#gasly

You were woken up by the bright daylight piercing through your eyelids. Harsh, blinding light stabbing through your closed eyelids, forcing you to stir. A dull, throbbing pain bloomed in your temples, growing worse as you slowly became aware of your surroundings. Your mouth was dry, your limbs heavy, and there was an unmistakable wave of nausea creeping up as you shifted slightly on the couch—wait, the couch?

Blinking your eyes open, you winced at the brightness filtering through the curtains. The living room was spinning slightly, or maybe that was just your brain struggling to catch up. This wasn’t your bed. Why weren’t you in your bed?

A groan escaped your lips as you turned your head, barely able to process anything beyond the splitting headache hammering against your skull. The sound of soft footsteps caught your attention, and moments later, Dennis reappeared from the kitchen, carrying a glass of water in one hand. He looked far too awake for your liking, his face holding an expression that was equal parts amusement and mild concern.

Finally managing to move your stiff limbs, you shifted slightly on the couch, rubbing a hand over your aching forehead. Your voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Good morning.”

Dennis huffed a quiet laugh, setting the glass of water down on the coffee table before dropping onto the edge of it, facing you. “Morning? It’s almost noon, Gasly.”

You groaned again, forcing yourself to sit up despite your body's protests. “Don’t. Too loud.”

That only made Dennis chuckle more, which in turn made you reach up and press the heel of your palm against your forehead. “Way too loud,” you grumbled, reaching for the water he had placed in front of you.

“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you go as hard as you did last night.”

You paused, the glass of water halfway to your lips, frowning. “Honestly I don't remember half of the evening” Taking a tentative sip, you swallowed against the rawness in your throat, waiting for his answer.

Dennis raised a brow. “You seriously don’t remember?”

You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to drag up the events of the previous evening. There were flashes—drinks being passed around, laughter, a game—but beyond that, things were murky at best. “I... kind of remember,” you admitted hesitantly. “But not everything. Like... I remember the kiss.”

Dennis leaned back slightly, tilting his head in interest. “The kiss?” he said. He knew damn well what kiss you were talking about, but he got a little fun out of messing with you.

“With Charles,” you clarified, opening your eyes to look at him. The memory made your stomach churn—not necessarily because of the kiss itself, but because of what had followed. “The truth or dare thing. I remember that much. But after that…” You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I eavesdropped on him and Pierre. After that, I don’t remember a damn thing.”

Dennis let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Yikes.”

You rubbed at your temples again, frustration creeping in. “How the hell did I end up on this couch?”

“Beats me,” Dennis said with a shrug. “You were still up and moving when I went to bed. But you were definitely out of it. I tried to get you to bed, but it was literally impossible, so I kinda gave up, sorry”

“Great,” you muttered, slumping back against the couch. “So I could’ve had entire conversations with people, and I wouldn’t even know.”

Dennis smirked. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You shot him a glare, which only made his smirk widen.

“Relax,” he said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “It might come back in a few hours. Just take it easy, drink some water. You’ll be fine.”

You sighed, taking another sip from the glass, trying to focus on the coolness of the liquid against your dry throat. “I feel like shit.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dennis deadpanned, leaning back again. “But, hey, maybe that’s karma. You and Charles were at each other’s throats all night.”

That made you frown. “We were?”

Dennis let out a breathy laugh. “Oh yeah. But that’s nothing new. Though, to be honest, I don’t get it. He was staring at you all night, you know.”

Your head snapped up at that, instantly regretting the movement as another wave of pain crashed through your skull. “What?”

Dennis nodded, watching you with amusement. “Seriously. I don’t know how you didn’t notice. Every time you weren’t looking, he was. I swear, that guy has it bad for you, but you two can’t seem to go five minutes without arguing.”

You exhaled slowly, letting the words sink in. Your memories were too foggy to confirm or deny anything, but the idea of Charles watching you when you weren’t looking sent a strange sensation through your chest.

Dennis stood up, stretching his arms over his head before glancing down at you again. “Have you talked to Pierre or Arthur yet?”

You snorted. “Dennis, I just told you—I don’t even remember how I got on this couch. Do you really think I'd remember if I talked to them?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. Well, maybe they can fill in some of the blanks.”

You hummed noncommittally, still trying to piece together the fragments of last night. Something told you that whatever you had forgotten… it wasn’t insignificant.

The moment Arthur stumbled into the room, nearly tripping over the threshold, you couldn’t help but chuckle. A mistake. The instant vibration of your own laughter sent a stabbing pain through your skull, like someone was driving an ice pick straight between your temples. You winced, squeezing your eyes shut, but not enough to stop yourself from throwing a teasing remark his way.

"You know, you could consider lifting your foot when entering a room," you muttered, pressing your fingers against your forehead.

Arthur groaned dramatically and rolled his eyes. "You could consider shutting up when you're hungover." Then, as if to punish you for your insolence, he reached out and smacked the back of your head—not hard, but just enough to make you yelp.

"Be nice," he warned with a smirk, flopping down beside you on the couch, "or else I'll shove you in a closet with Charles and lock you both in."

"Are you trying to kill me?" you groaned, rubbing your head. "Christ, Arthur, careful—hangover."

Arthur stretched his arms, completely unbothered by your pain, and gave you a once-over. "Yeah, well, you look awful," he observed with a chuckle. "Although I didn’t expect anything less after seeing the state you were in when you went up to your room last night."

You frowned. "I went up to my room?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow at your confusion, then let out a soft laugh. "Yeah, I had a feeling you wouldn’t remember that part."

Your stomach turned uneasily. If you had gone to your room… then how the hell had you ended up on this couch?

"Wait." You sat up straighter, bracing a hand against your head as the motion sent another wave of pain through your skull. "How the fuck did I even end up down here, then?"

Arthur shrugged, but there was something unreadable in his expression. "Might have something to do with Charles. I checked on you, but when I went upstairs, you were on the balcony talking to him."

The word balcony sent a cold shiver down your spine.

Your hands flew to your face, rubbing at your temples as fragmented memories teased the edges of your mind. "God," you muttered, trying to piece it together. "I don’t even know what happened there."

Arthur draped an arm around your shoulder and squeezed gently. "I don’t know either," he admitted, "but I’m pretty sure you and Charles have something to talk about." His voice was casual, but you could hear the curiosity behind it. "Couldn’t have been that bad, right? Maybe Charles remembers?"

And just as if the universe had a cruel sense of timing, a familiar voice cut through the air.

"Maybe I remember what exactly?"

Your body tensed. Your eyes shot up toward the doorway, locking onto the figure standing there: Charles.

His gaze met yours instantly, and in that moment, something inside you clicked. The floodgates burst open, and the memories rushed back in all at once. Your breath caught "Oh fuck" you croaked out.

*30 minutes earlier*

The first thing Charles became aware of was the dull pounding in his skull. The second was the unfamiliar weight in his lower abdomen, the tight discomfort that made his breathing uneven.

He groaned, cracking his eyes open, instantly regretting it as the bright morning light stabbed through his vision.

He clenched his jaw, willing his body to calm down, but the moment he tried to shift, the memories from last night surfaced with brutal clarity.

Her. The balcony. Her hand on his thigh.

His own helpless, pathetic reaction to it.

Charles exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand over his face, as if that would wipe away the images replaying in his mind—the way she had touched him, the way she had looked at him, knowing exactly what she was doing. The way she had whispered his name like a damn tease, breath warm against his ear.

And the worst part? He had let her. No, he had wanted her to.

His body shuddered slightly at the memory of how close he had been to completely unraveling beneath her touch. He swallowed, willing himself to ignore the ache between his legs, but it was useless. The ghost of her fingers still lingered on his skin.

Charles forced himself up, running a hand through his already-messy hair, his stomach twisting with something he refused to name.

The hangover was manageable, but the nerves? The confusion? Not so much.

He remembered everything. Every breath, every touch, every sound. And what made it worse was that he had no idea how she felt about it now.

Would she regret it? Laugh it off? Pretend it never happened?

He wanted to believe it had just been the alcohol, that neither of them had meant to blur that line between them—but deep down, he knew better.

Because it wasn’t just last night. It had always been there. The tension. The fighting. The push and pull between them, like they couldn’t decide whether they wanted to strangle each other or—

He couldn’t do this right now.

With a deep breath, he forced himself out of bed, ignoring the tightness in his chest—and lower—and grabbed a hoodie to throw over his head. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled it on. He wasn’t sure if it was from the hangover or from the thought of facing her after last night.

Maybe she doesn’t remember.

The thought should’ve relieved him, but instead, it twisted something deep inside him.

He needed to go downstairs. Needed to see her, to figure out where they stood. But every step felt heavier, the nerves tangling in his stomach.

When he finally made his way to the living room, he could hear voices—hers and Arthur’s.

And then, as he stepped into the doorway, he caught her gaze.

Wide eyes, parted lips, and then—

The sharp realization in her expression, the way her pupils dilated as the memories clearly came rushing back to her. Her reaction hit him like a fist to the gut.

And then she muttered, barely above a whisper "Oh fuck."

Charles' heart pounded in his chest.

Yeah. Oh fuck, indeed.

The two of you had been staring at each other in tense silence for what felt like an eternity, the weight of the unspoken pressing down like a storm waiting to break. Charles' gaze was unreadable, his jaw tight, his hands balled into fists at his sides. You, on the other hand, felt like the room was closing in on you, like you were teetering on the edge of something you weren’t ready to confront.

Then, suddenly, it became too much.

You shot up from the couch, the abrupt motion making your vision blur for a second. The remnants of your hangover still clung to you, but the fresh surge of adrenaline forced it into the background.

"I'm not doing this now," you muttered, your voice hoarse as you turned on your heel and rushed past Charles, brushing against his shoulder as you escaped the suffocating air of the living room.

The hallway felt impossibly long, stretching out before you like some cruel labyrinth, but you weren’t given the chance to make it far before you collided into someone solid.

Dennis.

His hands instinctively steadied you, fingers gripping your arms as he took in your flushed face, your wide eyes, and the way your chest rose and fell with uneven breaths.

"Whoa, where's the fire?" he asked, amusement tinged with concern. "You look like you've just seen a ghost. And I don't mean because of the hangover"

You swallowed thickly, trying to form words, but the panic was creeping in, wrapping itself around your lungs like a vice. "I remember what happened," you managed, your voice barely above a whisper, a strange mixture of disbelief and self-directed frustration lacing your tone. You took a shaky breath. "God, I remember what happened."

Dennis' brows furrowed. "Oh shit. What did you do?"

He gently but firmly took hold of your wrist and started leading you toward his bedroom, away from the prying eyes and ears of the house. Neither of you noticed Charles shift slightly in his place, his expression darkening when he saw Dennis guiding you away, his grip on your wrist firm. He took a step forward, instinct screaming at him to follow, but then he stopped, jaw clenching as he watched you disappear into Dennis' room. His fingers twitched at his sides before he exhaled sharply, turning away.

Inside Dennis’ room, he closed the door behind you and guided you toward his bed, sitting down beside you while keeping his hands on your wrists, a silent anchor. "Breathe," he instructed, voice softer now. "Slow it down."

You squeezed your eyes shut and forced yourself to inhale through your nose, exhaling in a shaky breath. It took a few more attempts before the erratic pace of your breathing evened out. When you finally opened your eyes again, Dennis was watching you closely.

"Okay," he said, his tone careful. "Wanna tell me what you remember? Or do you not wanna talk about it?"

You groaned, tilting your head back until you were staring at the ceiling. "Dennis, I'm an absolute idiot. Merde," you cursed under your breath.

Dennis smirked slightly, but he stayed quiet, waiting.

You sighed heavily before speaking again. "I bumped into him on the balcony... I don’t know what the hell came over me, but I put my hand on his thigh and started teasing him about the kiss." You hesitated, feeling a fresh wave of embarrassment creep up your neck. "I was... pretty much seducing him."

Dennis lifted a brow, barely restraining a chuckle. "No way."

You shot him a glare, but it lacked real venom. "Shut up."

"I mean, I always knew you had a flair for the dramatic, but damn—"

You groaned again, burying your face in your hands. "It gets worse."

Dennis leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling with barely-contained amusement. "Oh, please continue."

You peeked at him between your fingers before dropping your hands into your lap, fingers twisting together. "And then I kinda... you know—" You trailed off, making a vague gesture with your hand.

Dennis stared at you, waiting. "No, I don’t know. Spell it out for me."

You exhaled sharply, cheeks burning. "I started... you know, as if my hands were moving on their own, I started doing things to him."

There was a beat of silence before Dennis let out a loud, incredulous laugh. "Holy shit. Are you telling me you gave your brother's best friend a handjob on a balcony while drunk?"

"No! God no!" You snapped, but your mortified expression wasn’t helping your case. "It wasn’t— It was just through his jeans! That doesn’t count as a—"

Dennis gave you a deadpan look. "The only thing preventing it from being an actual handjob was a layer of denim, Gasly. It was basically the same thing."

You groaned, flopping backward onto his bed, covering your face with your hands. "God, don’t remind me. I feel bad enough already."

Dennis hummed in thought before his expression turned more serious. "Do you regret it?"

Your breath hitched in your throat.

He noticed immediately, eyes narrowing slightly. "Yeah. That’s what I thought."

You sat up slightly, staring at him. "It shouldn’t have happened."

Dennis studied you for a moment. "Maybe not. But it did. And maybe... maybe that means something."

You shook your head, not ready to unpack that. "I don’t know, Dennis. I don’t know if that’s the right choice."

Dennis leaned back against his palms. "Well, you can either pretend it didn’t happen and keep acting like you hate each other, or you can be honest with yourself for once."

You sighed heavily. "Yeah, well, being honest is terrifying."

Dennis smirked. "So is falling for someone when you least expect it."

Your stomach twisted at the implication, but you didn’t argue.

Because deep down, you knew he wasn’t wrong.

⁺⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺ ⋆⁺

The rest of the day passed in a blur of forced normalcy, both of you pretending as if nothing had happened. Meals were eaten, conversations were had, and yet the weight of the previous night hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Charles barely looked at you, and you returned the favor, even though you were hyperaware of his every movement.

As the evening settled in, you both eventually retreated to your respective rooms to freshen up before rejoining the group again. The walls between your rooms were thin, and Charles could hear you moving around, the faint rustle of clothing, the clatter of items being shifted on the dresser. He exhaled sharply, gripping the edge of the sink. It shouldn’t have affected him the way it did, but it did. He was reminded of the way you had touched him the night before—bold, teasing, completely in control.

The memory sent a sharp pulse of heat straight through him, tightening in his lower abdomen. He groaned under his breath, stepping into the shower, hoping the cold water would help clear his mind. It didn’t. He tried to ignore the way his body reacted, tried to focus on anything else, but the persistent ache refused to subside. He turned up the water pressure, letting it hit his back, forcing himself to take deep breaths. It was working, barely, until he realized he had forgotten his towels. And his shampoo.

"Merde," he muttered, running a hand through his wet hair. With no other option, he called out, "Hey—can you hear me?"

There was a pause before your voice responded from the other side of the door. "What the hell do you want?"

He rolled his eyes, even as amusement curled at the edge of his lips. "I forgot my towels. And my shampoo."

Silence.

Then, a scoff. "Not my problem."

Charles huffed, leaning his forehead against the cool tile. "Come on, just grab them for me. The door’s open."

"Hell no, I’m not coming in while you’re naked in the shower."

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, don’t be a pussy. I’m behind the curtain. It’s not like you’re going to see anything."

You groaned, muttering curses under your breath before relenting. "Fine. Where are they?"

"Towel’s in my closet. Shampoo’s in my bag."

You muttered something under your breath that he didn’t catch before disappearing down the hall. As soon as he heard your footsteps fade, he let out a shaky breath, his hand trailing lower, just for a second. It didn’t help. If anything, it only made it worse.

By the time you returned, he had forced himself to remain still, gripping the showerhead in frustration. You walked in, placing the towel and shampoo on the counter.

"Here. Happy now?"

"Almost." He hesitated before adding, "Can you grab my shower gel too?"

You rolled your eyes but turned to grab it from the counter, bending over slightly. Charles exhaled harshly through his nose, his grip tightening as he caught the silhouette of your body through the curtain. The curve of your waist, the length of your legs—he clenched his jaw, fighting the groan that threatened to slip out.

When you straightened and turned back toward him, your eyes flickered to his silhouette. He was toned, defined, years of training evident in the way his body moved. You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to look away.

You handed him the shower gel, your fingers brushing for just a moment. A jolt of something sharp shot through you, making you tense. He felt it too.

You quickly turned away, intending to leave, but your gaze caught your reflection in the mirror. You frowned. "Since you’re not ready yet, are you okay if I take off my makeup here? I look like shit, and it feels gross."

Charles exhaled slowly. "Sure. Whatever."

You nodded, grabbing a cotton pad and micellar water, starting to wipe away the remnants of the day. He finished his shower, grabbing the towel and wrapping it around his waist.

When you closed your eyes to rinse your face, you didn’t hear him step closer. Didn’t register the way he hesitated behind you until you felt the warmth of his hand on your shoulder, sliding down to your arm, gently pulling it away from your face.

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "Stop pretending you don’t remember yesterday."

You swallowed hard, heart hammering. "I don’t know what you’re talking about. I really don't remember what happened on that balcony"

He chuckled, the sound low, knowing. "Really? Then why do you assume I was talking about the balcony?"

Your body tensed, goosebumps rising along your arms. He noticed.

Tension coiled thick between you, and when his hands roamed lower, his palm pressing against your lower stomach, your grip tightened on the counter. You sucked in a sharp breath as his fingers dipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, teasing, exploring.

He was hard against you, the towel doing little to hide it, and your own arousal was building rapidly.

You met his gaze in the mirror, the reflection of your bodies entwined sending a shiver through you. He smirked slightly, fingers dipping lower.

A sharp inhale escaped your lips as his fingers teased along the sensitive skin just below your navel before slipping lower, pressing against the heat between your thighs. Your grip on the counter tightened, knuckles turning white as a slow, burning pleasure coiled in your stomach.

Charles watched your reflection intently, his own breathing shallow, his pupils blown wide with desire. His free hand skimmed up your arm, fingers brushing over your pulse point, feeling how erratic it was. His lips hovered close to your ear again, his voice nothing but a husky murmur.

"You’re shaking," he observed, voice laced with amusement but also something softer, something darker.

You tried to steady your breath, but it was impossible when his fingers pressed firmer, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made your knees feel weak.

"Charles," you exhaled, half warning, half plea.

He hummed against your skin, lips barely grazing the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder. "You like this." It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, one he knew you wouldn’t deny.

Your reflection betrayed you—half-lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed skin. You hated that he could read you so well.

He continued his torturous pace, dragging his fingers over the damp heat of your core, making your stomach twist in pleasure. Your hips twitched involuntarily, chasing the sensation, and he smirked against your skin.

"So responsive," he murmured, his own restraint hanging by a thread.

Your hands clenched around the counter, your head tipping back against his shoulder, and for a fleeting second, you forgot everything but the way he made you feel.

The tension crackled like a live wire between you, and neither of you were willing to break it.

Not yet.

⁺⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺ ⋆⁺

But it seemed like fate had another plan.

Just as your body was tipping into that dangerous edge between want and need, your phone suddenly blared its ringtone—loud, sharp, and completely out of place in the thick heat between you.

You jolted, muscles tensing, the noise yanking you from the haze. Your eyes shot to the bathroom counter, where the phone vibrated insistently against the marble surface.

Kika.

Charles stilled for a fraction of a second, a smirk curling slowly on his lips when he saw the name on the screen. “Answer it,” he whispered against your neck, voice dark and low, fingers still resting between your thighs, unmoving—but not for long.

You turned your head slightly, trying to glare at him, breath shaky. “You’re insane.”

“Mm,” he hummed, mouth grazing your jaw. “And you love it.”

Before you could say anything else, he reached around you and grabbed the phone with one hand, his other hand never leaving your body. With a single, casual swipe, he answered the call and tapped speaker.

He didn’t say a word.

"Hey, are you almost ready? We were thinking of grabbing a drink in the garden," Kika’s voice rang out, light and cheerful, oblivious.

Your pulse slammed against your throat.

Charles moved again.

Slowly, deliberately, his fingers resumed their wicked rhythm, sliding against your slick heat with practiced ease. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes wide as you struggled to stay upright, gripping the counter for dear life. He was relentless—circling, pressing, teasing. And yet, entirely silent, like he wasn’t doing anything at all.

“I—” you swallowed hard, fighting the tremble in your voice. “I’m almost ready. I-I’ll be down soon.”

Charles dipped his head, kissing just beneath your ear, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. The smug bastard was enjoying every second of this.

There was a brief pause on the line.

“You okay?” Kika asked. “You sound… weird.”

You forced a shaky laugh, one that probably gave away more than it concealed. “Yeah. Peachy.”

Charles chuckled silently against your shoulder, his breath hot as it danced along your skin. His fingers sped up, the pressure just right, sending waves of heat spiraling up your spine.

Kika sounded unconvinced. “Are you sure?Did you have another fight with Charles or something?”

"No, just not in the mood for his presence, that's all" you managed to say quite steadily.

Your eyes locked on Charles in the mirror. He looked positively unbothered—amused, even. His hand flexed against your lower stomach, holding you in place as his movements grew more deliberate, more intense. Your hips shifted involuntarily, grinding back against the towel around his waist. You felt him, hard and pulsing beneath the thin fabric, the friction making him groan softly into your neck before biting it lightly, trying to muffle the sound.

It only made everything worse.

Or better.

"Is he there or something?" Kika joked.

“No,” you choked out. “He’s not here.”

He bit down harder on your shoulder this time, just enough to make you squirm.

Kika sighed. “Alright, well, hurry up. I’ll see you down there?”

“Yeah. I’ll—” your voice broke off into a strangled gasp as Charles curved his fingers inside you just right, his thumb finding that perfect rhythm on your clit. You bit your lip so hard it hurt. “I’ll be down in five.”

“Okay! See you.” And just like that, the call ended.

The moment the line went dead, Charles dropped the phone back onto the counter and lifted his head, catching your dazed expression in the mirror.

He looked like he wanted to devour you.

“You lied to your friend,” he murmured, pressing his body tighter against yours. The wet towel barely separated you, and you could feel the heat of him, the tension in every line of his frame.

“I didn't really have a choice, did I?” you shot back breathlessly. "You were the one that couldn't hold back his moan."

“You were writhing,” he countered, leaning in to kiss the side of your neck. “You made me moan.” he said casually.

You shivered when his lips found that sensitive spot beneath your jaw again, his free hand now trailing up your torso, finding your breast through your thin top and palming it gently, teasing your nipple through the fabric. You arched into him, overwhelmed, pleasure crackling through your nerves like electricity.

"Charles," you breathed, but this time there was no warning in your voice—only desperation.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice almost reverent. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers moved faster, more insistent now, relentless in the way he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. You couldn't stop the sounds that fell from your lips—soft, gasping, needy.

The coil in your stomach tightened until it snapped, pleasure cascading through your entire body in a blinding rush. Your hips bucked against his hand, your grip bruising on the counter, your body shuddering against his.

He didn’t stop until every last wave had ebbed, until your breath came in shallow, broken gasps and your legs barely held you upright.

Only then did he pull back, pressing one final kiss to your neck before stepping away, leaving a trail of wet footprints across the bathroom floor.

He turned toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with that same infuriating, devastating smirk.

“Well,” he said, grabbing a new towel from the hook, “I'm off getting ready, you could have been ready ages ago.”

You shot him a look, still trying to catch your breath.

He winked, cocky as ever. “Get dressed, chérie. Wouldn’t want them to think we were doing something scandalous.”

And with that, he disappeared into his room—completely unaffected.

You, however, were still trembling. And your makeup was only half off.

previous | next

------⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⁺⋆ ☾⋆₊⁺------