like, brutally aware of the stupidity of our situation. what do you mean that you thought i wasn't good enough for you? you? you're just... nothing.
sometimes people can pull the poetry out of your life. i watched my words become clothesline, and then thin out into kite twine. i watched you chew through every good syllable of me. so many good songs and places and moments were ruined. i am glad you didn't like most of my music - less to tie back to you.
but still mahler's fifth. the music swells, and i am 21 and throwing up in a bathroom on my birthday. a woman i will later refer to as lesbian jesus runs a cool hand down my back, her perfect pantsuit starch-pressed. she told me to leave you. she said - and this is true, and not an invention of rhyme or fantasy - i'm you from the future.
i am 22, and i got home from an award ceremony, and i remember you telling me - you act so proud of yourself when you're actually so fucking embarrassing. i took you to disney world. you took my virginity. i gave up visiting spain for a week with my family - i instead choose you, to spend the time just-cuddling. you called it "our fuck week." the music swells. it probably should have been a red flag that for about 3 years - i just gave up on crying. my grandfather died and you said nothing. my uncle died and you ghosted me for 3 weeks. you said i need to protect myself from your ongoing tragedy.
every so often i come back to the memory of one of our last afternoons in person. i had just told you that i wasn't going to law school, despite the free ride - i was going to join a creative writing program. master's in fine arts. i was going to finally do it - i was going to follow my dreams. this blog was already internet-famous. however reluctantly, i would occasionally refer to myself as a poet. i got into umass amherst's writing program for fiction authors. it is one of the the top 5 programs in the country.
wait are you seriously considering actually attending that? dumbfounded, you turned completely towards me in your seat. for the 3rd time in our relationship, you almost crashed the car. you actually want to be a writer?
the first time i went viral, it was for a poem i wrote about you:
he wants to say i love you but keeps it to goodnight because love will take some falling and she's afraid of heights.
every time i see that, i want to throw up. you weren't in love with me, you were in love with the control you had over me. a little truth though: i am afraid of heights. you caught a rabbitgirl and skinned her alive.
mahler's fifth still makes me sick.
give me that back. give me back music. give me back everything i had before you. give me back fearlessness. give me back bravery. give me back a scarless body.
give me back what you took from me.
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disteal · 6 months
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yknow it’s more than a little sad that every artists ‘hand-wringing panicking’ about what ai would do to the industry and how it would replace a lot of the already slim meat-and-potatoes jobs we rely on to survive were overwhelmingly proven true months after the technology really became widespread. It’s sad that convention space is being taken up by enormous booths full of cheap ai prints soaking up the limited space and money available at cons, it’s sad that competitions are getting flooded with ai generated pieces, it’s sad that i’ve seen a lot of ‘man. i’m just gonna go work at target, i can’t compete with this.’ from ppl who have been working in the industry for YEARS.
But it’s INFURIATING to see supposedly leftist game devs and indie ttrpg makers on here try and astroturf a PR campaign for ai to make using it for their projects more socially acceptable, and in order to do this paint artists as pearl clutching hysterics. As if anyone would blink on here if factory workers threw a brick through a window when they were being replaced by automation, but because art is never respected or treated like actual labor our industry collapsing is just kind of a big joke.
Like I saw someone compare the gay sex cats to Duchamp LIKE NO!!!! THEYRE NOT!!! The people who would get pissed off at Duchamp’s fountain are a very specific demographic!!!! Namely fascists!!! Like the implication of a statement like that is actually absurd. who is the fascist in this analogy, 25 year old nonbinary artists?? If you don’t want to pay artists to do your backgrounds for your indie game like just SAY it. (edit: additional context bc this got out of hand but I’ve looked at the blog of the person who said this and i’m walking back the salt I expressed here. It’s a nuanced take that wasn’t expressed super clearly in the post that went viral and he’s elaborated on it a lot in a way that makes me feel this was an unfair interpretation of his words. My bad)
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Hello! I love your writing. Can I request an actress y/n story of her doing the Vogue 73 questions interview and some of the questions being cute stuff about her relationship with Tom and the interviewer going viral on social media.
73 Questions with Vogue || Tom Blyth x actress!reader
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A/n: this was so fun to write, thank u for the request anon :)
Warnings: none
Wc: 606
Tom Blyth x actress!reader au masterlist
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Divider by @pommecita
You step into the grand foyer of your opulent home, adorned with exquisite art and gleaming chandeliers. Vogue’s cameras follow your every move as you prepare to answer their 73 questions. The air is charged with anticipation as fans worldwide await a glimpse into your glamorous life.
"Mind your step," you caution the interviewer, noting the subtle elevation that often catches people off guard. "Oh, thanks," he chuckles in response to your warning, and a reciprocal grin plays on your lips. The interviewer then dives in, initiating the conversation with, "What's your morning routine like?"
You flash a radiant smile, “I start my day with a strong cup of coffee and a walk with Tchai.” As you speak, you gently caress your spoodle, cozily curled up on the sofa.
"Tchai is so adorable! How long have you had him?" The interviewer questions, giving your dog an affectionate pat. "I've had Tchai since I started dating my partner Tom, it was actually his gift to me for our one year," you share with a smile, recalling the moment Tom surprised you with the dog of your dreams.
As you stroll through the expansive living room, the camera captures the elegance that surrounds you. A question about your career follows, and you share anecdotes from your latest film.
“I actually took this from the set of tbosas, it’s a photograph of my character and Coriolanus that was on Coryo’s bedside table during the first scenes,” You show the camera the photo, your grin reflecting the fond memories associated with it.
“Texting, calling, or FaceTiming?” The interviewer probes further. “FaceTiming for sure! I’m too slack most of the time to text, so I'd rather FaceTime people because then I can see their reactions,” you share, casting a glance over your shoulder as you navigate through your hallway, adorned with captivating artworks.
The interviewer then delves into a more personal inquiry, asking, “How do you handle the pressures of fame?” You take a contemplative pause, “I’ve learned to prioritize my well-being and maintain a grounded perspective. Surrounding myself with genuine people helps.”
Entering your plush home office, you take pride in showcasing the awards adorning the shelves. The conversation seamlessly transitions to your personal life, and a subtle smile graces your lips.
“Congratulations on reaching your three-year anniversary with Tom!” The interviewer beams, and you reciprocate, “Thank you!” “Could you share a bit more about your relationship with Tom?” the interviewer inquires.
Your eyes light up, “Tom is incredible. We support each other’s dreams and share a deep connection. He’s my biggest cheerleader. And I'm genuinely grateful to have someone like him in my life.”
The camera follows you into the stylish kitchen, where you casually pour a glass of water. “What’s the key to a successful relationship?” He asks. “Communication, trust, and a lot of laughter,” you reply, your tone sincere.
The resonant creak of the front door interrupts the air, and a familiar voice follows, causing an immediate and infectious smile to light up your face. “Oh, there’s Tom right now,” You chuckle setting the glass down before you make your way to the foyer, the camera effortlessly trailing your every move.
“Hi sweetheart,” Tom removes his sunglasses, drawing you close for a tender kiss before casting a warm smile at the camera. “Go, continue your interview,” He encourages, his eyes filled with affection, as you return the grin and redirect your attention to the ongoing interview.
Moving towards the sunlit terrace, you reveal breathtaking views. The interviewer probes further, "How do you maintain a work-life balance?" You chuckle, turning your gaze towards the camera, "It's a juggling act, but quality time with loved ones is non-negotiable," You point out.
As you ascend the staircase, your eyes meet Tom, engrossed in play with Tchai on the couch. A soft giggle escapes your lips, captured by the camera momentarily fixated on the fleeting connection.
"What's something people don't know about you?" You ponder on the question before replying, "I'm allergic to most flowers," You reveal as a soft chuckle leaves your lips. "Really? I wouldn't have known," The interviewer comments, surprised at you revelation.
"Oh, absolutely! During the filming of tbosas, I couldn't escape the constant sneezing, and my eyes were continuously watery, especially when shooting scenes outdoors in the district. We had to take a lot of takes with those scenes" you confess with a sheepish smile, casually walking backward while maintaining a steady gaze with the camera.
The tour continues through a luxurious walk-in closet, filled with designer attire. "Favorite fashion trend right now?" You gesture to your chic outfit, "Effortless elegance. Comfort meets style."
"What are your top artists that you listen to?" You walk over to your vinyl player, hands flickering through the vinyl records. "That's a tough once since I listen to a wide range of music. But I think I'd have to say my top three would be Olivia Rodrigo, The Neighbourhood, and the Smiths," You smile, picking out the 'Louder than bombs' vinyl and playing 'back to the old house'
"This is actually Tom and I's favourite song from the Smiths," You reveal with a grin. "You seem to have quite a collection of hats, care to share some light about the meaning behind your huge collection?" The interviewer points to a wall where about 20 cowboy hats were hung up.
"Funny story actually, these are hats that Tom and I have either taken, or were given from the set of Billy the Kid." You pick up Tom's cowboy hat, "Those who have watched the series, which you definitely should, would recognise this hat to be Billy's," You showcase the hat to the camera.
"This one I was gifted to by the director," You point to a white hat, "And these ones are from other cast members like Daniel, Alex, Ryan, and a few others," You gesture to the others.
A sudden knock at the door causes you to look at the door where Tom peaks his head around, the camera zooming onto him as he grins. "I made some iced chai's, your with oat milk" He walks in, handing you yours and one for the interviewer, "Awe, thanks babe," You gratefully smile at him.
"Yeah, thank you Tom!" The guy smiles at Tom who smiles warmly before leaving. You take a sip and let out a satisfied sigh from the cold beverage. "Mhm, this iced chai is delicious! Is this something you drink often?"
"Oh I love everything and anything chai. That's why I named my dog tchai cause I love it so much," You chuckle, "Do you usually have it with oat milk?" The interviewer asks as you hum, "I'm lactose intolerant so I drink oat milk,"
“Oh I see, I can tell Tom is very thoughtful, what’s your favourite trait that he has?” He asks a difficult question, “You can’t make me choose, I love everything about him!” You giggle.
“Okay, okay, sorry just say one that comes to mind then,” He chuckles, “hmm, I love the little things he does like putting medicine and a cup of water on my bedside table when I’m sick, buying chocolate for me when he knows I’m not having the best day, braiding my hair when I’m in my office doing work because it de-stresses me.”
“He’s the best boyfriend I could have ever asked for,” You smile like a schoolgirl thinking about him. As the interview concludes, you step into the sunlight, the epitome of success and poise.
The Vogue 73 questions interview becomes an internet sensation, captivating audiences worldwide. Your fans celebrate not just the actress but the genuine, relatable person behind the glamour.
In the days that follow, headlines laud your openness and authenticity. Your relationship with Tom Blyth becomes a the talk of the internet once again. The internet buzzes with admiration, turning the Vogue interview into a timeless moment in your career.
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leclsrc · 1 year
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has yet to pass ✴︎ cs55
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centre image by tony belobrajdic
genre: exes to lovers, slow burn, fluff, humor, slight angst, yearning, some sexual tension
word count: 12.5k
Four years after an angry breakup, the universe is bored enough to nominate Carlos Sainz for GQ Sports’ Man of the Year and assign you to be the writer of his profile.
notes... internet translated spanish lol
auds here... requested, this fic is long! i hope you all like it apologies for the inactivity </3 exes to lovers we have a very love/hate relationship but this was a pleasure to write
You’re half sure your head is about to pop out from how annoyed you are.
At the office, mornings move slowly in the very corporate-desk-job kind of way, but today is notably slower. Your boss had called you in an hour earlier to discuss important matters, and this is your third hour waiting already. Either your boss is a dumbass, or you got the wrong email, which both essentially mean the same thing anyway.
The time on your Panthère tells you you’re curving into the three-and-a-half hour territory, and right as you’re about to get up to get a glass of water, the large wooden door swings open and your name is called through the crack in it. Suddenly the irritation dissipates into nerves, and because Jonathan didn’t specify anything in the email, you realize you could be wading into anything right now. Termination. Promotion. A brick to the head.
“Morning,” you offer once the door’s been shut behind you. 
“Sorry for the wait,” he says politely. “We’ve been in discussions with GQ Sports all day. All night last night, too. It’s all proper boring.”
You nod, remaining fairly quiet and waiting for him to break the news to you. He clears his throat, places his hands on his hips and exhales.
“Right, so this is all related to GQ, actually. They’re doing a Men of Sports segment and they asked us to assign one of our writers to an athlete. You’re our best right now, really—your article turnout last year was absolutely stellar. So, there’s, ah… there’s tennis, yeah, there’s footie, obviously, and—under usual circumstances, you’d get to choose one of either. But we actually really wanted to cover racing this year.”
The cloud above your head carrying the dreams of interviewing Leo Messi or Roger Federer pops dismally.
“Racing.” You repeat curtly.
“It’s gotten proper viral this year!” He smiles, gestures to nothing to prove his point. “Every teenage girl’s got a crush or other on a driver. Anyway, we set you up with the racing category, and the segment comes out in around six months.”
“I’ve got a tiny bit of a qualm about th—”
“So it’s decided. GQ’s going to pick out the driver for you, and you’ll be introduced at a gala next week.”
“Wait—” you laugh uncomfortably. “I’m thankful for the opportunity, and wow, thank you for choosing me, really, but do I not get to pick my own driver?” You clear your throat. “I mean, I’m spinning the story.”
“I know,” he sighs. “But this deal moved pretty quick, so a majority of the leverage goes to them. Don’t worry, though—a lot of the drivers will have great stories, I’m sure. You’ve got Lewis, you’ve got the Verstappen guy, you’ve got the Rosberg fellow…”
“Rosberg retired in 2016.”
“Oh, fuck, seriously? Well. Hit me with a brick then.”
The gala is a fundraiser to celebrate the season kicking off, you realize when you step outside the car and read the navy blue banner across the entrance to the carpet. It’s all fancy fonts and table placements, but One look at the watches and earrings in this place will tell you there’s more than enough funds already. You digress, anyway, walking inside to find the only one person you’re familiar with in the world of racing.
“Lewis,” you mutter when you locate him, voice dry with dread (and lack of alcohol), “kill me now.”
“On the off chance you’re serious—I’m actually willing to do so.” You slap his arm and he scowls.
“I’m supposed to meet the driver I’m writing about tonight, but the GQ guy hasn’t texted me. Christ, I hope it’s you. At least I have years’ worth of blackmail on you to really sell the profile.”
He only laughs, guiding the both of you to a champagne tower and offering you one. You down it in seconds, suffocated by nerves and the curiosity blooming inside you. “You don’t think it’s…?”
“I think they keep track of those things,” he replies, but his voice is only half-sure. “Conflict of interest and that. But Jonathan did say it was a quick deal?” You nod. “So it’s not impossible, I suppose.”
Big help, you chirp sarcastically, eyes perusing the large room. There are tables populated by celebrities, by politicians, and of course, by drivers. You keep scanning, squinting to chisel your search further, but it’s cut off by a tap of two fingers on your shoulder. 
“Hi. I’m Nick, the GQ rep, and I believe you and I have a meeting,” says the man behind you with an excited smile. “Why don’t we…?”
He gestures to the expanse of the room and you nod, falling into step beside him. He introduces the article, the concept of shadowing the athlete to achieve a more immersive piece of work as a result, something novel and innovative.
He’s right in the middle of talking about Jonathan when he stops at one of the cocktail tables and stations the two of you there. “Okay. You’re one of the biggest names in sports journalism right now, so it means a lot for you to want to represent racing. Especially because both Neymar Jr. and Nadal expressed bids to get you to write their segments!”
“They wh—”
“Right, here we are. Meet your shadow—or, subject—for the next six-ish months.” He places two hands atop your shoulders and wheels you around, so your eyes meet those of, “…Carlos Sainz Jr.!”
Yeah. This is fucking rich. 
Nick is talking but none of it falls right on your ears. Everywhere in your mind, alarm bells ring at full volume, alerting you to the danger present, almost. You plaster on a fake smile to acknowledge his presence, but his outstretched hand goes unnoticed. Clearly picking up on the tension, Nick gives a sheepish giggle and ducks out of the exchange, leaving the two of you woefully alone.
“Carlos,” you say politely. “What a nice surprise.”
There is a limited amount of phrases that are considered acceptable to say to an estranged ex of four years. There’s oh, what a surprise!, didn’t expect to see you here, you look well. It’s limited because nobody ever thinks to run into their estranged ex of four years, and even then, any sane person would do well to avoid interaction at all costs. So you’re really the luckiest son of a bitch in the world to be situated with a stuffy public interaction, under the guise of professionalism, with your ex-boyfriend.
Your history is heavy in the air. The last time you saw each other, things had been a lot different, but now you’re two professionals. Really. You really are professional.
“I refuse to be within ten metres of the guy,” you say, on your third martini. Lewis faces you with poorly hidden concern, and beside him, roped into your lovelorn matters, so does Sebastian Vettel. “Ten metres. Actually, no. Make it twenty. How can I be arsed to write an all-over-him feature about a guy I absolutely hate and haven’t seen in four years?! I had it all sussed—get assigned to Lewis, write the best feature, then restore his eighth world title.”
“—She’s joking,” coughs Lewis.
“Oh, but now? Now, it’s get assigned to my ex, write like shit, never get recognized for a good piece, and die hungry and alone on the streets of London. You know, I should just call Jonathan and tell him I don’t want this. I’d rather go back to writing normal articles.” You pry your clutch open but a hand stops you before you can.
“Don’t.” Sebastian’s voice is gentle, but firm. “This is a test of character, don’t you think? More than that—it’s a test of how good you are as a writer.”
“True,” interjects Lewis, chewing on a quiche. “If you can write a stellar profile about an ex, I mean—you’re just proper talented. But it’s also about how strong you are now, morally. Emotionally.”
“I’m perfectly fine emotions-wise, thanks,” you retort. Both men shrug, backing off, and you feel like you should be smug about it—but your mind is stuck on the topic even as the night passes.
You end up deciding when you’re kicking your heels off in your flat a few hours later, giving Jonathan a ring despite the late hour. It takes a while for the man to pick up, but he does eventually, with an excited tone colouring his voice—“How’s my star writer? Sainz, huh? Real eye candy.”
“About that…” you start, walking over to your bookshelf and chewing your lip, trying to think of the right way to decline the offer. Your eyes land on one of the several awards you’ve garnered in your profession—in fact, the very first one. Most Promising Journalist, it reads, embedded into the front’s frosty surface. 
Four years ago. And you’ve proven it since, if the crowd of glass around it is anything to go by. Why let a petty ex destroy what could potentially be one of your biggest gigs yet? Your segue outside of sports journalism?
“Earth to—yeah, hello? About what?” Jonathan’s voice breaks you out of your thought train.
“… I just, uh,” you say, nodding, “I wanted to say I’m really excited.”
— 
Carlos Sainz Jr., 27, is on the rise as one of Formula One’s most talented drivers… (add more info…) His smooth driving style and charm has led him to become one of the most popular figures in the sport, both on and off the paddock. He is also a huge, absolutely irritating, cannot for the life of him be humble!!!, SON OF A BITCH, PRICK, ASSHOLE—AND THE BIGGEST WANKER ON PLANET EAR
“The team will be here in just a minute,” says the lady who’d ushered you into this meeting room in Maranello. You half-shut your laptop in fear she’ll catch sight of your brief Word document meltdown, but she doesn’t seem to notice, setting a glass of water beside you and you stare idly at it while waiting for the rest of the room to enter. You’re expecting Nick, Carlos, Mattia—the boss—and Charles, his teammate. Jonathan’s already beside you playing Candy Crush on his phone, as per boomer law.
This meeting is pointless. You’ve already exchanged the bare minimum pleasantries with Carlos, anyway, and you cannot for the life of you decipher why there needs to be a whole new corporate clash just for this. But here you are anyway, awaiting your ex-boyfriend’s arrival into the room and back into your sweet life.
He enters with everybody else, his hair half-damp and his eyes meeting yours almost immediately. You clear your throat and turn away, standing to shake hands with Mattia. He’s pleasant about it, expressing excitement for the final output and commending your earlier work as a writer. You offer the polite small talk back, discussing plans for the article and the release date.
“Over at GQ Sports, we’re really trying to make this concept as immersive as possible. That requires the writer to shadow the athlete at almost all times, maybe taking a couple days off if needed. That might mean she gets a paddock pass, and things like that.”
“That’s no problem,” Mattia says. “Anything for the article.”
You end up being introduced to Charles, too—Charles Leclerc, who wears a contagious smile and won’t stop letting his eyes frolic in between you and Carlos, like he can sense the history. You suspect Carlos brought him up to speed, anyway, but it’s still a bit amusing. While the meeting carries on, Charles chips in with a joke. “Hey, if you find this guy irritating, you and I are going to get along.”
You laugh a bit, but remain mostly quiet for the sake of being professional. You miss the way Carlos’ eyes linger on you a second too long, focusing on the tail-end of the meeting so you can, for lack of better word, get the fuck out of here.
Of course, though, you’re stopped in the middle of the parking lot by Carlos himself, whose apologetic face is the first thing you see when you turn around with a huff. You’d already known it was him—he was calling your name loudly as he jogged over to you—but it’s still a sour surprise.
“What?”
“Let’s”—he pauses to take a breath—“talk. Listen, I know it must be an imposition for you to write about this, about me. Let me make it clear that I’m 100% okay if you choose to switch athletes. And if you needed any background information, I’ll be willing to give you that.”
“I don’t care what you’re okay with,” you say blankly. “And I’ve got Google.”
“Right.” He stares. “Um. Okay, well, let’s—can we agree, then? To be civil, for the period of time this article will be written?”
You consider the truce. As much as you’d like to be snarky with him and make your disdain all the more clear, you’re also not interested in making a scene or causing any type of fuss around his—and your—colleagues. The glass awards on your shelf flash through your mind, and you inhale softly. “Okay.”
He smiles. This seems a bit more difficult than you thought, for reasons you didn’t even consider.
“Forget anything ever happened,” he says when your hands meet. Something jolts through you.
Yeah, you’re fucked.
Your introduction to the actual sports part of the profile goes well, with a flurry of chaos in Bahrain.
Despite Jonathan’s texted reminder from Friday morning (Stick to Sainz the whole time), you find yourself staying in your comfort zone, ergo following Lewis around nearly the entire weekend. Granted, you are itnroduced to a few more drivers—Mick, Esteban, Alex—but also Lando, one of Carlos’ closest friends on the paddock, who makes dirty jokes from the get go.
Still, even Lewis has to remind you you have another driver to actually cover, so you reluctantly detach from him on the race day and begin your search for—
“Carlos,” you utter, breathless from exhaustion when you finally locate him inside his room at the motorhome, which you swear you checked twenty minutes ago. Either he’s avoiding you or he’s truly impossible to find. He adjusts his suit and looks at you with an unreadable expression.
“Yes?”
“I need a couple of words from you.” You smile politely, taking a seat on the couch armrest. “Like, pre-race nerves, jitters, routine. Anything?”
“I have a playlist,” he says, humming. “I like to call family, have a talk with the engineers.” He says it like en-yi-neers, but you already anticipated it. You’ve known en-yi-neers for years. You know how he talks, pronounces everything. “And I say a prayer, trust the car.”
“Trust the car?” You type the last few words onto your laptop, which you’d been toting around all day. It balances on your lap. “Any follow-ups to that, considering there’s been some chatter around the car this year and its supposed faultiness?”
“I just do what I do best,” he replies, steadfast. “The rest is a gamble I’m willing to take.”
“Perfect.” You finish. “That was a great line. Thanks so much, really.” It’s your reporter voice, the one you use for just about everyone else on the paddock. He nods in response, and the room ebbs into silence again. It’s awkward, when you excuse yourself and exit, already planning exactly how you’re going to tell this to Lewis. Halfway out the door, you purse your lips, turn, and then:
“Good luck, by the way.” Your voice falls soft. 
He looks up, momentarily surprised. “Thank you.”
You nod a little, smiling as you shut the door.
Carlos ends up getting second place—you’re beside a zealous Ferrari engineer when it happens, walking along the pit lane. Compared to your stoic smile, their reaction looks like the pinnacle of human emotion. Your turmoil is all inward, a melting pot of emotion for the driver. Would it be weird, you think, to feel proud? To feel happy? When things have ended?
Much later, when you’re wrestling for comfort in the throng of cheering Ferrari engineers, you squint to find Carlos on the podium.
You’re aware there are photographers everywhere, with high-def cameras that rival your natural eyesight, even, but still you tug your phone out and snap a few shitty zoomed-in pictures of him in second place, smiling and sprayed with champagne. You think of the profile, of the words you’ll use to capture this moment, the season kickoff. But most of all you think of the way his eyes seem to search for something specific in the mass of people, or the way you wished for them to meet yours.
Sainz, a self-proclaimed music lover, loads a pre-race playlist that changes every few locations. He names some of his favorite artists and songs as sources of motivation.
You climb into the passenger seat of his Golf when you finally find him, after a half hour of asking around everywhere. First, it was “in the motorhome,” then it was “in a meeting,” then it was “hanging out with Charles”—none of which ended up being true, anyway. He doesn’t question your presence (he hasn’t much, lately), just lets his eyes wander over to you briefly before you begin asking questions.
“Favorite song?” You get straight to it, stressed over the article. Jonathan has been on your ass about missing a deadline and causing the third world war in the process, or something or other. You sigh when you settle into the seat.
“Not even a hello or a buenas noches,” he says as he pulls out of the parking lot to drive the both of you to your hotel. “What’s this for?”
“You already know,” you say, humming as you sift through notes. “Listen. You did an interview before with Toro Rosso, right? Where you said your favorite artists were Muse, Kings of Leon, and The Killers. Right?”
“What the—you are a serious stalker.” He laughs out loud, eyes still on the road ahead.
“It’s kind of my job, Carlos,” you say, smiling and gritting your teeth. “Just answer.”
“Sí, sí. Yeah, I like that genre. I like rock, I guess… rock, indie, 80’s. You’d be surprised how little of an effect music has on my pre-race routine, though, even if I have a playlist.”
“Tell me more,” you muse. Your laziness to retrieve your laptop results in you scribbling soundbites onto your notebook instead. 
“Music is an escape for me, you know? I like it a lot. So as long as something gets me going, I’m good with it. It doesn’t have to be by a favorite artist, or a famous one, or a Spanish one. Though I have been listening to Shakira a lot lately.” Obsessively listens to Shakira, you write. “It’s just release. Lately, I’ve been listening to the same few ones on loop.”
“Care to share?” Music = release. Same songs looped.
He presses something onto the centre console, and music flows throughout the car right after. “This.”
Baby I’m Yours by Arctic Monkeys, you write, and then, all at once, you slowly realize exactly what you’re writing. You stare at the scrawled-on words, the song bleeding into your ears and saturating your brain. You’ve always thought of this song with a weird feeling, one in between nostalgia and hurt, and now it’s on full blast. In Carlos’ Golf, no less, which happened to be the venue for many of your listening parties back then.
Back then—when nobody knew much of this song and it hadn’t yet become an indie anthem. It was just another cover by your favorite band in 2015. It became your song, the song for kitchen dances, the song for long car rides, the song for the red lights, the song for the morning routine.
But now it’s just a song.
“Carlos,” you say. It’s supposed to sound strict, firm, even a little angry. But you’re so affected, it leaves you quietly instead, weakly almost. “Come on.”
“Do you remember when you first showed me this song?” He responds instead, the volume still loud. You allow yourself to smile a little, leaning your head back and watching the cityscape of Bahrain whir past. In a foreign city, you think, you feel more at home than ever.
“Yeah,” you profess. “On my iPhone—what was it then? iPhone 5, or something.” You both laugh a little. The dam has broken, it seems, and topics of your past relationship seem to now be open to discussion. But it doesn’t feel alien, or weird, or uncomfortable. Carlos laughs, makes fun of your old lockscreen, and all is well.
A lot of memories have unwittingly attached themselves to this song. It’s the kind of song where, even in the opening notes, you’re already stunned with the myriad of them. There are the obvious ones: first finding the song, first dancing to it. But it trickles down into the smaller, more niche ones.
The time you got a busker in London to perform it for you both, and danced like idiots at ten-thirty in the evening, while some onlooking geriatric couple watched with mild entertainment. The time you got him a vinyl record of this EP, and left it in the cab before you were supposed to give it to him, leading to you crying on his sofa while he cuddled you and fed reassurance into your ear. The time he attempted to learn the chords to it and broke the string of your decorative guitar.
Like always, Carlos drives one-handed. He’s usually responsible, but if he’s cruising, or driving at a relatively slow pace, he likes to lean back and use his left. His right lays, unmanned, on the centre console of the Golf. You don’t notice it’s there until you finish writing a sample line on your notebook and you lower your left hand absentmindedly, brushing a finger against his in the process.
Your instinct is to jerk away, but Carlos is calm, humming to the song and reading road signs. So you let it rest there, in part to show yourself you’re capable of relaxing, but—and it feels like a heavy thing to admit—also because you like the feeling.
So your hands are there, just shy of each other, barely touching. His pointer finger twitches, almost like he’s trying to hold it back from inviting yours to wrap around it. You let yours brush over them a little bit, pulling away. Then he coughs, and lifts his hand to make a right turn, so you resume writing, eyes downcast. 
You’d spent the Saudi weekend less with Lewis (in a bid to follow his advice) and socialized a bit more with Lando and Charles, who both proved to be pleasant company. They played table tennis with you and even shared a good chunk of grid gossip.
“Pierre and Yuki have soooo done it,” whispers Charles, scandalized, sipping a G&T from a decorative polka dot straw.
“Shut up!” You clap a hand over your mouth. “I mean, I had my suspicions. But really? They’ve shagged?”
“Oh.” He pauses dumbly, scratching his head. “I meant they’ve done marijuana.”
“Damn it, Charles,” bemoans Lando. “You’re a sodding buzzkill. We’ve all done weed, this is not news. The gay sex would’ve been.”
The afternoon progresses into night, and you seem to be on a roll with the sports component—Carlos gets to P3 in Saudi Arabia. You travel to his motorhome room after the debrief, where you hope he’ll be, and find him packing shit up inside.
“Good work out there,” you say, and when he looks up he finds himself meeting your eyes in the mirror. He fumbles with the zip of his suit and you walk a little closer.
He huffs out a polite thanks, tugging on the zipper harder. The cloth’s eaten it, a problem that’s been plaguing his race suits as of late—a problem, according to his engineer, easily solvable if he’d just be more patient with tugging it downward to loosen. A problem you’re familiar with as well, from his Toro Rosso days of ranting to you about zippers and sewing.
You lean against the wall and maintain safe distance. “I’m going to ask you about the race later.”
“Alright. What specifically?” He begins the mental Spanish-English translation in advance. 
“Whatever you can give,” you reply, nonchalant. “Maybe more on the feeling while racing. The different perspectives of P3? Sort of like—yeah, you’re on the podium, but it’s not P1.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” he laughs a little, a bit embarrassed he hasn’t fully undone the zipper yet. “Um, sure. I’ll meet you outside afterward.”
“Thanks. And—” You stop yourself in your tracks, still facing him in the mirror. His eyes find yours again, eyebrows raised from the unfinished sentence. “—Be patient with the zip.”
He chuckles, memories surfacing like bubbling lava. “Right. Bueno.” He turns and throws his hands up, looks like he’s surrendering almost. “Help me out?”
You’re incredulous—it’s a highly compromising position.
But he’s not really smiling, and he seems to be seriously asking you to please help zip him up, so you nod. Nod once then twice, walking slowly over to him and placing two fingers on the zipper. You don’t notice how shaky your grip is until you see the way your hand trembles.
Slowly, you tug. Upward, then downward, then upward again, to loosen the stubborn thing. Your eyes move until they meet his, and you realize how close together you are. From here you can see the faint pink indents on his face from the balaclava, and you wonder almost how it’d feel to stroke over it with your thumb. It twitches on the zip and you remember to yank it again.
“Just give me a second,” you say, but you’re not even paying attention to the zipper.
Just him. Just the proximity. The thoughts of what if—what if you leaned closer, right now? Closed the gap, shut your eyes, let your finger trace over the shape left behind by his balaclava, zip forgotten?
“Take your time.” His voice is deep, gentle. 
His eyes pierce yours, the tension growing in between you until you can barely breathe.
You pull and finally, it gives, unzipping the whole way. You blink, breaking eye contact and stepping backwards so fast you almost trip. “I’ll be outside.” The door is shut, the noise damning behind you as you finish an entire cup of water in what you genuinely think to be record time. 
“Fine. Fifty euros.”
“Fifty?! Cheap trick. Make it two hundred.” 
“If you’re in the hundred territory, might as well make it five hundred. Turn this into a serious thing.” 
“Deal.” The Brit and the Monegasque clap their hands together in a firm handshake. “Let’s talk terms.”
Charles recites his end of the bet, as clearly as he did when this was first wagered just ten minutes ago. “She and Carlos will start dating before the article is even published.”
“They’re exes, innit?” Lando laughs. “You’re wrong, Charl-ito. They will never date, ever again. Exes don’t date.”
“Unless they’re soulmates,” he reasons.
“Psh, what do you know about soulmates?” The younger raises a condescending brow. “You dated a girl and then her best friend.”
“Back off,” insists Charles petulantly, watching Lando messily write down the evidence of their wager on a small slip of paper. For proof, he’d said, before slipping it into the back of his opaque phone case. He waves it around. “We shall see.”
“You will definitely be paying me up,” Charles says proudly. “Just you wait.”
“Care to listen to me?” You hoist yourself onto the stool of this hotel bar, ordering yourself a martini.
“Always,” says Lewis, immediately facing you. He’s always been one of the kindest, most genuine people in your life. He’s known you forever, and he’s the only person here who really knows the extent of your history with Carlos, all the layers, all the fights, all of it.
You sigh and lean against the backrest, deflated. “Carlos and I… I don’t know if this is going to work.”
“The article?”
“Being with him.” You pause to reword it. “Around him.”
“I see. Hasn’t it been, what—four years now, though?”
“Yeah, but…” But why does it feel like you both want those four years gone? The car ride with the song, the eye contact, zip situation after Saudi. You lick over your lips and sit a little straighter.
“Lew, it’s just—and you should know this—when you break up with someone, you’re forced to unlearn all the things you knew about them.” You sigh. “All the… just all of it. The habits, the quirks, the favorite words, the way they like their toast and eggs. And if you can’t, then fine, it’s still okay, because why would you ever need it again? But I haven’t forgotten anything, and now he’s back in my life.”
Lewis stares, with eyes that convey solemnity and a little sadness. He seems to understand, watching you intently, the way your eyes are glassy with unshed tears.
“So now I see him, and it feels like he’s like”—you inhale—“this sounds… bad, but like… I’m… like he’s a lover, kind of. In disguise, a little bit. I don’t know. Like, I have to pretend I know nothing about him, like every little fun fact is a new thing for the profile… but I know everything.” And what a heavy burden it is.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. 
“No, don’t be. I’m pretty sure this is all one-sided.” You take a long sip. “That’s the price to pay for ending on bad terms, I suppose.”
“Just think,” he muses out loud. “When this is all over and you’re accepting your Pulitzer, you won’t even be thinking of him one bit.”
“Right,” you say. Carlos, Carlos, Carlos. He’s the only thing on your mind. “Right.”
You find a working title for the article later. Carlos Sainz, it reads on your Word document. On racing, gracious defeat, and life’s driving forces.
Like every other sport, Formula One drivers have their share of bad competition days. Sainz recalls a time his car failed and caused him to DNF—racing vernacular for “Did Not Finish,” a damning phrase for any driver on the grid.
A double kill vibrates through Carlos.
It’s a consecutive hit that’s both professional and personal, and greatly affects the momentum of the profile you’re busy writing. In Australia he’d been reserved, eyes stormy, walking alone but not angry. He’d congratulated Charles and everything, even offered a few words for the article. The last you saw of him was with a beer, brows knitted together.
Tonight you’re in Imola. He’d been okay after the race, the usual silence that comes with a bad result.
No hard feelings, he’d said. This is the business. Hugged Danny, excused himself; nobody said anything. It’s a normal response to a shit day. You spend the post-race buzz with Lewis and Sebastian this time, but you manage to congratulate Lando on the podium finish when you catch sight of him.
“Maaate!” He cries gleefully when he sees you. “Where’s the muppet?”
“Mourning,” you drone. “Reasonably so, I guess.”
“Tough crowd,” he says, kissing his teeth. “But, yeah. Hey—shots on me!”
“Tempting offer.” You eye the bunch of tequila on the table. “But I think I’ll retire early. I need to send a draft pretty early tonight.”
“All good. Have fun being a loser,” he says, watching you leave.  
The hotel, it turns out, is not nearly as fun as the party. Which is common sense.
You spend time writing and rewriting a few paragraphs of the article, stuck on the title of it and honestly wishing you were with Cuervo and vodka right now. You suppose you don’t need one just yet—they usually come to you late, anyways. Jonathan sends you three follow-up emails regarding a draft, so you send him the latest version and read over the file, reciting favorite lines under your breath.
In the middle of reading on the Bahrain P2 and a little segment on Sainz’s favorite Ferrari moments, somebody knocks on your door.
It’s a surprise—you don’t spend much time with people on the paddock, and only few of them know your room number, which leads you to narrow down the person on the other side to a select group. There’s Lewis, most likely of them all. Charles, who you’d grown much closer to as of late. Level with him is Lando. Then maybe, just maybe, Sebastian, to offer late night advice.
It could’ve been any of them, but it’s not. It’s somebody else.
“I’m sorry.” His voice threatens to break. “I didn’t know who else I could talk to.”
“Carlos?” You blink. 
You usher him in after, and you hope his mind is anxious enough that it doesn’t pay much attention to your hideous pajama situation (old hoodie, souvenir L.A. pajama pants). You end up on your balcony, both of you facing the frigid nighttime air. It freezes your cheeks, casts your hair backwards. Your eyes slide to his stoic figure, the way even his hair is blown back by the wind.
He’s quiet, but more relaxed, less stiff. “Sorry, again.”
“S’okay.”
You duck back inside and return with two cigarettes and a lighter. “Wanna?”
“Awful habit.” But he accepts it anyway, sticking it in between his lips. It bobs as he speaks, still unlit. “I need this, though.”
“I don’t do it regularly,” you defend, pressing the flame to the cig. He exhales. “Some situations call for them.”
“This definitely does. Bit of a slap to the face, you know?” You nod. “I’m sorry.” The apology carries more weight than it should, and you know why. 
Like it’s the most difficult thing in the world, you breathe a few times before you respond in a hushed tone. With your words comes a huff of smoke. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You gave it your all, took a risk, it went to shit. But you gave it your all is what matters in the end. You put heart into it, which is something not everyone does in sports these days.”
“I feel… complimented.” You both laugh at the lack of good phrasing, so he rewords it. “I meant, I feel, how you say? Touched. It means a lot to be praised by you.”
“Does it?” Smoke again, another whiff of it.
“They only ever want to praise the podium finish, the P1, the title holder.” He lets the words fizzle. “But here you are praising a driver who finished like shit twice in a row. More people should be like you, paying thanks to the underdogs.”
It’s not the underdogs, you think. It’s just because of you. 
“More like the shit drivers,” you say instead, in a low rumbling voice. He laughs, calls you stupid in Spanish, and it’s a dead issue.
Later, before he leaves, when the room’s much darker and less bathed in moonlight, you whisper goodbye to him through a small crack in the door. He smiles a bit, and you catch it even with the lack of lighting.
“Thank you.” He says. He means it. You catch his perfume when the door swings closed. It smells like wood.
Sainz has off-grid hobbies, one of the most notable of which is cooking. He claims to have a good hold over the kitchen, and cooks several of his favorite dishes on the rare weekend off. Blah blaaahhhh, cooks well. Usually wears funky apron. WRITE THIS PROFILE ALREADY STOP EATING PASTA YOU DIPSHIT
Lando had invited you all to an Airbnb owned by a friend in Umbria, a two-ish hour drive from Imola.
With two free days, you’d followed a small group of drivers—Carlos included—to soak in the rest of Tuscany. Charles and Lando, however, left as soon as you arrived, to check out the last few hours of the farmer’s market. Alex had met Lily at the Eurostar station and they’d gone biking together.
This effectively left you and Carlos alone, which was not an unusual occurrence, but still proved to be a bit tense. With the kitchen free and the fridge stocked, Carlos suggested he cook for you both. Despite your best efforts, you ended up at the island writing and taste testing sauce, chicken, anything he slid over to you on a saucer with a tiny fork beside it.
“You’re going to give me cholesterol problems,” you quip. “This pasta is too good.”
“Cacio e pepe.” He twirls some onto a fork, straight off the pan, and shoves it into his mouth, a low mmmm leaving him once he gets to chewing. You laugh, a stifled sound through the noodles in your mouth at the exaggerated show of delicious food.
“Any favourite food you think is notable enough for the profile?” You type again, backspacing your harsh reminder. Makes a mean cacio e pepe (look up translation later). “Like, food you cook yourself, or even other recipes.”
“This,” he says, pointing to the pan. “This is fuel.”
“Amen.” Loves cacio e pepe.
“And it’s good with chicken.” He points to the oven, where he’s been baking chicken for a bit now. The kitchen smells of it, of the rosemary and oregano and pepper. “Oh, and put that I cook with music on. Let me connect my phone.”
Cooks w/ music. “Why do you need to mention that?”
“Ladies love a chef,” he says simply, letting a familiar song thrum into the woody kitchen. “And I love ladies.”
“Okay, slag.”
“Fuck off!” He begins shimmying all across the kitchen island, cranking open the oven mid-dance to check on the chicken, then continuing to clean the counter. Still he dances, and not very well, either—he always claimed singing was a stronger suit of his, so you allow the fool to be a fool.
Back when you two were still together, Carlos already had a preference for 70’s disco in the kitchen, saying it brought out the dancer in him. Nothing seems to have changed in that department, and you smile with mild embarrassment and amusement watching him dance across the kitchen, using the kitchen towel as a prop and swinging it around.
Loves dancing to The Communards while baking rosemary chicken. “Let me taste the chicken, by the way,” you ask when you finish typing, hopping off the stool and walking to the oven. He continues dancing, hips cocking poorly from side to side to the old song. He retrieves a fork and cuts a piece of chicken, reviewing its doneness briefly before turning with a piece of it stabbed into the utensil.
“Open,” he says. “It’s hot.”
It’s too natural, the way he slowly feeds you the piece. You don’t even realize it until you’re chewing, and by then he’s back to dancing to the song that’s now reaching its end. “It, uh,” you stutter, a bit nervous, “it’s really good.”
“Of course, I cooked it,” he says smugly. You grab a lime from the fruit bowl and throw it, hitting him in the back of the head in retaliation. He turns slowly, still dancing, lips stretched into a challenging smile.
Lando and Charles walk in ten minutes later to Carlos and you, yelping and chasing each other around the wide counter, chicken left atop it and forgotten in favor of the tag game. Charles, toting bags of fruit, faces Lando with a victorious expression. Pay up, he mouths, cocky.
It’s much too hot in Miami, but you appreciate the heavy beach culture and the even heavier nightlife.
You work on the profile until your fingers hurt from typing, sending Jonathan another draft for approval. Charles joins you on a cocktail taste test at the open bar until your tongue tastes like gin and your head is a bit spinny. Both Ferrari drivers end up having a shitload of pictures of you sleeping on the leather couch, enough that Lewis ends up getting ahold of them, too.
It’s a 2-3, in the end, with P1 going to Max. The latter throws a party at some place along the beach strip, invites you in one of the only conversations you’ve ever shared with the guy so far. He seems a bit unfriendly, but when you walk into the exclusive club later that night, you find him doing a handstand in front of a beer keg, so that’s that.
FUCK YEAH! Max hollers, following it with a howl so happy it reverbrates in your ears. It’s crowded everywhere, and you’re pretty sure Lewis isn’t here, so you spend a few minutes roaming around, getting a good grip on the vibe of the place.
It’s Carlos who finds you in the middle of the dance floor, nursing yet another drink to aid your lack of social skills. His voice is rough in your ear and it smells like a Jägerbomb, a low laugh escaping it right after. “All alone?”
“Unfortunately,” you tease, turning to face him. “Man, I thought guys were confident in Florida.”
“Cuidado,” he warns, smiling. “This dress is pretty difficult to resist.” His tongue’s definitely been loosened by shots, his eyes half-lidded and looking you up and down. You laugh, raising one eyebrow at the sudden flirty tone, but welcoming it nonetheless, depositing your now empty glass on whatever cocktail table is nearest. Who said you were sober? 
“Nobody’s inviting me, so why don’t you and I dance instead?”
He licks over his lips—he never seems to keep his tongue in his mouth—and winks, nodding.
And here in Miami, through the strobing purple lights of this ridiculously expensive club, you wrap your arms around his neck and dance to whatever Calvin Harris song is blaring through the bass.
His hands are all over you, loosening your stiff stature; they wring into the fabric of your obejctively too-short dress, raking it up a bit. You lean back and he leans forward, following you, drawn into you, your noses pressed together and your eyes meeting. Your breath heightens, holds, your fingers moving to his long hair and holding him close to you.
His hand moves over your ass, pulling you in. He smiles, pokes his tongue into his cheek, and you giggle, almost causing your lips to touch. Your mind is haywire from the alcohol, but you can’t really bring yourself to care. The warmth grows between you, closer and closer, the dynamic easy—
And then someone spills their drink on both your feet, causing you two to break apart and laugh off the tension instead. You’d almost fucking kissed. However you’re going to tell this to Lewis, you don’t even know.
And you’re not entirely sure, you think as you rinse whiskey and bile off the tip of your heel in the bathroom, how it sounds like to write Sainz and I almost made out in public on the GQ profile.
Nick emails you directly to ask if Carlos can do some test shoots in Miami for the profile cover.
You convince him to agree, even if he thinks he’s no good in front of a camera, and you two show up to a mostly empty warehouse studio. There’s a white backdrop situated toward the back and a tiny-sized crew of people working.
“Hi. Is this for GQ?” You ask the photographer. “Test shots?”
“Oh, hi.” He stands and shakes your hand. “I’m Luke. Big fan of your work, by the way. So the concept today is just plain shirt, long hair, gorgeous face, white background. Good?”
“Bueno,” Carlos says behind you with a smile.
You sit on a chair a few metres behind Luke while he works, watching the shots pop up on his screen every time the shutter clicks. As it turns out, Carlos is a brilliant liar, because every single shot—even one where he was fixing a wrinkle in his tee—looks perfectly usable anyway. Sainz is a natural stunner, you jot down.
It’s a bit awkward to admit you can’t help but stare, but his face is undeniably handsome, especially when he’s in front of the camera. Thankfully for you, and heavily owed to Carlos’ natural skill for modeling, the ordeal’s over in less than thirty minutes, and you begin preparing your stuff to leave.
“Oh, crap. I forgot I had to do a test bridal shoot for R&B’s wedding anniversary in September.” Luke sighs, clicking through the photos rapidly.
“R&B. The… music genre?” You ask, confused and toting your bag on your shoulder.
“Silly! Ryan and Blake. As in, Reynolds and Lively? They plan their photoshoots way in advance, and they always need sample poses to choose from.”
“Oh, I get it.” You smile. “Well, we’re sorry for keeping you.”
“You”—he stops both you and Carlos, pacing in front—“you two wouldn’t… mind, would you?”
“Mind… mind what, now?” Your eyes flit toward Carlos’ and you both laugh nervously.
“Being my mannequins for the bridal shoot!”
Both of you balk, making up all kinds of excuses, but as fate would have it, Luke is very convincing and you’re against the backdrop after five minutes of persuasion. He directs you into different silly, quirky poses—a piggyback ride both ways, smiling goofily, the like. Carlos can’t stop laughing every time the shutter clicks, at how silly the two of you must look. 
Luke plays some music to get you both looser, and directs you into a few mocking dance poses. Then he directs you in a partners-in-crime pose, which you love the outcome of. Okay, last one, newlyweds, he says. Carlos, why don’t you get behind her and wrap your arms around her waist?
You clear your throat, letting him do so anyway, his hands big around your frame. “Careful,” you whisper when he’s right behind you. Luke raises an inquisitive brow behind the camera, watches your chemistry unfold through the viewfinder. Your breath hitches a little, but you swallow the nerves.
Look into his eyes, Luke says. So you do, meet them, force yourself not to look away for once and just stare. It’d been easy to do this, because you could just as easily break the stare, but now it’s different. Your eyes flutter, and his stay unblinking. 
It’s like that for a minute, just staring, like all the things you want to say can communicate themselves through eye contact alone. Another twenty seconds pass before Luke coughs, breaking the moment.
“I said we were good like a minute ago, guys,” he says knowingly, packing up with a smirk.
Lewis advises you to avert your pent up “romantic” tension to another boy. It’s difficult, but you challenge yourself to find somebody anyway, maybe outside of racing, to use your extra paddock pass (courtesy of Mattia) on. The guys in your DMs are all skeevy, or you’ve unfortunately ghosted them, so they’re all out.
After some searching, you end up using your extra pass in Spain, and for James, a Sky Sports sound editor for streamed football games. He’s British and a huge Tottenham fan who you met during drinks with a few reporters the month prior. Not bad, but not necessarily your type; at this point, though, you’ll take anybody above the bare minimum. And James is above it—a gentleman, kind, funny in the quaint English way. He could be taller, but you find him charming enough.
Noise flows through the paddock, chatter and cheering and interviews. “This is so cool,” says James animatedly. “I feel like a regular Schumacher.”
You give a phony, flirty laugh and enter the Ferrari hospitality, raking your hair backwards. “I’m going to get something real quick, okay? Stay put…” You point at a lone chair. “Over there.”
“Alright,” he says with a smile. “I can’t roam arou—?”
“No!” You say, a tad too quickly. “I mean, sorry. Don’t. Just. I’ll be back really quickly.” Before you can even retrieve your phone charger from Carlos’ room, the owner himself walks into the area, squirting water into his mouth and furrowing his eyebrows together when he sees you standing beside a stranger.
“Hi,” Carlos says, a bit bluntly. His eyes are darting everywhere but at you, lingering a bit too distastefully on James’ timid figure. “You are?”
“Her date,” James says with a nervous laugh, pointing a thumb towards you. “James. Huge fan of you. Of the team.”
“Sure.” He offers a tight-lipped smile, hand meeting James’ outstretched one to form a polite handshake.
It’s awkward, is what it is—awkward and stuffy and Carlos won’t look at you. He clenches his jaw a little, smiles, looks up and down. “You, uh… how long have you guys been…?” He waves a finger in between the both of you, almost fearfully, like the answer will cast him into ashes.
“Not—not long, really.” James laughs again to relieve the tension that seeps across the room. “A month?”
“A month?” Carlos repeats, arms crossed.
“We haven’t even, like, had se—”
“That’s—” you cut in, sharp and apologetic, “wow, that’s plenty. Thanks, James. Could you get us some drinks? I’ll have a beer.”
“It’s one-thirty,” he says.
“Yeah,” you respond. “A beer.”
He leaves you both alone sheepishly, and you turn to face Carlos’ intense expression.
His arms are crossed and he rakes a hand through his hair—but he doesn’t say anything. Why should he, anyway, he thinks to himself, staring at you. You wore your hair in a ponytail today, so he sees more of your pretty face. Oh and so does James. Pendejo.
“Are you okay?” You ask, even if he knows you know what’s up.
“Totally. Muy bien.” He shrugs, drinking water again. “Should I not be?”
“Never said that,” you say, raising both eyebrows. 
“Okay. Well enjoy the beer.”
So he’s jealous. Fine, sue him. He’s jealous of the British gangly guy you thought was good enough to invite onto the paddock. Barely even made a lasting impression. He gives a small, phony smile and walks back, meeting Charles along the way.
“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost, mate,” says the younger, slinging an arm over his shoulder. “Maybe the ghost of James?” He flicks the guy’s forehead, laughing.
P4, it ends up being. Not nearly good enough. But James is the first to say, “Congratulations, hombre!” in a God awful accent, so it becomes ten times worse, really.
“Alright guys, Carlos and I here today with some members of our team, and we’re going to play some fun trivia games.” Charles’ eyes read from the signboard behind the camera, his amusement wholly unscripted as he looks from you to Andrea and back to Carlos.
You honestly don’t know why you agreed to this. It might have been Lewis’ gentle persuasion or your boss’ overenthusiastic persistent voice, or the sleepiness that’s been wearing you down and boggling your mind lately, or—and it’s probably this—the fact that James ghosted you after Spain, because you “clearly have a thing with Sainz, and I don’t wanna be a homewrecker.” Whatever it is, you’re apparently a guest on the C² Challenge segment. 
Today is a trivia game against Charles and Andrea, and you’ve all been given a general guide to what the questions entail—math, music, general knowledge, and one scripted Ferrari question at the end. The structure is fairly basic; each team member gets to answer one at a time, both contributing to overall points—and no coaching allowed, for some odd reason.
Charles is a little shit, so he’s made an off-camera bet: loser should treat winner to a round of shots at the next afterparty/get-together. And—who are you kidding, really—Carlos is also a little shit, so he’s game for the bet and has fired you both up to win, spouting Ferrari trivia in your ear should it come up.
“I got it,” you say snappily when he hasn’t stopped pestering you for five straight minutes. “I got it.”
“Oh, did you got it?” He asks sassily. “Okay. When did Ferra—”
“We’re starting in three,” says the cameraman in Spanish, Italian, then finally English.
He holds three fingers up and you hug your tiny dry erase board closer to your torso, readying your camera smile. The video—and the game—start off well enough, a quickfire competition developing between the two teams that infects you and Andrea quickly. 
“Stay calm and collected,” Carlos proclaims, lips stretched into a proud smile. “Our team motto.” He elbows your side and you roll your eyes with a smile, teasing. 
“I think it’s, ah, always—always cheat, mate,” Charles protests, pointing an accusatory finger. 
“You are soooo—tch, I propose we kick Charles for poor sportsmanship,” retorts your teammate, laughing. The force of his laughter shakes the stool he sits on and you bite back a smile, remaining relatively quiet like you’ve been since the start of the video.
The remainder of the game passes with Carlos and Charles neck and neck, you and Andrea working overtime to make sure your teams don’t lose the bet. Eventually it boils down to one question, which Carlos is in charge of answering. Behind the camera, the producer raises a signboard and reads it out: We all know C². What is eight squared?
What a relief, you think. They’ve basically handed the win to you and Carlos on a silver platter. You wait, bumbling in your seat and raising an L sign toward Charles, who sticks his tongue out in response. Excitedly, you watch Carlos cheer for himself and finish writing, turning the board inch by inch until you all see the answer he has written on it.
Everyone stares. Then: “Team Charles wins!”
“Que?!” Carlos blinks, scandalized and a bit amused. He stares at the question then at his answer then, as if dreading the laser eyes, at you. Your eyes narrow, disappointed.
“Carlos. What is eight squared?”
“Eight squared. Eight, and you take another eight, and—it’s right here.” A tan finger points firmly at the number written messily, square in the middle of the whiteboard.
16
“Eres un tonto,” you quip, remembering bits of teasing you’d used on him years before. “Carlos, it’s 64. Eight times eight, not eight times two.”
“Ay, puta—” He shuts his eyes and laughs. “Lo siento! Sorry, sorry. Sorry! I cost us the win.”
Across you, Charles is coaxing a much more begrudged Andrea into a childish victory dance, pulling his arms up and down to convey the joy of winning. You sigh exasperatedly, but smile . For what it was worth, you had a great game anyway. The noise grows, and you watch the producers pack up, the cameraman parting from the camera for a moment to converse with one of them.
Left alone with you for a bit, Carlos lets his voice slip into a quieter one. “Sorry again. I forgot.”
“Forgot?” Your brows furrow, confused. “What?”
“That, you know”—he points at the lonely 16 on the whiteboard he holds—“it’s supposed to be 64.”
 “Oh.” You laugh, a light sound. “Whaaat?! It’s not that deep, Carlos. Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was all fun.”
“Well, I’m glad you had fun,” he says softly, smiling.
“Yeah, me too,” you say, unable to hide your smile. You stay like that for a bit, something blooming in the pit of your stomach you can’t—and refuse to—name.
You get two days off, and Charles had suggested you all go to Paris before you go to Cannes, where the Ferrari team is apparently expected for a meeting before Monaco. You’re the one who’d said yes first, even if Carlos seemed to hesitate; he had asked why, to which you responded you’d never been before.
You’d read about it, watched about it, and like every other human on Earth, seen pictures of it. But you’d never been to Paris; work placed you mostly in London, sometimes South America, other times Italy. But Paris was never a destination. So Carlos allowed the greenlight and you flew, with Lando, Pierre, and Esteban tagging along for shits and giggles.
“I’ve waited my whole life for my Eiffel Tower moment,” you say, not even trying to hide your wonder. Carlos got the best room for himself, but invited you in, for the view. He doesn’t tell you he went through hell and back to get precisely this room, so you could peek inside and see the tower.
“Well, you’re here now.” He wedges the hotel balcony door open and walks toward the railing. You follow suit, arms crossed over your torso, eyes stuck on the view. “How is it?”
“It’s as beautiful as I imagined it to be,” you confess honestly, eyes still stuck on the tower, the way it stands alone and glittering against the black of night. Cliché as it is, you feel like you’ve checked one huge box off your bucket list, staring at the landmark like it’s going to evaporate into thin air. 
Beside you, Carlos hums in agreement, but his gaze is stuck on something else. “I know.”
“Oh, do you?” You laugh. “Are you in the business of admiring beautiful things?” You tease, looking up at the stars.
Sensing his eyes on you, you slowly avert your gaze until your eyes meet. The light reflects in his eyes, and they meet yours blindingly, beautiful, luring you closer. The joking tone of your words is caught in your throat, desert dry, your lips parted to spout words you’ve now forgotten, lost track of.
Your silhouettes dance against the lights of the city below, two figures admiring the other. His eyes flicker down to your lips, linger there a second too long. You stumble closer, your foot touching his.  “…Paris.” The words struggle to leave but they do, quietly, an admission of guilt. “It’s always reminded me of you.”
 “Not Spain?” He asks, leveling your volume. You’re closer, so close you feel his breath fan soft against your own face. His voice is deep, accented so thickly, the way it is when he talks with you because he falls into a familiar rhythm of knowing you’ll decipher whatever he has to say.
You giggle, a low, breathy sound. A barely there shake of your head. “I… love it so much, is why. Always have.”
Had there been a pedestrian across the street who looked just a few floors upward, they would’ve found the both of you there, smiling foolishly, blanketed by the night sparkles of the Eiffel Tower and the rest of the city. They would’ve seen the way Carlos leaned in, his eyes on yours and then on your lips, the way you nodded in silent, warm invitation. Come closer, you seem to say. Don’t stray any further.
A lock of your hair touches his jaw, from how close you two are. So close. Everything smells like him, like the musky woody perfume he wears, the detergent he uses. All of that, and everything underneath. The scent of him. Just him. 
You hold your breath when you both lean in, eyes fluttering shut and waiting, waiting for his lips to meet yours.
The door shakes with several knocks, Lando’s voice seeping from the other side of it. “Mate, we’re gonna be late for dinner!” He says boredly, letting his fist collide with it a few more times for good measure.
Instantly, you and Carlos separate, both of you clearing your throats, rushed flimsy excuses escaping your mouths at the same time. You’re warm all over, the excitement, the nerves, tapering off into nothing as you walk back inside the room, busying yourselves with anything. Oh, I need to check if Jonathan’s emailed me. Oh, let me go answer the door.
Lando is waiting, expectant, on the other side when Carlos pries the door open. “Mate! Dinner! I texted you like twenty minutes ago and y—oh.” He spots you sitting at one of the lounge chairs in the room, and immediately his brows raise. “Hey, dude. You’re here?”
“Yeah, to, uh—to get Carlos to OK some edits,” you say with a smile, hoping your nonchalance isn’t too shaky. “I needed to get a draft in by three hours ago, so.”
“Oh. Right, obviously.” His eyes narrow a little, but he doesn’t relax much, gaze suspicious and a bit beguiled. “Well, if you’re not busy, we’re having dinner?”
“I’m good,” you decline, a touch too quickly. “It’s getting late.”
“Alright, well it was a courtesy invite, you dipshit,” Lando teases, and everything feels a bit more normal. You just flip him off, and Carlos retrieves his coat, eyes still not meeting yours when you all exit at the same time. Lando makes up for the hole in the conversation, droning on and on about the restaurant they’re going to, and how good it seems to be.
The elevator ride is equally charged, and you spend it humming and interjecting Lando’s words to come across as unfazed, even if you’re so totally not. Once you’re alone you finally let big exhales leave you. You don’t know if it’s from the anxiety of almost being caught, or the anxiety from the kiss unfinished.
LOVE the latest draft, Nick & I both. Could we get a deeper angle? Something re: regrets? Would really tie it together! Best, J
“Huh. Do you have any regrets?” You ask, tearing your eyes away from the short email. Next to you, Carlos nods his head slowly. You’re on the beach in Cannes, taking time off before the meeting and people-watching. Charles had joined you for a good half hour before leaving to sleep in the hotel instead, leaving you two to bask in the now setting sun.
“Everyone does, no?” He stretches a bit. The topic is tense. “But yes, I have some specific ones.”
“Like?” You ask weakly.
“I was stupid when I was younger. More immature, more forgetful. You grow older and you think of all the things you could’ve done right, years too late. There’s a proverb I heard once that goes—camarón que se duerme se lo lleva la corriente. It means to—to stay alert. Don’t let things pass you by.”
“And do you think you followed that advice?”
His eyes meet yours. “Do you?”
It’s quiet when Carlos walks inside your flat, and already his heart begins to drain, filling with guilt.
He steps over the creaky floorboard, notices your car keys on the table, your jacket haphazardly slung over the rack, your Chanel bag half-open on the dinner table beside an empty wine glass and a sweaty bottle of Cheval Blanc. The bedroom door’s half-open, light bleeding into the dark rest-of-the-place, and when he gently pushes the door to get in, the sight he faces is crushing.
“…Estás bien?”
You face the window, your back to him, in a beautiful, beautiful black dress. Your hair had been up, but it’s unpinned now, falling in loose, messy waves. You hiccup, and then tense. Feigning nonchalance, you croak out, “Yeah, yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” he says honestly. “I didn’t know the thing was earlier.” His eyes hover to the glass award on the bed, one you’d hoped he would watch you receive tonight.
“I said I’m fine,” you say. “Just”—you sniffle—“it’s fine, Carlos, just get out.”
You’re standoffish, and cold, but Carlos knows you’re incredibly hurt. In an attempt to try and coerce a conversation, he stays. “Let’s have dinner tomorrow,” he suggests in a low voice. “On me. Right? To celebrate.”
“Leave me alone, Carlos.”
“I wanted to go,” he insists. “I had a meeting that ended late, and—”
“It doesn’t fucking matter,” you assert, turning. You’ve clearly been crying hard, your face flushed and shiny, a few rogue tears still on your chin. “Just go.”
“I know how much this mattered to you.”
“And yet you didn’t go.” You sniff, wiping fruitlessly at your face. “Carlos, just…” Your voice sounds thin, heartbroken, worn with pain and real tiredness. 
“Cut me some slack.” Carlos argues softly.
“No, I just… I don’t even know how things got to this point, Carlos. We used to be so much happier. But now, it’s like I have to demand for your time like everyone else does. Now, I—I cook, I plan dinner, I put my own career on the back burner so I can spend more time with you even if I’ve gotten calls, promotions that you don’t even ever… ever ask about, just everything. I don’t think… I don’t feel you love me that way. Care for me, that way. You’ve never shown it, not lately especially.”
“You should’ve told me,” he says, hurt.
“This kind of thing, it…” you shake your head, wiping your clammy hands on the black silk. “It doesn’t need to be said.”
“Let me make it up to you.” He steps closer but you’re quicker, almost stumbling in your rush to avoid him.
“No,” you protest, “just go, Carlos, just go. Get out and close the door.”
“Cariño—”
“Go,” you say, voice hard with contempt. You refuse to meet his pleading eyes. “Go, Carlos.”
So he does.
He passes by, again, your handbag, with the sleek travel-sized bottle of Santal 33 you keep with you always peeking out, and the Cheval Blanc he’d bought you a few months prior, and the jacket you’d bought with his approval almost a year ago. He lingers in his car for a minute, the rain pelting the Golf noisily. 
He drives off, wiping tears from his own face.
And maybe, had he stayed a little longer, he would’ve seen you tearfully emerge from the elevator, into the lobby, then out into the rain, still in your black dress, and let yourself get soaked waiting for him to come back, refusing to believe he’d even let himself leave you so broken.
You play Uno to pass the time, your last night in Cannes.
He’s won two games in a row at this point, and you’re almost 100% sure he has a plus four card in his hand, so you play a bit more deliberately, eyeing him with a challenging glint in your eyes. You’re a bit watered down by your earlier conversation, but you feign nonchalance anyway.
Blue 2. Blue 5. Green 5. Then finally, he slaps it onto the deck—a plus four card. “Oh, come on, Carlos,” you say, almost actually irritated.
“I’ll kiss it better,” he says. Suddenly overwhelmed, you push yourself off the counter and storm out.
He follows you, stumbling into the empty balcony and softly shutting the door, voice still colored with laughter. “I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d be so upset about the—”
You barely hear the rest of his clearly half-hearted, humorous apology. It doesn’t matter to you.
What does matter is everything from the years past crashing on your shoulders like debris, like rain, finally giving under the weight of being so close to him again. Everything. The tangled fog of your relationship, the start, the middle, the terrible end neither of you wanted. You pulsed with want, with yearning, with sadness.
So you ask yourself why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he have come back? More importantly—why did he let you go so easily?
The truth is, you’ve drowned yourself in work so long you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel, to be felt. And if Carlos is doing this, all this, all the touching and the tension and the debris and the rain that crash on you like a bruising, torrential storm, for his own pleasure, like this is all a game, then you’ve yearned for nothing.
“This isn’t about the game, Carlos!” It heaves itself out of you in a half-sob, carried by the wind.
He stops—stops walking, stops smiling. Just stops and stares, brows knitted with concern. You refuse to look at him, staring instead at the skyline, arms crossed. The view blurs with tears, lights meshing together prettily.
He stutters your name out in a feeble response. It’s mortifying, the way you start to cry when it leaves his mouth.
You turn then, willing your lips to stop quivering. “Good for you,” you say shakily, “you can—you can fool around, kiss me like it’s nothing, pretend like we never even mattered so you can make jokes about how we’ve ended up here again, back, together.” You inhale, but it’s no use; you’re crying even as you speak. “And I’ll laugh, because it can be funny, you know, fuck it. But… I’m so—”
The wanting shows, in moments like this. Wanting love, wanting comfort, wanting warmth, an escape from work and stress and life. You know how it feels, to be loved. You’d been familiar with it, at some point. You want it again, the ache, the kiss, the pain of it all. More than that, you want him. For just a moment. But all this wanting is so exhausting.
You want this profile to be over. You want to pull him close and tell him how proud you are, but also how hurt you are. You want Spain. You miss Paris. Everything, everything, every memory, every single painful loving thing bursts inside you.
“—tired.” You nod your head, licking tears that have perched on your lip, smiling humorlessly, shrugging. “I’m—I’m tired, and lonely, and being around you makes it worse. Being around you hurts me. It hurts you. This profile was a bad idea, and I should’ve trashed this the moment I learned I’d be covering you. Because I knew then it would’ve turned to shit, and I was right.”
He stares, unmoving. He remembers, too. He’d tell you everything if the words clicked just right. But they never do; they tangle like cotton balls in his throat before he can kneel and name everything he remembers, everything he loved about the two of you. Cariño. Just be mine, tell me everything, tell me you love me.
You wipe a hand over your face. “Let’s just let this go already. You know, we really were good for a while. This… this is maybe just one of those things where we made it in another life, but not this one.”
At his returned silence, you nod, then walk quietly past him and back into the room.
It’s just as empty as you’d left it, dim and lit only by the warm light above the kitchen counter. Your forgotten Uno game lies on the same spot, beside the two empty wine glasses. You stare for a second. Life had been different when he’d lay down his cards just minutes ago.
A coat is tugged from in between couch cushions, your heels from by the door hastily pulled on. Every movement feels heavy, like sandbags are tied to your limbs, your tongue, your eyelids. You turn, one last time, to see the moment suspended in time—and you meet his eyes. Even across the room you feel like you’re drowning in them, dark and solemn. 
“Wait,” he says, and even with just one syllable he’s managed to stop your world from turning again. “You’re right. Everything you said. When I’m around you, I hurt. I’m reminded of how awful I was then. It’s painful to be together.”
Eyes meet, eyes blink, eyes close.
“But you didn’t trash the feature. And I still enjoy your company. You could be covering Rafael Nadal or whoever right now. I could be in a jet to Japan. But you and I are here, are we not?”
Only you. It’s only you.
“I’ve missed you.” It rips through him. “I want to be here with you. I want to make the pain go away, so let me.”
“It’s useless,” you protest, tearily. “This won’t work. I’ll get mad, you’ll get fed up, I’ll get bored, you’ll put work before us.”
“Okay.” He paces toward you, nearer and nearer, closing the distance between you both. “I’ll make it work.”
“Carlos,” you weep, “I don’t know why you don’t get it. Life sucks. And all we get are little moments where things are… are good. So don’t waste the moments like this. Let’s not waste the moments on this.”
“You’re not a waste,” he says—and you crumple into his arms, worn, exhausted.
A knot in your heart is slowly unraveling itself. You’ve waited, yearned for so long, and finally you’re in his arms again, with the kind of quiet resolution only he would understand. You left the lights on for him. You’d do it again, but you don’t have to.
You bury your head in his chest, a chorus of apologies leaving him. I’m sorry, he says. I’m sorry, I love you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Everything.
I love you, you say weakly. I love you, that’s enough. I waited for this to leave, but all it did was hide. The love has yet to pass. It never will.
“Yours really is the best selling one!” Nick pulls you in for a hug. “We have Nadal and CR7 on the roster, but Sainz’s is selling like crazy. Your writing is just—” He kisses his fingers. “You are amazing.”
“You flatter me,” you reply gracefully, letting him pull you into another embrace but prying him off a bit faster. You don’t need another Jonathan-esque freakout in the middle of the room.
The GQ party, six months later, almost a mirror of the fundraiser just a few months ago. Only this time, you’re not tacked onto Lewis, and you’re not buzzing with nerves (as much). You had run into Lewis when you entered, and Charles too, and Lando when he spotted you, but none of them are your plus ones to this event.
Your profile is the talk of the journalism scene. Nobody can shut up about it, and it thrills you, excites you, to be witnessing your work be recognized beside Carlos himself. He brings you a glass of champagne and presses a kiss to your cheekbone, smiling against it.
Neither of you notice Lando and Charles behind you, watching like hawks. The elder cackles, presents his hand like a sacrifice and turns to the Brit. “Aha.What did I tell you, chat?”
“Five hundred euros,” moans Lando, slapping a bunch of bills onto it. “You’re an intuitive prick.”
“Those two are soulmates.” They stare at your foolish figures, smiling like idiots, high-fiving even. “The kind that’ll always, always find their way back to each other. Always.”
Lando shrugs. “Hey, honestly, for once, I’m glad I lost a bet.”
“I look great on the cover,” Carlos says, both of you staring at the screen’s display of it. 
“Shut up,” you smile, interlocking your fingers. “Well, my writing looks great inside.”
“Really does,” he says. “I’m so, so proud of you, cariño.”
“Proud of me?” You tease, staring up at him. “You made the last minute title change that caused fans to go crazy.” You both turn to stare at it displayed on the screen, smiling fondly.
Carlos Sainz—on racing, gracious defeat, and refinding love.
2K notes · View notes
natwritesf1 · 5 months
Text
Lavender Haze (Charles x FemReader) 
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Summary: Being famous and in love could be hard to manage, but she was lucky enough to find someone that could handle the distance and scrutiny beautifully, simply by showing up. (Famous Reader)
Word Count: 2.7K
Warnings: Just Fluff!!!
a/n: This is a request! thank you so much and I hope that you enjoy it  💟. Also this is a Taylor Swift song and from my interpretation the song is about dealing with what people say about you or believe to be true, to just ignoring it to protect the real experiences away from their expectations. The title will make sense as the story goes on. Also TS is not the face claim…
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She remembers how beautiful it felt meeting someone that understood her, at first everything was a haze with him. It was unclear and blurry based on the fast pace that it was going, then everything just fell into place, they were in love and they wanted to stay there. 
However people would constantly get in the way of what they believed to be real, they put certain expectations on her and that led her to hide her relationship. Dating Charles was breathtaking and simply a bliss of wonderful beauty and intimacy that she had never achieved before.
People knew that she had met someone who was making her happy, the sudden change in her melancholic tone to the now upbeat and dreamy tone that was her new album. She loved him and she had done so for three years without anyone knowing. 
It was private and when they were finally exposed she couldn’t handle the exposure and expectations, talking about marriage and babies when all she wanted was to be his, it didn’t matter being his wife or the mother of his children.
She was confused on what she wanted versus what others wanted for her until he just stopped her and reassured her that as long as they knew what they wanted and how they loved no one would get in the way. 
“We shouldn’t give a shit about what these people say, we know our relationship, only us, that is something that they can’t take away or even come close to touching, I won’t let them. I will protect our world by just loving each other, do you understand?” 
“Yes baby, but you’ve been under scrutiny which means that you can handle the spotlight like a pro, I’m simply not strong enough for invasive questions and nasty rumors, you’re not even listening to them because you’ve learned to ignore them and I can’t because it’s new to me” he was able to pull her into his arms and only there she felt safe.
“I know baby but eventually you will grab my hand and look forward, avoiding every single comment because if you look ahead you will only see us. I will be with you reassuring you even if our love goes viral I don’t care. Let’s show each other off, I’m with one of the best singers in the world and you’re with a pretty great driver so if we should be anything, we should be proud of what we’ve achieved”  with a sweet kiss all her insecurities were erased and eventually everything he said happened, with her head held high she continued loving him away from expectations, but:
Why wasn’t he in her concerts?
Why wasn’t she in his race?
How come they aren’t seen in their favorite cafe?
All those questions could be simply answered, distance. They weren’t willingly separated but their busy schedules kept them away from each other. She had her first ever world tour to worry about rather than the small venues she would sing at, and well he had to constantly race all over the world as well. 
They couldn’t be happily and dizzy in love at Monaco, in their home because they had jobs to be done. They did miss each other, but different time zones and packed meetings couldn't be avoided.
That’s why people couldn’t help but wonder if they were still together. However the way she would sing her songs on the piano with so much emotion and love, left them well rested because after all, she was still in love with Charles Leclerc. 
“Baby, Can you help?”
“Yeah amour, with what?” He approached her figure that was sitting very stressed out on their piano bench. 
“Come up with a random tune, I’ve written this song about you and I can’t help but feel that it’s missing something”
“What’s it missing?” His scrunched up nose was cute enough to make her melt into his shoulder. 
“A part of you…” the smile that broke his face was so bright, his beautiful dimples and teary eyes made her know that he was happy to be included. “…Imagine your name being part of this song, that you helped me find the best tune for it” 
“Well I’ll be happy to be a part of this wonderful song, but how come I still haven’t seen the lyrics?”
“It’s a surprise…so just put to work those beautiful fingers and the rest leave it up to me”  with a kiss on his cheek she walked away ready to write about her love for him, after all she had found the title ‘A Part of You’. 
He was the first to listen to her album and the last track was his beautiful work on the piano beginning with her beautiful laugh mixed with his. “…A part of you that will always be mine…” that’s how the song ended talking about how his love belonged to her and now his tune surrounded with her words would forever be hers. 
A creation that sparked thousands of different reactions and interpretations of her words. She by no means was claiming him, but she for sure was claiming their love, what he was willing to give her would always be hers including his creations on the piano, his kisses, hugs, protection and happiness everything was hers and of course everything was returned to him.
Everyone could see that their love was alive even if she refused to give much away from their relationship. “A Part of You” , the song that no one had heard live before because it was that special to her, was something that she also refused to give away. 
It was their anniversary three years together and she couldn’t see him. One day before his home race while she was in New York on a sold out show. 
“Happy three years together my love, thank you for the best years of my life, you’re everything to me and I wish I could be with you wiping those tears away but just know that as soon as the race is over I will be right there ok?”
“I just can’t help but miss you, I would do anything to have you here, but please make sure to watch the live stream” A free live stream for all her fans that couldn't attend, it would be a magical night for everyone and she couldn’t deprive anyone of the opportunity to hear the most anticipated song live. 
“Of course baby, I will be cheering you on from here, I will stay up just to watch you, your last show baby and then I will have you home” with a sad but hopeful smile she told him she loved him not before blowing him a kiss that he pretended to catch. 
As soon as the kiss was blown, she hung up, and he stood up to open the curtains that allowed him to see the sun that was shining down beautifully on the skyscrapers of New York. 
He couldn’t possibly care about his home race, when the woman he loved for three years was missing him, especially on their anniversary and on her last show that was sold out. 
She had been a nervous wreck, but she had to go on and give her best performance not only for the thousands of fans but for her boyfriend. The beautiful atmosphere that she was surrounded in was blissful. 
She had been so stuck in the moment, having the time of her life interacting with the fans, that she didn’t notice those beautiful eyes that were intensely looking at her success and radiance. 
She was getting ready to introduce her audience to her surprise song when she finally looked in the direction of the boy that she was still and forever will be deeply in love with. 
She took a pause, no one seemed to notice him before but as soon as her eyes made contact with him the crowd went crazy. Only she could recognize him in a crowd of thousands of tears and smiles.
Her steps faltered a bit, wanting to leave the stage and fly into his arms but she had an even better idea. Why not bring him to her, to put him on the stage and shamelessly show their love off to the crowd.
“As you probably have noticed already, my boyfriend is here today…” she took a pause to let everyone go crazy “…today is also our three year anniversary…” another pause where she heard everything from gasps, to giggles, to cheers; the fans clearly surprised by the timeline of their relationship. 
“… I know three years! in those three years I’ve been so in love and happy and I wanted to make you guys happy as well, share my romance with you, Charles and I wrote a song together, well he came up with the wonderful melody while my words tied the music together…" She heard the cheers but she chose to focus on his wide eyes, surprised that she will sing their song. 
“…I thought that he would be in Monaco right this second but he also chose to surprise me…so why not invite him up on the stage? So Charles, would you like to play the piano for me?”
The chants and her teary eyes were the end of him, and he finally gave in. Was he nervous to play in front of so many people? Yes he was petrified, but he would do anything to hold her and make her happy and he could make history for her music career by performing their song with her for the first time. 
So with quick nods the security led him backstage, where she was waiting behind the curtain away from the curious eyes that belonged to thousands of her fans. 
She ran up to him, missing his warmth and his lips that in a second were on hers, in a rushed but steady kiss, that for the time being left them satisfied. 
“I know that you probably don’t want to play…” with a quick peck he shut her up.
“Let’s go up those steps and play for your fans and for our love” with a quick shake to get rid of the nerves he held her hands and together they waved at the crowd. 
She could always rely on him to make her happy, getting her out of messes and reassuring her from those judgy whispers but tonight he would share only the happiest of memories with her. 
“Ok guys are you ready to hear the most anticipated song in the album, I will love to share this moment with the thousands of hearts that are here and everywhere…” mentioning to the fans that couldn't make it but were still enjoying the stream. “…today is a historic moment for us and now all of you will get to experience “A Part of You”, Charles was also a surprise for me today so I’m sure everyone is happy, so baby do you have anything to say?” 
His rosy cheeks did not stop him from throwing a bunch of compliments, gushing over her beautiful performances. “I’m honored to be here and happy that I will be a part of this magical performance, thank you guys for all your wonderful support for my love” looking at her she finished her appreciations. 
“Charles deserves to be here just as much as all of you, so please be kind and respectful as it is our first time performing this song, but thank you babies for being here, I love you all so much” just that quickly the lights deemed and Charles took his seat on the piano bench. 
However the song and the performance went magically in a haze it was over, the lavender lights hit their faces so perfectly, capturing the deepest of emotions. She was in love and she wasn’t ashamed of it. He was a part of her and would forever be without a doubt. 
With applause they were met, she closed off the night with her best performance yet, and it made it even more special that Charles was there, the person that made her see the world in a different light, her inspiration.
The curtains were closed and together wrapped in each other's arms they laid on the lavender confetti, in their own private haze. In a private world away from everyone else, even though most likely everyone’s eyes were on them. 
Staring at the ceiling that was still blowing confetti, she couldn’t help but be happy and thankful for Charles, since thanks to him she now believes in the power of love.
“Happy anniversary amour”
“Happy anniversary baby, even though it is midnight” 
“Who cares in another part of the word it is still our anniversary” 
“That’s right… I just want to stay here with you” 
“How did we even end up here, in New York performing in front of a huge crowd?”
“Our love led us here, by not caring what anyone thinks… by living in our own world, that sure is filled with some ups but almost every other day is filled with joy and love, so I can’t complain about ending up here because there’s no other place that I’d rather be than in your arms” 
“I love you with all my soul, I’m glad that you chose me to be your other half, let’s get out of here…” with a smiley kiss that was cut short by her manager, they were able to catch the next flight to his home race where she would also support his dream. 
They were the talk of Monaco especially because he won, she was now considered his lucky charm. The jumpy hug along with the tiny kisses that she placed all over his face made him feel so warm. It was probably the blood rushing to his cheeks from all their excitement, accomplishments, and love that happened in the span of four days. 
Now in their favorite place, their home. They were able to fully love and appreciate each other, without eyes on them, those eyes that she doesn’t fear anymore because she had him, but that she still preferred to be away from. 
Tracing the little love bites on his collarbones and him removing the rebellious hair from her line of vision, they reminisce on their years together and their future.
“I’m very lucky, do you know that?”
“Why?” She pretended to be unaware, but the tiny twitch by her lip gave away the feeling of being complete with him. 
“Because I get to enjoy all of you for many years to come, to eternity and in another life I will still choose you” a kiss, as gentle as a feather was given on her lips, just to remind her how soft and pure they were. 
“I will always pick eternity just to be able to experience you all over again, or maybe in the other world we could create our own little version of heaven, just us writing songs, making love, and being us without anyone interfering…” he gave her a silly but failed wink, but he still went back to a dreamy state. 
“I like that, our own paradise, do you believe in us coming back here?”
“Yes and no? We have a choice to experience all this again in another timeline or we can create another life filled only with the people and things you love, like my paradise would always include you no matter what” 
Charles nodded, taking everything seriously, pursed lips that she couldn’t help but kiss, a tiny nibble to make him laugh, that breathy and sweet laugh that was music to her ears. She could even say that his laugh was the best melody, one that she couldn’t come close to replicating. 
“I will pick paradise with you, no suffering just loving”
“We don’t have to suffer now, we can always live in our own little haze” with a few more murmurs of hope and optimism they went into a deep dream, because they knew that the very next day they would still experience and share their same love story. 
The distance that the couple faced due to their careers would never break them, they had enough plans and trust to never let an ending reach them. What they had was a constant loop of love, some parts could be shared with crowds, others with the distance, but a whole part of them would be shared by common dreams that will leave them complete, until eternity finally reaches that haze that they very strongly built upon their love. 
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a/n: Thank you so much for reading, again I loved the request and I hope that you enjoyed it as well. Lots of love- Nat 💜
Request:
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thehmn · 1 year
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Two misconceptions I keep seeing about cats and dogs:
Cats are the only animal that domesticated themselves.
The reason people say this is because it’s believed cats started approaching human villages when we became farmers and suddenly we had lots rodents for them to hunt. But it’s believed dogs approached humans too. It’s very unlikely that humans captured a wolf and tried to tame it and nothing good would come of stealing wolf pups because even if they got used to humans you’d still have a wild animal that could snap at any moment. It’s much more likely that wolves approached nomadic humans to eat our trash and less aggressive wolves could get closer and get better food and humans being humans probably started throwing food to them. And because both humans and wolves were nomadic they could follow us from settlement to settlement which is why it happened thousands of years before cats.
Cats are hardly domesticated and we haven’t fucked them up in any way.
Bit of a sad one. You know all those videos of house cats chasing away bears, foxes and other wildlife? Wild cats don’t behave like that unless they have no way out. That’s why a human can scare away a mountain lion. But we didn’t want cats who were afraid of us so we selected for brave cats who’d get close to us and that unfortunately means hundreds if not thousands of house cats get killed every day by wildlife. There’s a lot more videos of cats getting eaten than being victorious when confronting a fox but for obvious reasons they don’t go viral. The knowledge that foxes eat cats is so widespread in my country that it’s even a plot point in a children’s cartoon where the fox Rita is proud that her mom kills cats but later is confronted by ally cats out for revenge. So unfortunately we bred the fear out of cats and then let them roam the streets.
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chrollohearttags · 14 days
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𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗𝖇: 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖑𝖛𝖊
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synopsis: many moves are being made for the talent of AMG and two fourths of the Dead Boys Society collective, Ony The God and Prince Cee, find themselves thrust even further into the spotlight after their freestyle goes viral. But their musical skills aren’t the only thing that has people talking. As it’s during this interview that the duo find themselves in an exchange of heated words with an infamous DJ..who names drop their fellow group member and brother, EJ the Don in reference to recent scandals. Will the pair clear up the rumors circulating the net or will they leave it all in his hands to set the record straight? Meanwhile, (Y/N) meets up with Mikasa prior to PalmFest to discuss another opportunity she has lined up for her. It’s here that the manager informs her that she’ll be receiving the opportunity of a lifetime to work with a brand she’s loved since childhood. But that isn’t the only thing she has to divulge to the upcoming influencer. What is Mika hiding from her client? Ahead of the festival, Jean and his infamous band prepare to make their much anticipated return to the stage but before this, he teams up with the girls of the Pole Assassins for what is set to be the collab of the century and to solicit some friendly advice to the headstrong leader. But he isn’t the only one with a grand plan up his sleeve and it seems that everyone will be pulling out the stops to give Miami and the world a night worth remembering. Who’ll take the stage and who’ll steal the show?
word count: 8.2K
content + themes: mentions of drugs, humor, light angst, mentions of fighting, minor smut/sexual themes (jeankasa crumbs), alcohol use, multiple character cameos, language
“This gon’ be our year, believe that..we made it this far and we ain’t gon’ stop.”
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Summertime. One of the liveliest and busiest times of the year for many. Most were preparing for vacation, on break from school or just enjoying the various happenings around their area..but for those that were employed and contracted under AMG, this was far from a time of leisure. With the recent announcement of the much anticipated PalmFest, it had caused a dramatic shift in the company. Not only that, word of the festival had begun to make waves around social media. Fans were sharing the banner and their enthusiasm for the lineup. Many were scrambling, tweeting about how they were needing to come up with quick cash to attend for the weekend. Tickets were set to go on sale in the next few days, so naturally, the sales and advertising team would be exceptionally busy. But they wouldn’t be the only ones busy preparing for the influx of attention that was set to be coming their way.
“Okay, okay..so everybody is talking, going crazy over the internet about this new song and lemme tell y’all..it’s worth every bit of the hype. It’s definitely a hit..song of the summer for sure. I’m rocking wit’ it, so many other people are too..but we all gotta know, how did it come about? What’s the story behind Nike Tech?” two men sat adjacent to a woman with a lighter complexion..all three with microphones pursed to their lips as they were perched and bolted to the table in front of them. Both with shaved heads, marked with dyed designs..chains dangling from their necks and grills lining the insides of their mouths when they flashed those perfect smiles. Prince Cee and Ony The God, two halves of the Dead Boys Society collective. Their styles could be best described as hypercharged trap and upbeat melodies that would hype up even the deadest of crowds. Make no mistake, the men did create more emotional pieces, detailing their rough upbringings in the heart of inner city Miami and the Dominican Republic. But they much rather preferred music that made people feel good! Too often had they seen the reality of what the streets could do to them so now that they had made it to the opposite side of the tracks..naturally, they wanted to pay homage to those they lost but they wanted people to smile more than anything. To dance and most importantly, fine women to shake their asses to it!
“Well, you know we was just messin’ ‘round one night, having fun and it came to us.
Ony, or Onyakapon was born to a Haitian father and an African American mother, who was born in Nigeria and raised in Opa Locka. He was always described as bright, intelligent and sweet with a kind heart. A star athlete to his core. He loved basketball and singing. He was brought up in the church, where he learned to fine tune that beautiful voice but quickly found the streets unwillingly. He saw gun violence..drugs and weapons being stuffed under the counters by his uncles and father. It was rough but he still persisted. He played basketball, was on the swim team and played football, all while maintaining a four point two grade point average. He was a star on the field and court, no doubt. But where did he truly shine? Behind a microphone. He and Connie attended the same high school, where they eventually went on to meet EJ..who had just enrolled to finish his junior and senior years. The three would play sports, write music and dream about the future. Regardless of their differences, all three boys had the same goal: change the world with music! A manifestation turned into reality only five years later. From sitting in the lunchroom, making beats on the table to opening for Denzel Curry and Raider Clan. The boys found their fame through Soundcloud a couple years after Eren’s viral video..
filmed at the same shoe store they all worked at..years later and they were all at the height of their game. Now, the guys were preparing for their very first global tour after finishing up their second country wide one. It was a dream come true. But with every whimsical dream follows harsh realities and lately, it had begun to rear its ugly head in the form of a rumor mill surrounding their fellow group mate, EJ himself. There was so much speculation swirling around that the seasoned rapper was dealing with everything from substance abuse to potentially announcing retirement. Granted, they were all baseless and quite frankly, dumb as fuck. However, it didn’t stop interviewers and fans alike from probing the question. And when they couldn’t get the answer straight from the source, they’d have to do the next best thing..
“Yeah, we was just looking to make sum’ that everybody could enjoy.” Chiming in shortly after was Connie Springer, or known by his stage moniker as Prince Cee. The Dominican Republic born, Dade County raised rapper who got his start initially by making songs with his older and younger brothers but ultimately, the two of them decided to give up their supposed pipe dreams for careers in the family restaurant business. As the proud middle child of two immigrant parents, who worked extremely hard to not only provide for their three sons but to essentially live the American dream. It was this same determination and hard work ethic that heavily inspired Connie’s pursuit of his passion. All throughout middle and high school, he would spend hours on end penning lyrics about the various experiences that he had growing up. From migration to witnessing drug deals right in front of him..serving as a journal of sorts. What began as free therapeutic relief soon turned into the catalyst for the inception of Prince Cee. He and Ony had long met as youth football players with the Pop Warner program. But their friendship only grew stronger over time, especially when they discovered that the two of them shared a very strong interest in becoming musicians. By their junior year, the pair had written five songs between the two of them and even recorded one track once EJ joined the fray. After that, the rest was history..needless to say, all of their success were because of one another. Without each other’s support, there was no telling where they would have wound up. But it seemed as if not everyone was in support of this feel good story. In the midst of Eren’s recent arrests, there had not only been speculation of a possible retirement but issues among the group. Many online believed that Connie and Ony would be parting ways with their fellow group mate because of the stigma and that essentially, they had grown tired of ‘living in his shadow’. However, they were here to clear the air once and for all!
“Alright, so while we’re here, gentlemen. You know we gotta talk about it..your homeboy, EJ..he’s been a bit of a hot topic lately. For reasons we not gon’ talk about but we did wanna address some other things and get your opinion on it.”
sat slightly slouched in their seats with their hands propping up their chins..the two gentlemen glared intently at the interviewer. They had a gut feeling that this question would arise at some point during this but they were not in the mood for it, if they were being frank. First and foremost, what happened to their brother was not only frustrating for him but no one’s business and his own to sort through. Certainly not on a platform like this. Hell, they might as well have been cackling with The ShadeRoom themselves! “Nah man, we told y’all before we even came up in here that we wasn’t answering no questions like that.” “Yeah, that ain’t even our situation to speak on, for real..” the gentlemen would suck their teeth before dismissing her preemptive questioning with the wave of a hand. However, it seemed that others were keen on pushing the issue!
“I mean, we just wanna set the record straight..your boy been in the game for some time now. One of the greatest of all time, but lately, he’s had some trouble. Not gon’ lie..so do y’all think that’s a good look for y’all too? Will y’all ever get tired of playing second best to EJ?”
suddenly, the whole studio was met with silence outside of the faint crackle of the microphones and a nearby producer gasping before she even knew it. They were almost certain that viewers would hear and a clip would be making its rounds on the internet by lunch time. Fans of the collective would be ripping the controversial DJ to shreds on social media. However, before any would-be fangirls or blogs could join the fray, the two gentlemen would eat him alive themselves! Ony, who was always more docile and collected in nature..the quietest in the group by far, had honestly had quite enough of this antagonistic and downright, stupid ass interview! Connie, who was all but gripping the arms of his leather chair, ready to fly off the handle was instead, halted by his friend with a palm to his chest.
“Nah, cause what the fu—“
“Hol’ on, bro..I got it.”
not a man of many words outside of his incredible music and select interviews, Ony had implored Eren’s approach early on and because of it, fans adored him that much more. Women fawned all over the very handsome, sexy, charismatic rapper with beautiful dark skin and his signature gold slugs wrapped around his teeth. It was also because of this, that he, much like EJ..was not to be fucked with! If they knew what was good for them, they’d call this session quits now. Grasping the microphone, Ony would flash a smirk, almost huffing and laughing to himself because he knew the words about to leave his mouth were not kind ones and he had been known to have quite the silver tongue. He didn’t mince words and he damn sure didn’t spare feelings, especially when it comes to those he cared about. Everybody could die behind his family..
“Lemme ask you sum’…out of all the years my boy been doing this, just like you said..how many times has he been invited on your show? Hmm? How many times have you reached out for an interview or asked him to come perform for y’all?” The question seemed to invoke both confusion and uncomfortability in the man. A dumbfounded expression on his face..akin to that of a scorned and scolded child. “Up until now, how many times has Dead Boys been on this radio station? Yall ain’t never played our shit, ain’t never invited us on and when you do, it’s for sum’ bullshit. See, this is why ion’ do these lil’ podcasts and shit, y’all talk more than bitches do. Y’all knew what it was before we even came up in here and y’all still gon’ play in our face. All this you see, we did without a deal, we did it without a label, we ain’t had to check in with no nigga in our city to get put on. We ain’t got to run up in everybody else's hood to make it. We ain’t these lil’ 360 ass niggas, we own all ours and that man EJ? Ain’t got nothing but love and all the respect in the world for him because he’s cut from the same cloth. We did this together, that’s our family..this music shit, it means everything to us and if y’all can’t respect him, then y’all don’t respect us and that means we done here..”
Without missing so much as a beat, Ony removed his headset and Connie followed..despite the pleas from the interviewers. But before the gentlemen could exit for good, Connie left them with one more statement that would solidify their stance on the matter. “And since ya’ll watching, just wait until that next album drops. We’ll see who the real great is. All them rumors and shit? Gon’ be put to rest. Let’s go.” And with that, the two of them turned on their heels without so much as even glancing back at the radio hosts. It may not have been their situation, but they handled it on his behalf and for anyone who may have been doubting them, EJ or their collective in general, were about to be in for a rude awakening. They had come too far to allow negative opinions and messy ‘journalists’ to diminish their shine. By the time this hit the internet, their words would be undoubtedly misconstrued but they were not about to let this stop them. If anything, it ignited the dormant spark lying underneath them to go harder. To prove people like that wrong and to show everybody what they were truly made of. Determined..now more than ever to step their game up. This time, it was personal!
“This gon’ be our year, believe that..we made it this far and we ain’t gon’ stop. Me, Connie, EJ, Armin..all of us. We ‘bout to put this industry on its head.”
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meanwhile, the boys weren’t the only ones preparing to make moves..whilst EJ and the rest of his collective were suiting up for PalmFest, album rollouts and such, (y/n) was about to receive some rather unexpected and great news yourself. Unbeknownst in your absence and amid your sabbatical, your manager had been working diligently to secure you a once in a lifetime deal..one that could potentially change the trajectory of your career in an instant.
“I’m sure you’re dying to know what it’s inside…go on, open it.”
currently, you were seated across from her at an outdoor table, overlooking the picturesque Miami waters. The Lapis Lounge was the place to be for anyone who was anyone in this town. Crisp white, designer linen draped marble tables with intricately arranged flowers placed in the center. Wine glasses filled with Pellegrino, shimmered underneath the sunlight; sliced lemons decorating the rim and square China plates sat before the both of you with aesthetically plated dishes that cost more than anything you’d ever dined on willingly. It never not dawned on you how surreal your life was each time you found yourself in these scenarios. Even now, as you chatted with her, intermittently shoving a spoon of panna cotta in your mouth, you couldn’t help but to dwell on the fact that this amount of money could’ve gotten you at least three fish plates and a good tray of oxtails on your side of town! Nonetheless, you’d tremble with anticipation..hands scaling the medium sized, gift wrapped box sat before you. A present, courtesy of Mikasa, who had been brandishing it when you arrived. It was pink with holographic foiling with a tag and bow on top that read: “To (y/n) (l/n). We hope you enjoy it.” You were honestly dumbfounded as to what it could be. But anticipation would not have to kill you any longer as you began to unravel the bow and open up the gift. Your expression would immediately change once you figured out what was beneath all that wrapping paper. Switching from a gaze of utter confusion to a wide gasp complete with a smile.
“Oh my God!—no way…” you were completely taken aback and could, at that very moment..burst into tears but you restrained yourself. Trying to construct and form a thought before speaking. “M-miss..Miss Ackerman, what is this?” “Exactly as it says..congratulations, sweetheart. You’re the new cover girl for Moschino. They sent that to my office this morning and said that they’d love for you to star in their next perfume ad.” You were in utter shock and disbelief. Beyond words even..for anyone that knew you, the (y/n) before the fame..you were quite the dresser. Prior to even coming up on money, you never disappointed when it came to your outfits, hair or makeup. Sporting the most eclectic and well coordinated pieces that could never work for anyone else but you. Outdressing the girls in school who needed brand names to compete but you’d outshine their fly every single time on a budget at a fraction of the price..shopping at the stores they’d deem ‘ghetto’ or lesser, styling your own hair and makeup with nothing but products from the beauty supply down the road from your house and coming to class with all eyes directed at you. Needless to say, you had never really had any use for designer duds. But if there was one fancy label that had piqued your interest, it was Moschino. Everything about it just made you fawn..from its avant- garde pieces, vibrant designs to unique aesthetics, you became obsessed. Although you were no bougie fashion snob, you often dreamed of getting to rock at least one of their pieces. Whether it be a handbag or a thrifted coat, you’d always wanted at least one. And now, years later..your manifestation has become reality! Excited wasn’t even the correct word..feigning back tears, you’d cackle and begin scouring the large PR package they had gifted you. Including their new Moschino Toy 2 Collection, along with their spring 2024 collection.
“And that’s not even the best part. Both Fenty brands actually reached out to me this morning as well with a proposal to feature you in their newest catalogs. I have the contracts for all three offers right here whenever you’re ready. If you agree, you can sign and you’ll officially be on the affiliate payroll..what do you think?”
you were at an utter loss for words. How could you even describe what it was that you were feeling? Honestly, every bit of it felt surreal. There was no way that you, of all people, were about to grace the ad pages for Moschino, Fenty Beauty and Savage x Fenty all in the same month. Not to mention being in two acts for the upcoming PalmFest. Getting to model and truly tap into your creative expression with photoshoots of your own making. The conceptual art, the budget of your choosing..it was a dream come true! Leaning back against your seat, you’d release a faint gasp, slowly shaking your head in utter disbelief as you attempted to feign back tears. It seemed as if you were just overcome with emotion as of late. Not so much from any hardships but the exact opposite. Oftentimes had you prayed for days like this and everything you’d ever hoped for was finally coming into fruition. It was almost as if your star had completely ascended overnight and it wasn’t lost on you that it happened shortly after signing onto Mikasa’s roster. And of course, after meeting Eren. Naturally, you’d never attribute your success to a man unless it was the one upstairs. However, you were grateful that she had thrown you two together that night!
“I..I honestly don’t know what to say. Thank you so much, Ms. Mika. I’m honored and I promise I will do the best I can to make you proud.” hoisting your glass to make a toast; met with soft giggles and a raised champagne flute in return. “Please, you’ve far exceeded that expectation. Just keep doing what you do best, stay genuine and I’ll make certain that you go far in this business.” Just as poised as ever, sipping from her champagne flute when stating so. However, that serene look in her eyes soon dissipated when you brought up the next topic of discussion. One that you had no idea was such a sore subject for your manager. “It’s crazy what a couple months can do. I mean, I was just backstage with EJ, getting a pep talk about how to navigate the crowd. ‘Swear..wouldn’t have known what to do if it wasn’t for him. He’s so much nicer than what everyone said too but I’m sure you already knew–” before you had the opportunity to complete your long winded tangent, singing the rapper’s praises, Mikasa would ingest a big gulp before clearing her throat. It took a moment for you to notice the shift in her mood and her facial expressions but you immediately became concerned. “Is everything okay?” “Y-yeah, I’m fine. Just got strangled, is all..” Prompting you to focus your attention on her wellbeing rather than your newest fling and her sworn enemy on the moment. Truth be told, she hadn’t exactly confronted her issues with Eren head on. Ever since that day in his studio, she had felt nothing but pure rage in her heart whenever the thought even so much as crossed her mind. Honestly, she had nothing to say to him or about him but she’d be lying if she said that the prospect of both their professional and business relationship being annulled..wouldn’t sting. Years of friendship, hard work, determination, advocating for one another and fighting their way to the top of the industry as a power duo, all down the drain over a stupid fight. She couldn’t blame Eren for his reaction but it didn’t make his words sting any less. Make no mistake, she still believed in him and his ability to make a comeback but it was going to take some time before she was able to see him as a manager or friend..
“You seem to really like Eren..” the comment sends a pang to the very pit of your stomach, making you quickly try to recant your earlier statements and downplay the oversharing of feelings for the seasoned rapper. However, that glimmer in your eye and visible reaction in body language was a dead giveaway. You could no longer fake your feelings for EJ the Don and if anyone saw through the facade, it was her.
“Well, ya know..he’s cool. He just helped me–
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. You don’t have to mince words with me. Trust me, that boy’s got your head so far in the clouds, I think you may float away.” It was official, she had you pegged just as well as your best friends. It was blatantly obvious that the two of you had something serious going on..whether you wanted to admit that fact to yourselves or not. Lowering your head, (Y/N) released a soft chuckle in half relief and half embarrassment. You were acting like an airheaded schoolgirl over a man you barely even knew and everyone around you had obviously peeped.
“Listen, (y/n)..I’ll be honest with you. Eren and I? We’re not exactly on good terms at the moment. Hell, even bringing up his name leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I’ll spare you the gritty details but..as it stands, he’s no longer my client and certainly not my friend. I’m only telling you this because I don’t want you to be alarmed or in the dark about any awkward tension..in the event we all happen to end up in the same circle. PalmFest is right around the corner and truthfully..I don’t know if I have it in my heart to forgive him. I don’t know if he can forgive me either..” The declaration was made through restrained tears and obvious hurt. You’d never seen your manager break her stoic and calm demeanor once since you’ve known her but now? She was completely different. More vulnerable and certainly more emotional than she’d ever gotten but she had to keep her cool. Put on that brave facade and try not to let it get to her. Also, she could see the visible shock on your face and how saddened you looked by the revelation. You hated confrontation and the idea of your potential beau and your manager being at odds was not good. You could tell they were very close and although it was certainly none of your business, you hoped they reached a resolution soon.
“I’m also telling you this because I don’t think that my or anyone else’s opinion should stand in the way of you two being happy. Regardless of how I feel about him right now..Eren was one of the very few people in my life that kept me grounded when I needed it most. He’s never really gotten excited about anything outside of music or work..but I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt, I’ve never seen that man smile as much as I have since you showed up.”
This revelation was certainly news to you! Even though you didn’t want to read much into it or get carried away, you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t one hell of a confidence boost! The cold hearted ice king, EJ the Don himself..gushing over the likes of you? You were shocked! But he obviously had a thing for you. Whether that was just lust or perhaps something more..was yet to be determined. In the meantime, your manager had one last tidbit of friendly advice for you. As woman to woman.
“I don’t know what it is about you but you obviously make him very happy and I can tell that he’s done the same for you. That’s important in this business…hold on to that. I don’t know two people who are more deserving.” In that moment, behind the strict expressions and no nonsense persona, Mikasa seemed to falter just a bit in that moment. Softening right before your eyes..it was very clear that she meant every single word that left her mouth. She wanted to see Eren happy even if she had to do so from the sidelines as someone who was no longer a part of his life. And you? She had never seen someone so kind, energetic and sweet before. She’d heard first hand from Niesha how much a workaholic you were and despite you just getting started, you deserved at least a bit of a reward. Hoisting your glass once more, you’d flash her a bright beaming smile, even giggling a bit to feign off crying because it took nothing for you to become emotional..especially when sentimental statements like that were involved.
“Thank you Miss Mika..I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it. Just promise me you’ll stay focused and keep your eyes on the prize. You’ve worked so hard. Don’t let anyone get in the way of that.”
“You have my word..”
With that, the two of you clinked your champagne flutes together and took obligatory swigs of the bubbly concoction inside. Rinsing away the intensity of the previous conversation. Now it was back to more pertinent matters!
“That’s my girl..now, back to this photoshoot. Let’s talk about the details because I have a few ideas that I think you’ll just absolutely adore..”
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page break and time skip: two days later
Hard Rock Stadium: Stage A, Miami Beach
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With the long anticipated PalmFest approaching a lot sooner rather than later, it seemed that everyone as a collective was working diligently to ensure that it would be nothing short of a stellar success. Stage crews worked overtime as they secured support beams for the stages..testing the lightning a million times over and getting everyone’s pyrotechnics in order for those who needed them. Running simulations of backdrops for each performer to make sure no one suffered from a glitch when the time finally came. Some of the biggest names in the industry would be setting foot on that very stage come three days from now. The entire weekend was one that would undoubtedly be for the books; for musical talents and attendees alike. Meanwhile, the executives had come out of their glass paned offices to observe the scene for themselves. Among the fray was none other than Erwin Smith, who had been working directly with everyone to relay orders and needs as well. He was the one heading this project so it was only natural for him to come show his face. Besides, with his reliant leadership style, everyone could rest assured that if any last minute changes or major pieces needed to be handled, he was the man to do so. At that very moment, he was seated in the front row as the lights dimmed on the overhead structure. Below them was quite possibly not only one of, but two of the festival’s most anticipated acts..Atelier Kiss and Pole Assassins! An unlikely yet dynamic pairing. The two groups had come together one time prior when the band was on their last tour. The dancing quintet had just gotten their start when lead man, Jean Kirschtein himself asked for the ladies to join them for their hometown reunion. Rivaling the sounds of Deftones and Avenged Sevenfold, the infamous group put a unique spin on rock music and changed the genre as everyone knew it. Jean, a native of Louisiana..had always harbored an affinity for blues, jazz, country and soul music. But to his core, he was a metal head. Growing up on the sounds of Metallica, Black Sabbath and Def Leppard, he wanted to combine all sides of the musical spectrum. He didn’t want to limit himself or his bandmates to one particular style. He fought to break stereotypes and bring an innovative style of rock and roll to the scene. He also had the privilege of receiving the tutelage of Vivian James and needless to say, he absorbed plenty from the Neo Soul Siren herself. His ultimate creation was, in his own words.. ‘The result of Kiss, Tina Turner and Waylon Jennings having an illegitimate love child.’ An interesting combination to put it lightly! But that insane mix worked for Atelier Kiss and years later, they’re regarded as one of the highest selling bands of the 21st century..no small feat by any stretch of the imagination. That deep, silky yet soulful vibrato of his could be recognized from earshot anywhere and Erwin had just gotten an exclusive concert just for his listening pleasure only as the groups had just wrapped up practice for their upcoming set.
“You guys..pardon my language..but that was fucking amazing.” The brash comment sending everyone on the stage into light hearted hysterics, even laughing. It was rare to even see the director ever crack a smile or break character but for anyone who was familiar with the former lead guitarist of Atelier Kiss’ predecessor, Maria’s Way..led by none other than the president and director themselves..they’d know that this was far tame for Mr. Smith. To him, he felt right at home watching the beautiful ladies twirl the pole as the rockstar crooned sultry and lewd lyrics into the mic. He had done the exact same many years prior..needless to say, he was proud of you all! Seeing as how they’d be opening the show, you guys had to make one hell of a first impression or the entire show would fall to shit. But that wasn’t even a possibility. The leaders of both groups were not only hard workers, but overachievers as well. Both Jean and (Y/N) had something serious to prove.
“Seriously, I’ve never seen anything like this and I cannot wait for you all to perform. Well done. Especially you ladies..being able to construct a routine of this caliber on such short notice? I’m blown away.” A statement that rang true..as it was only after your meeting with Mikasa two days ago, did he call you up and ask about performing with Atelier Kiss. Naturally, you accepted with bells on! Nevermind the fact that you’d also be on stage with a segment of your own, hosting a little contest alongside Prince Cee and Armin to see which lucky audience member could not only sway them but outdance you girls for their chance to win one thousand dollars cash right there. You’d be pulling double duty and exhausting yourselves in the process but all the more exposure, the better. And you were certain that your girls were up to the task!
“Ya’ hear that, girls? Sounds like we got the boss man’s stamp of approval. I’d say we’re good to call it a night.” Something that you all could get behind and appreciate, seeing as how darkness had already set fall over the sky. As excited as you all were, rest was going to be crucial in making a great performance happen. Slowly but surely, the stage hands and band members alike all helped you down from your poles and to your feet. All of them would thank your group and the sentiments were mirrored. But before you all could depart for home, Jean was hoping for an audience with you.
“Aye..(Y/N). Do you mind if we talk for a minute?
It was certainly an odd request..you’d consider yourself rather good friends with the lead singer but it wasn’t often that you had the chance to speak in private and quite honestly, there was no need! But by the indication of his tone, you could tell it may have been serious.
“Of course!” you’d wave to your girls and alert them that you’d catch up with them shortly. Meanwhile, you and Jean would venture off to the side of the stage to converse. He’d grasp your hand and help you down to the edge before handing you a water bottle. He was always just as chivalrous as he was kind..admirable qualities in a man and a friend in general. Graciously accepting, you’d thank him for the kind gestures before inquiring about his request.
“So what did you wanna talk about? Something wrong with the routine?” peering down at the ground, he’d be quick to dismiss that notion. This matter was a bit more personal and he truthfully couldn’t be sure of how you’d take it. “Nah, nothing like that..before I start running my mouth though. Are you and EJ..seeing each other?” Instantaneously, the question both caught you off guard and invoked a very physical reaction in you. You were so confused as to why he’d spring such a question up on you. It wasn’t as if either of you had made this little situationship you were involved in blatantly obvious but anyone with two functioning eyes could see that there was something going on between the two of you. Make no mistake, it wasn’t any more of his business as it was some random blog on the internet but you also didn’t strike Jean as the nosy type. He didn’t meddle in others’ affairs unless it pertained to his own and now that you were thinking about it, you could see why he harbored a vested interest of sorts…
“I mean..we talk from time to time. Nothing too serious..” but alas, he had his answer the moment you clutched that bottle as if you were trying to squeeze the life out of it and the way your eyes lit up at the sheer mention of his name. “Ahh, you don’t have to play coy with me. We’re friends..besides, it’s none of my business. But there was something I wanted to bring to your attention..” swallowing another gulp of his beverage, Jean would cease his light chuckle and return to a far more serious gaze than before. One that worried you a bit..what exactly was on his mind and how did it involve you? Granted, his fiancee had made him privy to their little spat a couple weeks back and how they were no longer on speaking terms. But it was just as Mikasa had said, their quarrel was in no way a reflection of how you should proceed with talking to him! Even so, you couldn’t help but to be intrigued by the blonde’s words. You’d rather someone tell you than to be in the dark about something important later on down the line.
“..I won’t sit here and pretend that he and I are best friends or anything. Never have been..hell, we’ve been at each other's throats since I’ve known him. Point is, I just want you to be careful. I know it’s not my place or anything..but I saw you guys together on the boat a couple weeks ago. And even though I can say for certainty that he’s not some womanizing sleazebag..dude’s selfish as hell. I mean, he never answers his phone, not even in emergencies. He doesn’t show up for meetings even when other people’s jobs are on the line..he’s just the worst!” By Jean’s frustrated rant, you can tell that Eren had done a thing or two to crawl underneath his skin. Even so, you couldn’t help but to laugh! Just as you had explained to your girls, you’d tell him, Mikasa and everyone else the exact same:
“ I appreciate the concern, Jean. But he and I are just friends, that’s all…no need to worry. I promise.”
You honestly found the sentiment sweet. That everyone was concerned about you and your wellbeing. Jean himself was overly cautious about the people in his life and rightfully so. This industry was a beast and a half and it would devour you whole if you allowed it. The last thing anyone wanted was for you to get hurt by somebody you seemingly held in high regard. Scoffing, the blonde would shake his head once more and cackle. He didn’t want you becoming angry with him over insinuations or baseless accusations. Truth be told, you and Eren didn’t know much about one another outside of the physical aspect but as it stood since your last hookup, he was hoping to change that. He was making a valiant and active effort to be more than just friends with benefits. That much was apparent by his consistent communication and the few flower arrangements he had sent to your apartment; a sweet little surprise after a long day of practice and work. You were appreciative of everyone’s concern but this was one matter you’d have to see to the end for yourself. Whether it played out in your favor or not.
“I figured you’d say as much. In all seriousness, you’ve become like family here at AMG. All of you have and we look out for one another. Everyone has seen how hard you work and we’d just hate for that to become jeopardized in any way. You just make sure that dummy doesn’t do anything to hurt you. If he does, you know who to call.” his offer sending you into a fit of giggles once more. But you had no doubt that you were in good hands. For the time being, you’d just play it cool and roll with the punches. “You know I appreciate you, boo. Thank you for looking out for me.” Swinging your arm around, you’d coil Jean’s neck and embrace him in a tight hug. You were extremely grateful for the people in your life right now and you knew that things were only about to become even better. Your angels were definitely looking out for you. The two of you would begin to stand up, reaching his hand out to assist you once more. It was amid your banter about the upcoming show that your phone began to ring and you’d prepare to part ways.
“...Hey, make sure to get some rest..all of you! You’re sure as hell gonna need it.”
“Aye, you ain’t gotta tell me twice! I’m headed home straight after this. And tell that pretty lady of yours I said hey!..”
But upon exchanging those pleasantries and goodbyes, your spoken plans were sure to become derailed and by the aforementioned topic nonetheless..you’d peer down at your phone screen to be suddenly greeted with none other than the contact name ‘EJ’. You didn’t want to seem extremely desperate for his attention or anything but you had been itching to hear from him. As it had been a day or two since your last phone call. He’d text you every morning and maintain consistent contact throughout the day..which you could appreciate because Jean was right about one thing: EJ moved on his time and his alone so he didn’t owe you a single thing and as he had revealed to you, he was in the process of cultivating his new album so you imagined that the Facetimes and texts would become scarce as the deadline drew near. As well as the fast approaching PalmFest. However, there was another reason he was reaching out. After the second or third ring, you’d swipe the arrow left and answer him.
“Hey EJ..”
“Hey gorgeous..how are you?”
The name sends immediate pangs to the pit of your stomach. You couldn’t help but to amass butterflies when you so much as heard his name so naturally, the sweet gestures made it even worse.
“I’m doing well, thanks..and I hope you are too.”
“I’m having a wonderful day now that I’ve gotten the chance to hear from you.”
“You know, you really do know how to make a girl feel special.”
“What can I say? A smart man recognizes a good thing when he sees it..I’d be crazy to mess that up, now wouldn’t I?”
Only a minute into your conversation, (Y/N) found yourself fawning over his buttery smooth words and that silky voice. Regardless, there was a reason he was calling you so late in the day and you had to know why.
“Listen, I don’t wanna take up too much of your time or anything and forgive me if I’m interruptin’ or anything. I saw your Instagram, I know you’ve been out here working hard..you know I never wanna take you away from your money..but if it was possible, I was hoping I could see you tonight. Maybe we could get together and finally have that date we were talking about..” Befuddled in your tracks, you had to take a moment to respond. Maybe it was the bare minimum and you weren’t exactly used to being courted in such a manner, but you appreciated his words. He valued your time just the same as his own..he didn’t see your profession as something lesser and certainly didn’t think you the type to be sitting around, awaiting his call. Because of this, you were thrilled to see him again and to finally have that quality time you both desired. Granted, the sex was downright impeccable between the two of you but it was obvious that you each were craving far more than physical intimacy..at the moment, it was only five thirty so you’d have ample enough time to make it back home and get yourself together. After all, it was your first official date and you wanted to be dressed accordingly! And with this festival and other projects looming over your heads, this was the perfect time to sneak in some personal breathing room..so without a moment more of hesitation..
“..I’d love that, thank you, Eren. I’m just now leaving practice but give me a couple hours and you can slide through.”
“Of course, beautiful. I’m so sorry it’s on such short notice but I’m glad you agreed to see me..I missed you.” Something about him was starkly different from the man you saw in interviews or on stage but it was so nice to be around someone so kind. He made you truly feel safe and that you’d made the right decision..
“I missed you too..I’ll see you in a bit, okay? Bye.”
“Bye..”
You just hoped that for your sake..you didn’t meet the side that Jean was seeming to warn you about. In the meantime, you had to make sure you were looking right!..
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three hours later..
On the opposite side of town, you and Eren weren’t the only two lovebirds indulging in the woes of being an item.
“You know, if you keep touching me like that, I’ll never get any work done..”
“That’s the entire point, my love. C’mon, it’s late..you deserve a break.”
at the future Kirschtein residence, Jean was attempting to woo his bride to get some much needed alone time. The couple had both been working nonstop during this time for the upcoming performance, their individual careers and of course, the wedding that was said to be ‘one for the books’. As excited as they were for all the new things happening in their life, rest was equally as important and as it stood, it was definitely a rarity. But it wasn’t the only thing that had been lacking..
“You just want some ass, admit it.”
“Okay, I just want some ass. There, I said it.”
the blonde was currently stationed behind his fiancée, who was still typing away at her computer and delegating orders via email at this time of night. For Mikasa, the grind truly never subsided. She would work in her sleep if it were feasible but there was nothing wrong with enjoying yourself every once in a while. Something Jean was hoping to accomplish tonight..in more ways than one. Despite her always stoic attitude, she couldn’t help but to fold and cackle at his advances. He was brutally honest to a fault and she appreciated that. Currently, he was feeling up her sides…marking up her neck with a trail of kisses and whispering all the things she wanted to hear. Even she couldn’t resist the charms and temptation of a man like him. It was that very behavior that had bagged her in the first place!..
“Alright, sir! Cut it out..I swear, you’re such a freak. The last time we tried that, you said you couldn’t breathe.”
“Yeah, but I would’ve died the happiest man ever..”
his southern twang peeking through the conversation as he reminisced on their most recent and salacious rendezvous. Nonetheless, he just wanted quality time with his lady. “Fine, give me two more minutes and I’ll be right there.” That was as good of a concession as he was going to get so Jean took the bait and accepted. “Two minutes, woman! Two minutes..” signaling the number with his fingers as he walked out..but even so, she couldn’t help but to chime in with a joke as he departed to the bedroom.
“If that’s how long you’re gonna last, I might as well stay right here—“ “Oh, shut up! Damn brat..”
cackling as he exited the room, Mikasa covered her mouth to attempt to feign her laughter. It was little moments like this that she enjoyed the most out of every aspect of her life. “Love you, babe!” But it was just as she was preparing to call it quits for the night, would she be met with quite the surprise. The inbox and screen were all but empty until a push notification appeared in the corner along with a burner email and a blank subject line. At first, it struck her as odd but suddenly, the dots began to connect for her. After a moment of reluctance, Mikasa would double click the email and open it up. Only to be greeted with nothing more than an audio file. “Okay, this is strange..” but alas, she’d still proceed and once it began playing, there was no doubt in her mind who the sender was..as she allowed it to play, the manager began to tear up, along with a soft chuckle. It was all making sense now..and needless to say, she was backed into a corner.
“You bastard..damn you. You always did get your way, I guess this time is no different.”
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if you made it this far, thank you so much for reading! please check out some of my other stuff in the masterlist. Likes are appreciated but reblogs would mean the world and help me out a TON! Also, considering leaving a little something in the tip jar if you’re feeling extra generous! 🫶🏾
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pinksatinsashes · 3 months
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The Dream Girl's Guide to Setting and Achieving Goals
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If there's one thing that I am insanely good at, it's planning and setting goals.
However I have not always been great at achieving them.
Call it laziness, lack of self discipline or being over ambitious, you can take your pick. But every year I would set goals and every year I would never achieve them.
This year I was, and am determined to transform. I'm tired of putting it off. I've tried a completely different method (read about that here) and it's finally working out, I cant't wait to share it with you.
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Why is Setting and Achieving Goals Important?
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Setting and achieving goals will forever be important, no matter what stage of life you're in if you don't want time to pass while you stay in the same place.
If you're happy staying exactly as you are, looking the same way, doing the same thing everyday, making the same money, dating the same guy or having the same conversations, year after year after year. Then this post simply isn't for you.
But for the rest of us, who want more, who understand that wanting something different means that you have to do something different, who want to grow, learn and develop and that who understand that time is the most valuable thing that we have; setting and achieving things, day after day, month after month and year after year is insanely important.
If you are one of us, I'm sure you already knew that, the issue might be actually following through.
You're good at setting goals, not so much with actually achieving them?
Maybe it's not your fault, maybe you're just doing it wrong.
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------------- How To Set Goals -------------
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How many of us start the new year, or the random day that we decide we need to be better by writing a list of Goals?
Maybe that list looks something like this.
Lose 10lbs
Grow Hair Longer
Dress Better
Save Money
Get 1000 followers on X platform
Can you see the problem here? My STEM girlies are yelling at the screen saying that the goals aren't SMART (Specific, Measurable, Attainable, Timely).
The real problem?
All of these goals are end products.
And to eliminate this problem, and make these goals better, we have to turn them into habits.
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-------- How to turn Goals into Habits --------
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Let's go through our list again.
Lose 10lbs -> Workout 4 times a week, do one form of excerise a day and eat at a caloric deficit.
Grow Hair Longer -> Keep hair in protective styles, use hair growth oils daily, only brush hair when in conditioner
Dress Better -> Sell the clothes I don't like to buy clothes I do like, do a closet clear out once a month, only buy things that are high quality
Save Money -> Budget all money once a month, unsubscribe from things I no longer use, declutter and sell things I no longer need once a month.
Get 1000 followers on X platform -> Post 3 times a week, create meaningful content, reply to all comments left on posts daily, interact with posts from others in the sam niche every day
Can you see the difference?
By changing your goals from the end product to the process these goals suddenly mean more. They're more helpful and seem much more achievable.
End goals cannot always be controlled, you can do everything right, post 3 times a week, reply to all your comments and your following count may still not change for months... then all of a sudden something goes viral and they'll call you an overnight success.
By shifting your focus to the things you can control, rather than the end product, your sense of achievement comes from your consistency and hard work, allowing you to keep going even when you don't see any changes.
This prevents you from giving up when success could be just around the corner.
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-------- How To Achieve Your Goals --------
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Now that we've gone through how to set Goals, lets talk about how to achieve them.
A lot of people just stop at the first part and never think about the things that they can do to ensure that their goals are met.
Never stop at the list.
Why?
You have no initiative to ever look at this list again so you'll most likely forget you even wrote them down in a few weeks
You haven't factored how your life may make achieving these goals a priority.
The answer to this problem?
Turning your Habits into Routines.
It's all well and good setting goals, even setting good goals. But you also need to make sure that you're creating an environment that's conducive to the goals you want to achieve, the habits you want to keep, and the life you want to create.
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------- How to turn Habits into Routines ------
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We've written down all our goals, turned them into habits and now it's time of the most important part, turning them into routines.
This is important because consistency is key, always. Instead of saying that you'll do something 3 times a week and leaving at that, let's go deeper.
Which days of the week will you do it? What time? For how long?
Leaving it up to chance is risky. What if you forget?
We need to create consistent routines.
Pick which days to do your habits
Pick what time you'll do your habits
Pick how long you'll do them for
Pick what you'll do before and after.
Try to make this as consistent as possible, for example, same time every day, same day every week.
Make sure that every single hour is accounted for, even if it's just set as free time.
Its easy to convince yourself you don't have enough time to do things, let's put all the things you have to do into a spreadsheet with how long it'll take and when you'll do it. Better yet we can use a calendar app or website.
See all the free time you've got?
Now creating routine is so much more than writing it down and doing it everyday or every week. At first you may have to check the app every five seconds to see what you're meant to be doing but if you stay consistent, after a few weeks it'll become second nature.
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------------ Removing Distractions ----------
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Organising your time and creating a routine is really eye-opening because it gives you a chance to wonder what the f*** you've been spending your time doing.
Nothing productive probably. Take a look at your screentime, what apps are you spending your time on? How long are you spending? Is this part of the life you'd like to build for yourself?
It might be time for a break.
I am being so honest when I said that getting rid of every single distraction that could be keeping me from my goal was the single most important decision I could've made when planning 2024.
I went full on, no Netflix, no YouTube, no music, no games, no social media. No distractions. For at least the first month of my new routine and I plan on only adding everything back slowly.
I advise you do the same.
Remove the things that you can see could distract you from your goals. What's keeping you from going to bed early? What would you rather do than going to the gym?
I'm telling you, I haven't stopped working on myself, because I genuinely have nothing better to do. I've cut all the distractions out. Going on my one hour walk is now what I look forward to all day. The gym is the best part of my day.
My days currently consist of self improvement, wellness podcasts, reading Jane Austen, being active, cleaning my spaces, skincare and early nights.
But it feels like I'm living my dream life? Whenever I think of my ideal day it's never included 4 hours of mindless scrolling or spending 2 hours down a YouTube rabbit hole.
When I think of my dream life it's always been home cooked meals, reading and fancy skincare routines. I couldn't be happier and I really don't feel like I'm missing out on anything.
TRY IT.
This is probably the most important step because the power that distractions have on us is so real.
You can do all the planning and have the best intentions but if your want to play games, scroll mindlessly on social media, text a guy that doesn't care about you or engage in celebrity drama is greater than your want to be better? Good Luck Charlie.
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---- Making Your Goal Your Obsession ----
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This is actually the fun part.
All I do is listen to podcasts about my goal, read books about my goals, make pinterest boards about my goals and talk to myself about my goals. I'm so obsessed.
Make a reading list, find some podcasts that align with your goals, follow blogs with the same mindset, talk to those of your friends that will get it.
This makes sure that nothing can distract you, and you can't just 'forget' to work towards your goal.
However, you must not let your time obsessing over your goal be more than your time actually working on your goal. Do not forget that.
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------------- Books that could help ------------
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Atomic Habits by James Clear
Digital Minimalism by Cal Newport
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----- May the odds be ever in your favour.. -----
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321 notes · View notes
carolmunson · 1 year
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alive with the glory of love
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(older!rockstar!eddie x older!actress!wife!)
a valentine's slice of life with our favorite rockstar almost thirty years into our marriage. the year is 2023 and we're still stella rink and we're still famous as hell. aged like fine wine. a decades long career and a decades long marriage with two twins in their late twenties. this is semi from the twins perspective. we know what our life was looking like before, let's see what it looks like now. :) eddie manip by @eddiemunsons-missingnipple cw: 18+ minors dni, allusions to smut/wearing lingerie, but overall this is a short little something. reader and eddie are both 57, so, sorry if you don't want to be fifty seven. but if i have to be in my 'early twenties' every time i read a fic, you can be older for like, seven and a half minutes.
The phone eases into focus, Violet’s giggle sounds as she presses record, leaning on her elbows at the kitchen island. The room is a sun drenched, black and white tiled vision — still partially stuck in the 90s, remnants of your old life, despite the ongoing renovations. Despite the teasing from your adult children. Some stuff just never lost its charm – plus, the kids were calling it ‘a 90s vibe’ and you were both pretty sure that was cool. 
“Morning, happy Valentine’s Day,” Violet says sleepily, Van trudging in behind her. They both take lazy seats on the bar stools across from the chef stove that their father is delicately working over. 
“Happy Valentine’s Day, honey,” Eddie calls over his shoulder, daintily pouring pink batter into a cookie cutter mold on a hot pan. The kitchen and dining room are filled to the brim with flowers and balloons. Eddie’s been up for hours getting everything set up for you, some things never change. Some things never get old. 
“What’re you doing?” Van asks. 
“What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m making mommy—” He turns around with a furrowed brow, deepening his forehead creases before he realizes they’re recording him. He sighs before turning back to his task, “Guys, again with the phone?” 
“C’mon dad, they love you!” Violet begs, putting her phone down and shoving it in her sweatshirt pocket, “Van show him the comments on the last one.” 
“They think you’re hilarious, they want you to have your own account,” Van encourages, he opens his own phone to bring over to his dad. He grew up to be a spitting image of the two of you, as if they pasted Eddie’s face on his and gave him all your other features. The color of your eyes, the texture of your hair. Your bright, enrapturing smile. A perfect fifty-fifty. 
Van scrolls slowly through the endless comments, Eddie squinting down at them, “Van, I don’t have my glasses.” 
Eddie peers down lower, “What does that mean? ‘I know it’s big’? What’s big?” “New…choker…just…dropped? I didn’t make chokers for merch,” he shrugs, waving him away to pay attention to the stove. “Ew,” Violet laughs, “Stop making him read these out loud, that’s so gross.” 
“You should still make your own,” Van says, sitting back down, “It’d do way better than the one for Corroded.” 
“Have your mom do it,” Ed shrugs off, “She knows how to do all that internet shit.” 
“That Howard Stern clip is going viral again,” Violet says devilishly, “The girlies are obsessed with you.” 
“I don’t care about the girlies, Vi,” Eddie blushes, flipping one of the pancakes on the pan, “I care about your mom.” 
“I just wanna show them what you guys do for your favorite holiday,” Violet whines, “They’ll love it.” 
“They’re gonna call him a simp,” Van teases, a look of realization washing over his face,  “Wait, you’re such a simp for mom, actually.”  
They both laugh, Eddie doesn’t know what ‘a simp’ is so he laughs too.
“That’s a good word for like, a DND character type — you should see about that in your campaigns,” Ed continues while he plates a pancake on an ever growing stack of pink and red. 
“Ohmygod Dad, no, that’s not—“ Van laughs silently into his hands. 
“Stop making fun of him, he’s old,” Violet pleads between giggles, taking her phone out again, “Dad, seriously can you just tell us what you’re doing? Why do you love Valentine’s Day?”
“Is this for your TikTok thing?” he asks, pulling his dark curls up in a ponytail with a black silk scrunchie, bangs he can’t quite part with falling in waves over his brow. ‘My Pilates teacher was telling me they’ll be safer on your hair,’ you’d said — and he’s never been one to say no to you. Every time the kids came home they’d take their phones out and make Tiktok’s of the two of you, sometimes you’d make a solo one for Violet or Van’s page if you felt like it. But with Twitter and Instagram, you didn’t want to overload your assistant with some other form of social media – but it looked like the two of you were really popular. Especially Eddie. 
Violet educated you about ‘fancams’ which were just clips to music. There were a lot of the two of you together, or you solo from your movies and shows in the 90s. Progressions of you then and now and how you’re still ‘so hot’ and ‘unproblematic’. Eddie’s almost always started with the clip of him at Howard Stern, jaw ticking while he tried to keep his composure: ‘Excuse the fuck out of me, what did you just say about my wife? Do you wanna lose your fuckin’ teeth?’ The comments were always flooded with a mess of young people losing their shit: ‘god i’ve seen what you’ve done for others’ ‘stopppp he’s obsessed with her’ ‘@vidawn i hope your mom can fight’ ‘@vannywayne @vidawn i’m five years younger than u but i would be a great step dad’ ‘when is someone gonna fight howard stern FOR ME?’ ‘@vannywayne @vidawn they’re thirsting over your dad again’ ‘i’m banging on the walls of my enclosure’ 'ewwww we hate cheaters' ‘i NEED to fuck him’ ‘@vannywayne you look EXACTLY the same’ ‘are they looking for a third?’ 'idgi he looks dirty' ‘they are notttttt making them like him anymore’ ‘not him being old enough to be my father i’m sick’
“Obviously,” she snaps back, rolling his eyes when he starts touching himself up for the camera. 
“Should I do a couple of push ups so I look buff or…?” he teases. Violet and Van make a face that puts any face you’ve given him to shame. It’s the only regret he has about having kids with you – all that attitude had to go somewhere. 
“Fine, fine,” he huffs, “I’m ready for my close up, Vi.” 
“You’re so cheesy, dad. Just be normal for like, five seconds,” Violet huffs, taking out her phone again, “You’re ready?” 
“M’ready,” he smiles. “Okay, so, what’re you doing?” Violet asks again. 
“I am making pancakes,” he starts, pouring red better into the cookie cutter mold on the pan this time, “In a heart shape, for your mom.” 
“How long have you been doing this?” she asks, a smile spreading across her face. It matches her dads. There was no mistaking that Violet was Eddie Munson’s daughter. 
“Since we got together, so – the first one was in 1990,” he muttered, flipping the pancake, “I do it every year ‘cause she loves it. They’re strawberry, but they’re pink and red ‘cause I put food coloring in them.” 
“Is Valentine’s Day her favorite holiday?” 
Eddie grins, “No, her favorite holiday is the fourth of July. Not ‘cause she’s got a boner for America or anything. She just likes fireworks and when I use the grill.” “Is it your favorite holiday?” Van asks this time. Eddie nods, a bright blush pushing up on his face. 
“How come?” Violet and Van ask at the same time. Eddie turns the burner off, placing the heaping plate of heart shaped pancakes on the center of the island. He opens the wine cooler on the opposite wall, pulling out a bottle of champagne and two flutes from the top cabinet.
“‘Cause I get to spoil your mom all day,” he smiles, “She deserves it.” 
“You spoil her every day,” Van teases, “I can’t think of a more doted on woman on earth than mom.” 
“She’s very special,” he shrugs. 
“And you do this every year?” Violet asks, zooming in on the pancakes. 
“Every year for the past thirty four years, well, minus ninety-two,” he frowns a little, “We had some time apart that year.” 
“Still had my chef make them for me though.” 
Your voice cuts in from the large arch way connecting to the dining room and Violet pans quickly over to get you in frame. 
“Hi mom,” Vi says, “Is this your favorite holiday?” 
“No,” you shake your head and laugh, the same laugh he fell in love with, “It’s the fourth of July. C’mon Vi, how long have I been your mom? Do you even know me?” “You’re supposed to be in bed, honey,” Eddie frowns, “You’re ruining the surprise.” 
“The surprise that’s older than my kids? How could I forget,” you grin, rounding the island and greeting your husband with a gentle kiss, “Happy Valentine’s day.” 
“Happy Valentine’s day, baby,” he murmurs into a second chaste peck, “You’re supposed to let me bring them up to you.” 
“My kids are home, I don’t wanna spend all day in bed,” you pout. He pouts back dramatically, tugging on your arm to pull you flush against his chest. 
“I thought you loved spending all day in bed with me,” he pushes some of your hair back before resting a palm on your cheek, moving in to kiss you deeply. The scruff on his chin scratches around your mouth but you never care because he still kisses you, he kisses you every day. He’d kiss you all day if you let him. You had too many girlfriends whose ex-husbands were on their third wife and every year they’re more surprised that Eddie is still on his first.
“Okay, I think that’s our cue to leave,” Van says, Violet stops recording. Their faces sour.  
“Yeah we don’t want a January ‘94 repeat or anything,” Vi jokes. The twins high five at their own mean reference to your horrific sex tape debacle, but you and Eddie toss them a playful glare. 
“Hey, she might be your mother, but she’s my wife,” Eddie warns, hand sneaking down to rest on the small of your back to pull you close to him, “Don’t mess with her.” 
“Yeah,” you tease, crossing your arms, “You saw what he did to Howie’s studio. I just gotta say the word.” 
“So scary,” Violet rolls her eyes, leaving the kitchen with her twin in tow, “We’re taking the Jeep to get Jamba Juice, do you want anything?” 
“My usual,” you answer while Eddie goes to the fridge to get grapefruit juice out of the fridge, “And get daddy’s usual too. Do you want his card? Where’s your card, hun?”
“Wherever you last left it,” he responds, gracefully pouring grapefruit mimosas for the both of you. 
“It’s in my purse,” you call out. 
“Which one?!” Violet calls back, both of them waiting by the door. 
“The pink Kelly!” 
“Got it! Do you want anything else?” Van calls out. 
“Just uh,” Eddie giggles to himself, tossing you a once over, “Take your time!” 
“Gross!” they yell back in unison. Eddie waits for the door to close to pull you back into him, he watches you at first. Brown eyes cascading over the slope of your nose, your cheeks, the crinkles at the edge of your eyes, your smile lines. He looks at you like he’s looking at you for the first time, every time. He looks different, but the same. Dark curls smattered and entwined in silver, a nose ring, a never ending scratch of overgrown stubble. Deep lines on his forehead that exaggerate his already animated features. Lips still full and warm, hands still big and covered in rings. He’s kept his body real tight for fifty-seven, still throwing himself in the gym daily. ‘If I’m gonna be addicted to something now it might as well be like, my cardiovascular health, babe.’ His crows feet make him somehow more attractive, his smile got better with age. He still makes your heart race when he catches your eye from across the room. “You wearing that little red thing I like?” he purrs in your ear. The tie to your robe sliding between his inked fingers.
“Maybe,” your finger trails over a tattoo on his bicep, “Maybe, I got something new for you to see. Maybe it’s black, maybe it’s strappy. Maybe it’s that thing you saw when we went shopping last week.” 
“Christ,” he huffs, pressing a kiss to your cheek before stepping back over to the counter, “Do you ever stop getting hotter? Eat your breakfast before I bend you over this bar stool.” 
“Let’s bring it upstairs like you wanted,” you smile, following him closely to press your hips up against him, “We can get a little messy.” 
“Yeah?” he growls, pushing part of your robe away to see a peek of black lace and strappy leather, “Fucking god, Stell.” 
“C’mon,” you whisper breathily, pushing up on your tiptoes to kiss him again, “They’ll be home soon.” 
Some things have changed, some things remain the same. He still fucks you like a rockstar.
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capsicle-evans · 9 months
Text
The Make Believe Ms Evans
Chris Evans x Reader
Summary: A PR marriage between Y/N and Chris Evans has skyrocketed their careers but their sex lives has never been this low. Up until now.
Warnings: Smut, unprotected sex, ass play, swearing.
Part 1
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“Stay still” Marina, my make up artist warns me as she applies my eyeliner. “Can’t fuck this up now”
“Claire would probably murder you” I grin as I feel the weight of Marina’s hand on my cheekbone. “Did you know that you make funny faces when you are doing my make up?”
“It’s my concentration face” She winks at me before setting the pen on the table. “There, all done”
“Just in time” I whisper as Claire enters the bathroom, a stern look on her face.
“Y/N, can you join us in the living room, please?” Claire, my publicist, asks me.
“Depends” I twist my mouth to the side. “Am I getting lectured?”
“Depends” She gives me the same look I just gave her. “Are you going to comply?”
“Ugh, fine I’ll join you” I roll my eyes, standing up from my makeup chair. “You know, you need to stop being so grumpy all the time. It’s not good for your health”
“Yeah well that’s what working for you gets me” She turns around, guiding me towards the living area of the suite.
I grab the train of my dress before following her steps, making sure not to step over the hem. As soon as I enter the space, I notice Chris standing in front of the mirror, his eyes fixated on his tie, completely oblivious of my presence. I walk pass him, towards the chair next to the window, sitting down gracefully just to make sure my dress remains intact.
“I’m here” Polly appears from the adjacent room, a lot of papers in her hand and her phone between her ear and her shoulder. “Gotta go, call you later”
I take a couple of seconds to look at Chris, his black suit and black shirt hugging his entire frame. I turn my eyes to Polly before Chris can look back. “What’s going on?”
“What the fuck is going on with you two?” Polly asks as she places her phone down over the coffee table. “And why is this the fifth call I receive today about you two?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about” I pout, reaching for a chocolate truffle but setting it down after thinking of the mess I might make of my dress.
“Well, enews is asking if you guys are getting a divorce, people magazine is asking me who cheated” Claire snarks back at me.
“Well, we know the answer to that one” I smile sarcastically.
“Seriously, Y/N? You’re still on that shit?” Chris rolls his eyes, running his hand through his hair.
“What? She asked and it’s not like I actually care” I tell him before turning back to Claire and Polly. “But for real, what’s up with the questions? We haven’t done anything”
“Yeah, that’s the problem, you two don’t look at each other or even talk to each other during events and people are starting to notice it” Polly says as she takes a seat across from me. “Guys, we know this wasn’t a love match but for fuck’s sake, you guys are actors, try to pretend at least”
Chris and I got married about 4 months ago after a lot of campaigning on Polly and Claire’s part. Every since Chris and I did a movie together two years ago, our fame skyrocketed and our teams thought that it would be a great idea if we dated. Or at least we pretended to. But in reality, we hated each other but apparently that’s what our movie needed since it was an enemys to lovers story. Fans went batshit crazy after a picture of Chris leaving my apartment at 3 am went viral. Truth was, he was there to apologize after a massive fallout we had during shooting. So we pretended to date and our relationship became like crack for the fans. It only took a couple of months before they were selling us the idea of marriage and only an idiot would deny the good press that our relationship brought to our careers, so we agreed.
“She basically chops my hand off as soon as I even try to step close to her” Chris waves his hand at me. “Take it up with her”
“Nice, put the blame on me” I chuckle. “Fucking prick”
“See, this has to stop if you guys don’t want to end up doing lifetime movies for the rest of your lives” Claire glares at us accusingly.
“If I’ll put me out of this misery” I exhale loudly but soon stop when Claire gives me a stern look. “Kidding”
“Guys, please” Polly sighs. “We know this situation is not ideal but I need you guys to cooperate”
“Fine” I shrug. “We’ll be more lovey doveys with each other”
“Chris?” Polly looks up at him with pleading eyes.
“It’s not like I have a choice” Chris turns to me. “No offense”
“I’d have to care in order for it to offend me” I snark back before turning to Claire. “Sorry, from now on I’ll be a good wifey”
“God help us all” Polly looks up at the ceiling as if God can give her any guidance.
***
The limo pulls up right at the edge of the red carpet, flashes and shouts already making me feel anxious. Chris opens up the door from his side and steps out, waving immediately at the people who have turned their attention to our car. He turns to give me a hand, his free hand reaching for the train of my dress.
“Thank you” I whisper as he bends down to spread the train nicely so it can be appreciated in its full glory.
“That’s what lovey dovey husbands do” Chris grins as he places a hand just above my butt cheek. “Try not to chop off my hand”
“Try not to tempt me” I say with a tight smile in my lips.
Chris guides me towards the red carpet, our names being shouted from every angle. With his left hand still on my back, he pulls to his side to pose for some pictures. He then turns to me, leaning in to whisper something in my ear. “Pretend I just said something funny”
“That’s hard since I don’t have a point of reference” I pretend to giggle as Chris hand pinches my skin. “Jerk”
“See, that’s why we make a lovely couple” He grins down at me, his lips pressed against my temple. “We are both assholes”
“Chris, Y/N” A pap calls our attention “look over here”
We keep posing for a couple of minutes, every once in a while looking at each other and giving a fake smile. After a while, Polly and Claire guide us to the inside of the theater where Chris’ movie is premiering. It’s about a war veteran who comes after being presumed dead. It was a heavy movie and it took a big toll on Chris but it all payed off because people where even mentioning his name along the word “oscar”.
Half way through the movie, after crying a bit over a really hard scene, an almost naked Chris came on the screen, and there was a bunch of gasps heard around the room. Chris looks good, no one could deny it, but this scene in particular really made it difficult for me to not gape at him. It was really intimate and sexy, and it focused on him going down on his estranged wife.
My hands went to the armrests, gripping a bit as Chris’ mouth hid between his costars legs. Every since we started the agreement, there was no one else. At least on my part. Mostly to avoid gossip. That meant that my sex life was basically non existent, unless anyone counted the vibrator in my bedside table.
A couple of eyes turned to my direction, hoping to see a reaction from me as I watch my husband be so intimate with another woman. I fidget a little in my seat, a warm feeling setting over my abdomen as I listen to Chris’ moans over the speakers. I need sex. Not with Chris, obviously. Just sex.
“Stop moving” Chris grunts, placing a hand over my shaking thigh. His palm is hot against my skin, making me gulp.
“Get your hand off me” I grit my teeth, trying hard not to push his hand away.
“You are moving like a worm and it’s distracting me” Chris looks down at me before taking his hand away.
“Sorry, the dress is too tight” I lie. I don’t want him to think that this is about him.
“Whatever, just stop squirming” He almost grins when I send him a death glare. “Childish”
“Idiot” I call him through my teeth.
“Both of you shut up before someone else listens” Polly pokes her head from Chris’ side, giving both of us a pointed look.
I huff before settling my back against my chair. Thankfully, the scene is over and my skin has stopped tingling. I manage to put my attention back into the movie, tears forming every once in a while. Soon after, the credits are rolling and everyone is on their feet, clapping at the whole crew.
I stand up and clap along before Claire softly pushes me to Chris’ side. Biting the inside of my lip, I wrap my arm around his waistline and look up, faking a smile. “Pretend that I just said something sweet” I whisper only form him to hear.
“That’s hard since I don’t have a point of reference” Chris grins, throwing my words back at me. “But I’ll try”
***
“God she is so pretty” I cry as I stare up at Taylor Swift as she walks around the room. Every since it was announce that she was going to be in the movie soundtrack, I nearly fainted.
“Stop being a creep” Chris gives me a weird look before going back to his whiskey.
After the movie was over, we traveled to the after party to loosen up a bit more and enjoy the cool LA night. I switched my dress before arriving, opting for a short black dress.
“Can you leave me alone? Please?” I try to not to make a face in case anyone is watching.
“Trust me, there’s nothing that I want more than to be away from you” Chris says, still holding his glass to his lips.
“You’d rather be with her?” I ask, reaching for my vodka soda.
“Seriously? Are we going there?” I can see the anger in his hands as it grips the glass. “Nothing happened”
About a month after the wedding, I started receiving texts and screenshots from one of Chris’ costars on a film. They were from a conversation between her and Chris and about how they couldn’t wait to be alone and fuck each other’s brains off. I obviously never cared about it out of jealousy but out of anger because he was making me look like an idiot. Claire and Polly had to intervene, so, after she got a deal on a movie thanks to them, the messages stopped coming.
“Whatever” I roll my eyes before going back to looking around the room. “At least she was pretty, I would actually murder you if you cheated on me with an ugly person”
“I didn’t cheat” He exhales harshly, really annoyed with me.
“Glad to see you are not biting each other’s heads off” Claire joins us at the VIP table, a glass of white wine in her hand.
“Come back in 5 minutes and we’ll see” I give her a sarcastic smile. “It’s really tempting”
“Maybe you should fuck the anger away” Polly smirks as she sits next to Claire.
I immediately tense up, remembering that scene from the movie. “I’d rather shave my entire hair and eat it before doing that”
Chris laughs, clearly amused by my comment. “And they say romance is dead”
“When it comes to this relationship, they are right” I flop back down on the couch. “Anyways, enough about our wonderful marriage. I want to dance or do something fun for once”
“Let’s go” Chris stands up, stretching his hand to me. I stare at his hand for a couple of seconds. “Before I change my mind”
“You want to dance with me?” I blink up at him.
“That’s what couples do, Y/N” Chris rolls his eyes before reaching for my hand and forcing my to stand up.
“So romantic” Polly teases, earning a giggle from Claire.
“Oh shut up” I glare at them before following Chris to where there are some people dancing.
Taylor has been singing for a while now, the tunes of Dress starting to slither through the speakers. Chris pulls me against his chest, his hand landing on the curve between my ass and my back. People start to turn their attention to us.
“People are staring” I whisper against his jacket.
“Ignore them” Chris whispers against my ears. “Just remember you have to look like a madly in love wife”
“Yeah, because that’s easy” I chuckle. “I’ve never been married before and I’ve never been madly in love either”
“Never?” He asks me, his breath fanning my skin as we sway with the music. “A high school boyfriend?”
“I mean I’ve had boyfriends” I explain. “Just never that serious. You?”
“Not really, I mean, I enjoyed my past relationships but never enough to wish to marry them” Chris spins me around just as Taylor starts singing the chorus.
“And yet you married someone you actually hate” I laugh, seeing the irony.
“Yeah, well, at least you are hot” He pinches my back softly.
“Christopher Robert Evans, is that a compliment?” I fake gasp. He has called me this before. And so have I. Just because we are not particularly fond of each other doesn’t mean we are blind.
“Don’t let it get to your head” Chris rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to get along here”
“I mean we are making progress” I look around the room, scanning the crowd. “This is the longest we have gone without giving each other an insult”
“Don’t tempt me” He chuckles. “No but I’m serious… We should try to at least get along”
“Yeah, I guess” I bit the inside of my cheeks. We stay pressed against each other, surrounded just by Taylor’s sweet voice and some chatter.
“I never cheated” Chris breaks our silence, his muscle tensing under my hands. “I know that I don’t owe you an explanation and I know you probably are not going to believe me. But I didn’t. I promised to respect you, and I plan on sticking to that promise, fake husband or not”
I fix my eyes on the button of his shirt, not daring to look him at his eyes. “I know… I guess I just chose to believe it to have a reason to hate you. I’m sorry”
“Okay, let’s just put that behind us” Chris relaxes, his back slouching a bit. “We can be friends, Y/N. God knows how long we are going to need to keep this going, might as well get along”
“Pains me to say this, but you are right” I finally look up at him, his blue orbs staring down at me. “Hi, I’m Y/N. And you are?”
Chris throws his head back, laughing. “You have my last name, Y/N. We can start over without weird introductions”
“Indulge me, Evans” I poke his chest. “I don’t know that much about you”
“What do you want to know?” He raises his eyebrow. “Ask away”
“What’s your favorite color?” I blush, realizing how stupid my question is. “Sorry, I’ll try again”
“Green” He ignores my second statement. “Yours?”
“Blue, but like light blue, kinda like your e-“ I cut myself, my cheeks flaring.
“Here I was asking to be friends and you are just laying it out on me” Chris grins hard. “You waste no time, Ms. Evans”
“Idiot” I slap his arm playfully. “I meant I like the shade, that’s all”
“Sure sure” He nods, a smug look on his face. “My turn… Favorite animal?”
“Mmm tough one… I really like raccoons and-“ I stop myself when Chris’ laugh erupts from his chest. “What?”
“Who the fuck likes Raccoons?” His eyes are still tingling with amusement.
“They are cute and funny” I defend myself. “They are like just so hilarious”
“Fuck that’s good” He shakes his head. “You are weird”
“Many people like raccoons” I fight him. “You need to learn to appreciate their beauty”
“Yeah, no thanks” Chris stops moving and grabs my hand. “Why don’t we go back to the table? Seems stupid to try to have a conversation while dancing”
“Okie dokie” I follow his lead back to our VIP table.
Polly and Claire are deep into a conversation, probably some gossip or something like that. PR people always know everything about everyone. We sit down across from there, getting back their attention.
“Oh look, you guys made it without a scratch” Polly nods proudly. “Who would’ve thought?”
I roll my eyes before turning my eyes back to Chris, falling back into our conversation.
***
“Hi, bub” I lean down, my heels in on hand and the other one petting Dodger behind his ears. “Where you a good boy to uncle Scott?”
Scott was our designated dog-sitter most of the nights. Neither of them minded, Dodger loved him so much, he actually listened to him.
“He’s always a good boy” Chris bents down to plant a kiss over the dog’s head before walking away from the entry way.
I make my way to my room, Dodger following right behind me. I hear Chris yell “traitor” before I disappear into my closet.
A couple of minutes later, I’m tucked in my bed, Dodger at the edge, his head over my feet. Chris’ footsteps catch hims attention, his head snapping up. “You traitor”
“Let him be” I pull the dog closer to me. “He always sleeps with you”
Chris and I have separate rooms and I only sleep on the masters bedroom whenever we have other people around. People that don’t know about the whole fake marriage thing. Mostly the maid and the cook and both of our families. Even Scott believed we were happily married.
“Yeah, cuz he is mine” Chris sasses. “C’mon boy”
But Dodger stays put. “Just give up already”
“Fine, just this once” Chris drops the subject before snapping his head up. “Uh, I forgot. Do you have any spare razor? I forgot to ask Mayra to restock my shelf”
“Yeah sure” I move slowly so that dodger won’t sprint out of my bed. I push the covers away and step out of the bed.
Quickly, I reach the bathroom and pull a pink razor from the cabinet under my sink. “You’ll have to settle for this pink one” I stretch my hand before looking up, Chris’ eyes not exactly meeting mine.
Fuck. I forgot that I chose the pink nightgown. The one the gave me too much cleavage and barely reached under my butt cheeks. Nervously, I reach for my rob that’s draping over my night stand, snapping Chris’ attention away from my bare legs.
“Uh, yeah no, thanks” Chris mutters, snatching the razor from my hand and walking away from my room a bit to fast.
I shake my head a bit before moving back to my bed, Dodger still sprawled on the edge of the bed. “Let’s sleep this off, buddy”
About 10 minutes have passed since I turned off the lamp over my nightstand, when a weird sound startles me awake. I squint my eyes, as if that’s going to help me decipher the source of the noise. A couple of seconds later, right when I’m about to drop it, I hear it again. A moan. A moan from Chris. His bathroom shares a wall with my room, sounds slipping into my area really easy. I can hear his muffled moans a bit clearer, connecting my ear to the wall.
“This fucker” I feel anger bubbling inside of me. He brought someone home. After saying he wouldn’t cheat on my. Well not technically on me, on the promise of respecting me.
I push away the covers from my frame, earning a glare from Dodger before he moves to settle over the free side of the bed.
I walk fast towards his room, ready to rip him a new one. I push pass his door and head straight to the bathroom. I keep waiting for a pair of heels or some panties dropped somewhere on his room but my eyes remain cleaned from that sight. I’m about to burst into the bathroom when the imagine forming on front of me stops me cold on my feet.
Chris’ has his back against the wall, the shower head splashing his face, water dripping down his torso. His hand is pumping his swollen dick, curses coming out of his mouth along with the movement.
It’s like I am being hypnotized. I want to move my eyes away, but the scene in front of me so fiery, my eyes remain glued to his member. I feel a warm spreading in between my legs as Chris pumps harder. He lets out a hard loud moan as white loads burst from the tip of his dick. He huffs, rolling his head back, letting the water wash away all the produce of his effort.
I snap out of it, walking backwards fast before sprinting back to my room. I close my door slowly, making sure not to make a sound before hiding under my bed spread. I close my eyes hard trying to remove the picture from my head but the heat in between my legs not allowing me to.
I give up after 5 minutes, poking my hand out from under the bed covers. Without even looking, I dig my hand into my nightstand, searching for my pink vibrator. This will have to do for the night.
I have a plan for tomorrow.
***
“Let me get it off, bub” I bent down to release Dodger from his leash, the pup ready to sprint to the backyard.
Dodger and I love to go on hikes together, just the two of us and the sun rising over the horizon.
I hear from clattering from the kitchen so I step into the area, spotting Chris over the stools that surround the kitchen island. “Hey there”
“Morning” Chris looks up at me, as he sets his coffee down. “How was the hike?”
“Pretty good” I reach for the top cabinet, looking for a glass. Chris probably put the dishes away because the glasses are to far back, forcing me on my tip toes.
I can feel Chris’ eyes burning a hole over my ass as the my tennis skirt rises enough to expose the underside of my cheeks. I turn around and Chris snaps his gaze back to his omelet, his cheeks turning red.
I fill my glass with water and gulp it down, not taking my eyes from him. I settle the glass down before moving to stand in front of him, the kitchen island separating us.
“Let’s have sex” I say hard, so hard that Chris starts coughing as a piece of egg gets caught up in his throat.
“I’m sorry, what?” He looks up at me, his breath a bit hard from the chocking and maybe from my statement.
“Let’s have sex” I repeat myself. “You said you were not going to cheat and neither will I. But we both have needs and I think it’s a good idea”
“What are you even-?” Chris starts but I roll my eyes.
“I heard you last night” I confess. His face turns a deep shade of red, the vein on the side of his neck pulsing. “Look, I won’t judge you, I did it, too.
“You- what?” Chris’ breath hitches, his knuckles turning white as he closes his hands.
“C’mon we are not five” I step around the kitchen island, closer to him but still leaving some space between us. “We can get each other off, and we are married so it’s not like we are doing harm to anyone
“I don’t- I’m” Chris stammers a bit. “I’m not sure it’s a good idea”
I stare at him for a couple of seconds before finally speaking up again. “Fine, I’m not going to beg. I still have my vibrator. It’ll probably do a better job, anyways”
I turn around to leave but Chris’ hand flys up to my neck, gripping the back to turn me back around.
“What did you just said?” He brings his face close to mine. His grip tightening a bit. “Repite it”
“I can do a better job with my vibrator than you” I breath out, focusing my eyes on him.
Chris grunts before crashing his lips down to mine angrily. A moan scapes my mouth as he bits into my lower lip, making way for his tongue to punish me. His free hand travels down to my leg, pulling me up to place me on the kitchen counter.
I push my hands into his hair as his tongue swipes my bottom lip clean before moving down to my jaw and the to my neck before settling on the spot right under my earlobe. He sucks hard as his hands start pulling at my sports bra. My sweaty chest makes it a bit hard so I pull away to help him. As soon as the textile is not longer covering my boobs, Chris dives right in for one of my nipples, forcing me to arch my back. While his tongue polishes my hard nipple, his right hand moves to the other unattended bud of flesh. First his palm rolls against the harden button, his calloused skin sending tingles straight to my core.
“Fuck” I moan as I his salive drips down a long my nipple. I can’t keep my eyes away from the scene, my burning gaze forcing Chris to look up at me as he pulls my nipple with his teeth. “Oh god”
“Lay down” Chris pushes me down with his hand until my back connects with the cold granite of the counter.
I bring my hands to his shoulders, tugging at the fabric of his shirts, signaling him to take it off. “Get rid of this, Christopher”
“On it” He groans against my skin, stepping away just enough to pull the shirt over his head. His hard pecks and abdomen glistening in front of me, the pants forcing his muscles to look more prominent. “Satisfied?”
“No” I pull him down against my lips, my tongue making a mess of his bottom lip. “Take me like a man, Evans” I mutter against his lips.
“As you wish” Chris groans before moving his mouth down along my skin until it reaches the edge of my skirt. I wait for him to take it off but instead he just pushes it up and tucks down my underwear along with my leggings. He steps back a bit to pull his pants down, his boxers following the same fate.
“You know how many times my eyes were glued to your ass as you skipped around with this fucking skirt?” Chris growls as his spreads my thighs as my pussy radiates heat right in front of him. “How many times I picture your ass red after a good slapping, only this thine material covering the swell of your ass?”
I moan loudly as his hands grab my thighs, my ass hanging slightly over the edge of the counter. “I want you to be loud, Y/N” Chris pinches my butt cheek before lining himself up to me. “Moan my name”
“Yes, Chris” I throw my head back as he rubs my entrance with his tip “Rip me open”
Chris pushes just enough for his head to enter my pussy, my folds hiding his pink tip. “Yeah stretch me open” I throw my head back as he sways back and forth, entering me slowly.
“I can’t hold it anymore” Chris grips my thighs. “Brace yourself”
I grab the edge of the kitchen counter, my knuckles turning white as he pushes hard into me. There’s a sting that makes tears form on my eyes. I’ve never had someone this big inside of me, my pussy throbbing at the new feeling.
“Look at you” Chris presses his thumb against my clit. “Taking me so good” He throws his head back as his entire cock disappears into me. His thrusts are hard and slow, building up the tension in my lower belly.
“C’mere” Chris stops, pulling out so I cry at the loss of him. “Let me turn you around”
Chris puts me on my feet before turning me around so my ass is pressed against his hard cock. “Bend over, Y/N”
I do as I’m told, pressing my chest against the cold tiles. Chris grabs both of my hands and holds them behind my back, using the as support to hold himself as he re enters me. “That’s right. So tight”
I’m lost in my own moans when I feel Chris spit on his hand, before pressing his thumb against my asshole. “Chris” I tense up immediately.
“I’m not going to fuck you there, Y/N” He massages around my hole. “I just like to see the way you clench up” he caresses my butt cheek, trying to get me to loosen up again. “Do you want me to stop?”
He waits for my answer as I take in the sensation, his thumb placing a soft pressure over my hole. It’s not bad. “No, it’s okay”
“Good” Chris grunts as he picks up his pace, plunging hard against me. This new position really allows him to go in deep, reaching a new part of me that has me whimpering.
“Chris” I whine when he angles himself so that I can feel him fill me up to the point where me knees are shaking under me. “I won’t last”
“Yes, cum around my cock” He reaches down to grab my pony tail in a fist, making me arch my back. His movements become erratic as he speeds up, encouraging the orgasm out of me.
“Yes yes yes” I cry as I feel the tightness around my pussy before the release finally arrives. The cries that come out of ny mouth are filthy, so filthy that Chris drops down and plugs in his thumb into my mouth. I bit at his skin, the waves of pleasure still rocking my core.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck” Chris groans as he pulls out, his entire load landing on my back. “Fuck yes”
I’m still shaking, waiting for him to catch his breath so that he can help me stand up. “Chris, fuck that was…”
I’m so out of breath I don’t even finish my sentence, Chris doing it for me. “So hot”
I feel him pull away from me, a cool breeze replacing the warmth of his body. “Don’t move” I hear him move around the kitchen, looking for a clean towel before running it down the the warm water that pours out of the faucet.
Chris walks back to me, cleaning his entire release from my back. “I think you need to wash your hair” I can hear the grin on his smug face.
“Seriously?” I groan, standing up. “Aim better next time, Evans”
“You want a next time?” He throws the dirty towel at the floor where my sweaty clothes are.
“I’m game if you are” I shrug, tugging the elastic out of my hair.
“Then let’s play, Y/N” Chris grins hard as his dick starts twitching.
****************************************************
New series coming your waaaay🩵 hope you guys like this
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coochiequeens · 11 months
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Because large-scale organising is “almost impossible” in China, women are turning to “all kinds of alternative ways to maintain feminism in their daily lives and even develop and transfer feminism to others,” she says. These may take the form of book clubs or exercise meet-ups. Some of her friends in China organise hikes. “They say that we are feminists, we are hiking together, so when we are hiking we talk about feminism.“ - Lü Pin
To find evidence that China’s feminist movement is gaining momentum – despite strict government censorship and repression – check bookshelves, nightstands and digital libraries. There, you might find a copy of one of Chizuko Ueno’s books. The 74-year-old Japanese feminist and author of Feminism from Scratch and Patriarchy and Capitalism has sold more than a million books in China, according to Beijing Open Book, which tracks sales. Of these, 200,000 were sold in January and February alone.
Ueno, a professor of sociology at the University of Tokyo, was little known outside in China outside academia until she delivered a 2019 matriculation speech at the university in which she railed against its sexist admissions policies, sexual “abuse” by male students against their female peers, and the pressure women felt to downplay their academic achievements.
The speech went viral in Japan, then China.
“Feminist thought does not insist that women should behave like men or the weak should become the powerful,” she said. “Rather, feminism asks that the weak be treated with dignity as they are.”
In the past two years, 11 of her books have been translated into simplified Chinese and four more will be published this year. In December, two of her books were among the top 20 foreign nonfiction bestsellers in China. While activism and protests have been stifled by the government, the rapid rise in Ueno’s popularity shows that women are still looking for ways to learn more about feminist thought, albeit at a private, individual level.
Talk to young Chinese academics, writers and podcasters about what women are reading and Ueno’s name often comes up. “We like-like her,” says Shiye Fu, the host of popular feminist podcast Stochastic Volatility.
“In China we need some sort of feminist role model to lead us and enable us to see how far women can go,” she says. “She taught us that as a woman, you have to fight every day, and to fight is to survive.”
When asked by the Guardian about her popularity in China, Ueno says her message resonates with this generation of Chinese women because, while they have grown up with adequate resources and been taught to believe they will have more opportunities, “patriarchy and sexism put the burden to be feminine on them as a wife and mother”.
Ueno, who found her voice during the student power movements of the 1960s, has long argued that marriage restricts women’s autonomy, something she learned watching her own parents. She described her father as “a complete sexist”. It’s stance that resonates with women in China, who are rebelling against the expectation that they take a husband.
Ueno’s most popular book, with 65,000 reviews on Douban, is simply titled Misogyny. One review reads: “It still takes a little courage to type this. I have always been shy about discussing gender issues in a Chinese environment, because if I am not careful, I will easily attract the label of … ‘feminist cancer’.”
“Now it’s a hard time,” says Lü Pin, a prominent Chinese feminist who now lives in the US. In 2015 she happened to be in New York when Chinese authorities arrested five of her peers – who were detained for 37 days and became known as the “Feminist Five” – and came to Lü’s apartment in Beijing. She narrowly avoided arrest. “Our movement is increasingly being regarded as illegal, even criminal, in China.”
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China’s feminist movement has grown enormously in the past few years, especially among young women online, says Lü, where it was stoked by the #MeToo movements around the world and given oxygen on social media. “But that’s just part of the story,” she says. Feminism is also facing much stricter censorship – the word “feminism” is among those censored online, as is China’s #MeToo hashtag, #WoYeShi.
“When we already have so many people joining our community, the government regards that as a threat to its rule,” Lü says. “So the question is: what is the future of the movement?”
Because large-scale organising is “almost impossible” in China, women are turning to “all kinds of alternative ways to maintain feminism in their daily lives and even develop and transfer feminism to others,” she says. These may take the form of book clubs or exercise meet-ups. Some of her friends in China organise hikes. “They say that we are feminists, we are hiking together, so when we are hiking we talk about feminism.
“Nobody can change the micro level.”
‘The first step’
In 2001, when Lü was a journalist starting out on her journey into feminism, she founded a book club with a group of friends. She was struggling to find books on the subject, so she and her friends pooled their resources. “We were feminists, journalists, scholars, so we decided let’s organise a group and read, talk, discuss monthly,” she says. They met in people’s homes, or the park, or their offices. It lasted eight years and the members are still among her best friends.
Before the book club, “I felt lonely when I was pursuing feminism. So I need friends, I need a community. And that was the first community I had.” “I got friendship, I deepened my understanding of feminism,” Lü says. “It’s interesting, perhaps the first step of feminist movements is always literature in many countries, especially in China.”
Lü first read Ueno’s academic work as a young scholar, when few people in China knew her name. Ueno’s books are for people who are starting out on their pursuit of feminism, Lü says, and the author is good at explaining feminist issues in ways that are easy to understand.
Like many Ting Guo discovered Ueno after the Tokyo University speech. Guo, an assistant professor in the department of cultural and religious studies at the Chinese University of Hong Kong, still uses it in lectures.
Ueno’s popularity is part of a larger phenomenon, Guo says. “We cannot really directly describe what we want to say, using the word that we want to use, because of the censorship, because of the larger atmosphere. So people need to try to borrow words, mirror that experience in other social situations, in other political situations, in other contexts, in order to precisely describe their own experience, their own feelings and their own thoughts.”
There are so many people who are new to the feminist movement, says Lü, “and they are all looking for resources, but due to censorship, it’s so hard for Chinese scholars, for Chinese feminists, to publish their work.”
Ueno “is a foreigner, that is one of her advantages, and she also comes from [an] east Asian context”, which means that the patriarchal system she describes is similar to China’s. Lü says the reason books by Chinese feminists aren’t on bestseller lists is because of censorship.
Na Zhong, a novelist who translated Sally Rooney’s novels into simplified Chinese, feels that Chinese feminism is, at least when it comes to literature, gaining momentum. The biggest sign of this, both despite and because of censorship, is “the sheer number of women writers that are being translated into Chinese” – among whom Ueno is the “biggest star”.
“Young women are discovering their voices, and I’m really happy for my generation,” she says. “We’re just getting started.”
By Helen R Sullivan
This is the third story in a three-part series on feminism and literature in China.
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junktastic · 4 months
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I had a drawing months back that went kinda viral I guess, and it getting out of my normal sphere of followers meant that I got to observe how folks far outside of my twitter sphere interact with twitter and others. For reference, I am talking about this image:
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The context, besides getting to draw my friend Jenny, was that I saw a picture that was of an anime girl that said "lets be in our early 30s together" and I was like "haha, I will make my own version of this." Part of it was also that I think aging is fine, and we need to stop stressing so much over staying young. "Lets be in our mid-thirties together" is not a joke, I sincerely wanted this image to be warm and inviting, to maybe give people hope that there will be friends and people who love you once you get to that age. I never thought I was going to make it to 30, and I just turned 35 this year, and I'm the happiest I've ever been.
Some responses were obviously teens/early 20s people saying they don't want to get that old, which is whatever. When you're that young the dirty thirty sounds so ugly. No one cool is in their 30s! Well, if you ignore the people who make all the things they like. These responses I waved these off.
I saw the typical twitter experience replies of "this doesn't apply to me?" Ok bitch! Go make your own like I did! And show me when you do, I'd love to see it!
There was a handful of people who were saying "retweet to scare a twink" which I felt was kind of rude. Not to me, but to the twinks out there. Aging doesn't make you less of a twink.
Lots of people were sending it to their significant others or saying they hope to find someone to be in their mid-thirties with, which I love. :3 It makes me happy!
The one kind of response which is what I made this post for and I'm so sorry that I've been rambling, that I found weird was the people who will reply to just you. The OP. As if they are replying to everyone in the thread. I'm not talking about in QRTs, just straight in the replies. "Don't forget how tired she looks in this." Brother I drew the picture. I know. And ever since then I feel like, as someone who loves to read the replies on other people's tweets, I notice this a lot more often. Who are they talking to? Is this what people are referring to when they say "Main Character Syndrome?" Or should I be lumping these together with the "why isn't this about my exact personal life situation" people?
My fiancé says I'm thinking about this too hard (I got engaged last month btw), and he's probably right. I can't help but be curious about how other people choose to interact with the internet and images and people on it. And, I guess, am I supposed to reply? How should I feel about these. I guess I have to decide that on my own.
For the record, you are all very normal/understandable when it comes to what you guys tag my stuff with. That you love the girls (same!), that they're very gender (love this), or wow is this [insert fetish](not my intention but that's the internet). I feel like the slime girls get the "gender" comment the most and you are all so right for that. Every time I see people reblog my ocs I think "Thank you for loving [name]."
That's all! This was a pointless post but I'm unemployed right now so I have too much time to overthink things for no reason. How do YOU feel about how people interact with your posts? Are they weird? Or are they normal about it.
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bitchiswild · 1 month
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Us Against The World
Rosé x F! Reader Word Count:887 Warnings:none A/n:i need more music from Blackpink Requested
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You and Rosie have been in a relationship for over two years now. Both of you are former members of the immensely popular girl groups Blackpink and Twice. Lately, fans have started to piece things together and are slowly realizing the depth of your connection, wondering if you're more than just close friends but actual lovers.
The suspicions among fans began to arise due to the amount of time you and Rosie spent together. Whether it's days spent in each other's company or those instances when one of you goes live on social media, the other always seems to be present in the background, fueling conspiracies and speculations.
"Here we go again," you remarked to your girlfriend as you scrolled through Twitter, encountering numerous posts speculating about your relationship. Chaeyoung glanced over, leaning in closer to take a look. "Should we just tell them?" she pondered.
You shook your head. "Nah, I think it's kind of amusing. Let's see if they can piece it together. Besides, we're not exactly hiding our relationship; they just can't figure out if we're friends or lovers," you said with a chuckle.
Chaeyoung chuckled along with you. "You're right. Let's post another picture on Instagram, something similar, and use similar captions. That'll definitely stir up some commotion," she said with a mischievous smile, reaching for her phone to find the perfect photo.
After exchanging mischievous grins, you and Chaeyoung decided on the perfect photo and crafted matching captions for your Instagram posts. The images were almost identical, capturing a candid moment of the two of you laughing together, bathed in golden sunlight. The captions were cryptic yet playful, leaving fans guessing about the true nature of your relationship.
Within moments of posting, your notifications exploded with activity. Fans immediately began dissecting every detail of the photos and captions, drawing comparisons and analyzing potential hidden meanings. The comments section quickly filled with a mix of excitement, confusion, and wild speculation.
"OMG, are they hinting at something?!" one fan exclaimed, while another wrote, "They're definitely more than just friends, look at the way they're looking at each other!" The similarities between your posts only fueled the frenzy, with fans sharing screenshots side by side, pointing out every tiny similarity and difference.
As the posts gained traction, your Instagram feeds became flooded with reactions from fans across the globe. Some were convinced that you and Chaeyoung were indeed a couple, while others argued that you were simply close friends and nothing more. The debate raged on, intensifying with each new comment and share.
Through it all, you and Chaeyoung watched the chaos unfold with amusement, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle you had created. It was a testament to the power of social media and the fervent dedication of your fans, whose imaginations ran wild as they tried to unravel the mystery of your relationship.
The day your relationship was inadvertently exposed was one for the books, filled with unexpected twists and turns that left you and Rosie both amused and slightly stunned. It happened in the picturesque city of Paris, where you were attending a prestigious fashion show as ambassadors for YSL.
What started as a quiet, romantic date that Rosie had planned turned into a whirlwind of events when an eagle-eyed fan spotted the two of you together. They followed discreetly, capturing candid moments on camera, but things took a surprising turn when they caught you and Rosie stealing a sweet kiss amidst the Parisian charm.
The fan wasted no time in sharing the incriminating evidence on Twitter, setting off a chain reaction that sent shockwaves through social media and beyond. The photos and videos quickly went viral, sparking a frenzy of speculation and discussion among fans and even grabbing the attention of local news outlets.
In the midst of the swirling emotions and intense scrutiny that followed the exposure of your relationship, you and Rosie found solace in each other's presence. As you retreated to the privacy of your shared space, the weight of the world seemed to lift off your shoulders, replaced by a sense of calm and reassurance.
"I can't believe how crazy things have gotten," Rosie remarked, her voice tinged with disbelief as she scrolled through the endless stream of comments on her phone.
You nodded in agreement, wrapping your arms around her in a comforting embrace. "I know, it's overwhelming. But we'll get through this together," you reassured her, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.
Despite the mixed reactions from fans and the media, you and Rosie remained steadfast in your commitment to each other. As you navigated the tumultuous waters of public scrutiny, you found strength in each other's unwavering support and love.
"It's like a rollercoaster ride," Rosie mused, a hint of amusement in her voice as she leaned into your embrace.
You chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her face. "Yeah, but at least we're in it together," you replied, smiling warmly at her.
In the face of adversity, your bond with Rosie only grew stronger, a beacon of light guiding you through the darkest of times. And as you weathered the storm of mixed emotions together, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would always have each other's backs. It was the two of you against the world.
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assignedmale · 1 year
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As a trans creator whose work went viral an awful lot of times and who was targeted by so many hate campaigns that I lost count of them (I started publishing Assigned Male Comics 9 years ago, to give you an idea), I think it would have been very easy for me to go down a bitter path. Our communities are merciless. Our movement is obsessed with ideological purity. It's a fact. Our siblings will devore us for the smallest misstep. It's very easy to become jaded, when you give your entire being to a cause that will treat you as disposable as soon as it's done draining all your energy. When I started getting invited to different countries to speak about my work, I viewed it as some kind of "reward" - I create work that spoke to people, so it got me speaking engagements. I realized that it was in fact the opposite : it's seeing the impact art can have on communities that became the real catalyst of it. With all the hate I've attracted, from transphobes, far-right extremists and other trans people alike, I often wonder why I keep doing it. What is it that makes it that I'm still there after a whole decade, when it would have been easier to let resent and bitterness become my fuel. I always come to the same conclusion. It's meeting all of you, meeting so many communities from all around the planet, that keeps reminding me of the healing and transformative powers of belonging and empowerment. It's only with that in mind that the incredible amount of responsibilities and pressure that comes with a platform such as mine can make sense. Because why do we do this? Why do we burn ourselves out for a cause that we know will throw us away the minute doubt is cast on our ideological purity? It's so that "thriving" may be something more to trans people everywhere than a distant dream. Your activism should be to work towards that. And that starts at home. As a trans person, when you're given a voice and an audience, feeling attacked suddenly becomes a thing of every instant, from the moment you wake up to when you go to bed. It's not something volunteer social media moderators can help you with. I will always have compassion to anyone who goes through that, willingly or not. We ask a lot from trans public figures, who literally put their lives at risk for doing so. It shouldn't be that dangerous to do the work they do. Let's all recognize that. That being said, bullying, high-school-level drama and feuds should never be tolerated. Resist the urge to dogpile and raid. You might be filled with righteousness right now, but I can assure you that you will not feel better afterward. The world won't be a better place for it. When the world becomes too much, I retreat in a corner and write comics. Sometimes, after a long creative process of multiple hours of drawing, rewriting and rewording, I post one of them on the internet. Most of them, I keep to myself. Thousands of Assigned Male Comics strips none of you will ever get to see. I believe that our minds aren't made for the instantaneity of social media. I want my readers to sit back and get thinking, which is why you will rarely see me post more than 3 or 4 times a week, and only a very curated selection of posts. I basically hit the "post" button and run back offline. One day, I'll retire entirely from social media. When that happens, I'll keep posting on Webtoon. Go read the comics there, it's under the title "Serious Trans Vibes". "She's done it," you can then think. "She's thriving."
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