#⤷ ben g.【 ❝ i don’t like to do what is easy; i like to do what is right. ❞ 】interactions. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

giveafike · 1 month ago

Text

Deck the Halls - B.T.S

TLDR: Decorating the house w the Sheltons! This is part 1/12 of Azzie's Advent Calendar 2024!

Word count + info: 4.2k. including dialogue.

Warnings + Content Ahead: SFW! No warnings : )

Azzie Notes ✚: I'm so excited to share this with you!! Inspo hit me in the uni library and I immediately got drafting away hehehe. Do we like my new masterlist + homepage? how about the new dark blue and brown? Let me know, I'm still experimenting with the aesthetics here... hmm...Anyways, here's PART 1!

————————————————————————

The airport bustled with holiday travellers, bouncing excitedly as they hauled suitcases and holiday gifts, voices vibrating against the high ceilings. You adjusted your suitcase handle, scanning the crowd with a heart racing in anticipation.

You didn’t have to look for long.

Ben’s was always easy to spot, even in the ocean of people before you. He stood in the arrivals area, leaning casually against a pillar with his broad-shouldered confidence, squinted eyes while chewing his lip. It was some miracle he managed to spot you as quickly as he did. The moment his eyes found you, his face lit up, a grin spreading wide enough to make your chest ache in the best way. God, was he a sight for sore eyes.

Before you could even wave, he was moving, weaving through the crowd with long, purposeful strides, bee-lined and tunnel-visioned to you. When he reached you, he wrapped you in a tight hug that lifted you off your feet along with a few kisses to your temple and head.

“Finally,” he murmured, his voice warm in your ear, the familiar drawl like a balm to your homesick heart. “You don’t know how bad I’ve been waitin’ for this. Missed you so much.”

You laughed, clinging to him as he held you just a second longer than necessary. “Missed you too, Ben but you’re making a scene,” you teased, though your face was buried against his chest.

“Good,” he shot back, setting you down but keeping an arm looped around your waist. “Lemme look at you.”

He pulled back slightly, his eyes trailing over your face like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. “Man, you look good. Like, too good. What are you tryin’ to do to me?”

You rolled your eyes, but the way your cheeks warmed betrayed you. “Ben, I’ve been flying for hours. You’re delusional.”

He smirked, grabbing your suitcase before you could protest. “Delusional or not, I’m serious. And you’re not carrying this, c’mon.”

The walk to the parked car was short, but Ben’s presence beside you made the airport fade into the background while he asked a million questions about your journey. When you stepped outside, there it was, a pristine white G-Wagon parked by the curb, its glossy finish catching the glow of the sun as if it had just rolled off a showroom floor. You let out a low whistle and nodded appreciatively.

"You like? Just got it cleaned up the other day for you"

You tilted your head, raising an eyebrow as you took it in. “Cleaned up? Ben, it looks brand new.”

He groaned dramatically, tossing your suitcase into the trunk like it personally offended him. “Don’t even get me started. 300 bucks an hour to get it detailed. 300! I’m in the wrong profession, I swear to God. Forget tennis, I should just start my own car detailing business. Bet I’d make bank.”

You laughed as you climbed into the passenger seat, settling into the plush leather interior. “Ben, you’re literally a professional athlete. Pretty sure you can afford a couple hundred bucks for detailing. I think you’ll survive.”

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he shot you a quick, incredulous look. “Okay, but it’s the principle. 300 and for what? A wax job and a good vacuum? I’m tellin’ you, they probably spent 10 minutes on this thing and then sat in the back counting their money.”

You gave him a pointed look, smirking. “So you heard the price and still went ahead and got it cleaned?”

His hands froze on the steering wheel, and his face damped into an expression of pure guilt. “…well, yeah, but-”

“Exactly,” you cut him off with a laugh. “Finance major paying without thinking? Interesting. Aren’t you supposed to be good with money?”

“Hey now, don’t go throwin' my degree at me,” he fired back, though the grin tugging at his lips ruined his attempt at indignation.

“Then stop giving me so much material to work with!” you teased, settling back into the seat.

He let out a loud laugh, tapping the steering wheel as he merged onto the highway. “You’re unbelievable, you know that? I’m over here getting robbed-no- fleeced for you, and you’re sitting there making fun of me!”

“For me?” you echoed, feigning disbelief. “Ben, this is your car.”

He waved a hand dismissively. “Minor technicalities. I did it for the aesthetic. So you could ride in style, alright? Don’t ruin the vibe.”

You rolled your eyes, though your smile didn’t falter. “First of all, I never told you to get it detailed. You could’ve rocked up in a dirty beat up Ford Fiesta, and I wouldn’t have batted an eye."

Ben gasped, shooting you a look, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “A Ford Fiesta? Babe, be serious. I hope you’d bat an eye. Your boyfriend would never own a Ford Fiesta. You're getting kidnapped if you even think I'd put you as a passenger in one of those.” He shot you a sidelong glance, his smirk playful. “That’s not who I am. That’s not the brand.”

You burst out laughing. “Oh, the brand. My apologies, Mr. Aesthetic.”

“That’s right,” he said, grinning. “We’re a ‘clean car’ household. Even if it costs me my sanity and half my paycheck.”

“Anddd...you're spiralling,” you sung with a grin.

“Am not,” he retorted, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

“You’re literally ranting about how car detailers are living the dream.”

“Well, they are,” he said, gesturing dramatically. “Do you know how much they probably rake in? I should’ve majored in car detailing instead of finance. I’d be retired by now.”

“Spiraling!” you repeated, unable to stop laughing.

“Okay, now I’m spiralling,” he admitted, chuckling as he reached over to grab your hand. His fingers laced through yours easily, his thumb tracing small, lazy circles against your skin. “But you make it worth it,” he added, his voice softening as he glanced your way, warmth pooling in his gaze, his words wrapping around the words like honey.

Your chest tightened at his sincerity, and you squeezed his hand. “I missed you, Ben.”

His grin widened, warm and bright like the Florida sun. “Missed you more.”

The short drive flew by in a blur of teasing banter and warm laughter. Before long, you were pulling into the driveway of Ben’s home, the house glowing with festive warmth. You barely had time to take in the festive glow spilling from the neighbouring houses before he called out, “We’re home!”

The door swung open, and Emma appeared almost immediately on the doorstep, her face lighting up when she saw you.

“You’re here!” she squealed, racing over to pull you into a hug.

You laughed, hugging her back. “Emma! Missed you!”

Lisa wasn’t far behind, her smile as warm as ever as she kissed your cheek and wrapped you in her arms. “We’re so glad you’re here,” she said softly. “Thank you for spending Christmas with us.”

“Thanks for having me,” you replied earnestly. “And for letting me get involved.”

“Oh, please,” Lisa said, brushing off the gratitude with a wave of her hand. “You’re family now.”

Before you could respond, Bryan emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel and smiling warmly. “There she is!” he said, his voice exuding a coach’s enthusiasm as he pulled you into a firm hug. It was the kind of embrace that immediately made you feel part of the team. “You’re just in time. We’ve got lights to untangle, decorations to hang, and a house to turn into a winter wonderland. Hope you’re ready to roll up your sleeves.”

You grinned, already feeling the infectious energy. “Always ready.”

Ben leaned casually against the doorway, a smug smile on his face.

“Heads up, though. Dad’s been itching to put you to work all day. He treats this like a championship game.”

Bryan clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder, grinning. “And someone’s gotta make sure it gets done right. Speaking of which, Ben, you’re on outdoor duty with me this year. That’s non-negotiable.”

Ben groaned, dragging a hand down his face theatrically. “Man, you’d think we’d hire someone by now to do all this.”

Lisa’s voice floated down the stairs as she and Emma descended with boxes in hand. “Absolutely not!” she called, her tone playful but firm.

“Where’s the fun in paying someone to do the best part of Christmas? This is family time.”

“Yeah, Ben!” Emma added with a grin, carrying a box that looked almost as big as her. “Stop trying to weasel your way out of it.”

Ben raised his hands in surrender, grumbling as he helped Bryan gather the lights from a big bin. “Fine, fine. Just saying.”

As Lisa directed Emma upstairs to fetch another box, you stepped into the living room, your eyes immediately drawn to the towering pine tree standing proudly in the corner. The scent of fresh pine filled the house, its needles scattered on the floor like tiny green confetti. You paused, taking it in.

“Oh, wow,” you murmured, stepping closer. “It’s beautiful.”

“Mhm,” Ben chimed in, suddenly beside you again, his arm resting lightly around your waist. “Dad always insists on the real deal.”

“It’s tradition,” Bryan added with a smile.

Ben leaned down, his voice low and teasing in your ear. “Told ya my family goes all out.”

You looked up at him, your heart full as the warmth of the house and his family’s welcome surrounded you. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The house soon buzzed with energy as Lisa and Bryan headed to the attic to fetch more decorations, their voices drifting down as they debated which box was which. Emma made trip after trip, grumbling good-naturedly about being the “pack mule.” Before long, you and Ben found yourselves cross-legged on the living room floor, knee-deep in a tangled mess of Christmas lights.

“Okay,” you sighed, holding up a hopeless knot. “This is impossible. Who just shoves them in a box like this?”

Ben grinned as he worked on his own section. “Maybe it’s a test. Builds character or something.”

You shot him a look. “Pretty sure I’m not learning anything except how much I hate whoever did this.”

“Mm, wow, festive...” he shot back sassily, leaning closer as he pretended to focus on his knot.

Ben stood as he untangled the lights, gently pacing around, tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he untangled lights. You were zoned in. After a while, you noticed something..odd. Ben seemed to be making slow laps around you while whistling a small song. You could feel something snaking up your leg, growing tighter and more agitating.

“Ben…” you said suspiciously, narrowing your eyes.

“Hmm?” He didn’t look up, a whistle of holiday cheer on his lips, a smile breaking on his lips.

“You’re wrapping me in the lights!”

He stopped, wide-eyed with feigned innocence. “What...? No! Must’ve been an accident.”

“An accident?” you echoed, gesturing at your legs. “They’re literally tied around me!”

Before he could defend himself, Lisa walked in, her hands on her hips.

“Benjamin, what on earth?”

Bryan followed close behind, shaking his head as he took in the scene. “Already causing trouble, huh?”

“C’mon,” Ben tried, his grin sheepish. “It’s not that bad.”

Emma peeked in from the hallway, immediately bursting into laughter. “Ben, really? Can’t even untangle lights without turning it into a whole thing? Her first Christmas here and probably her last.”

Lisa sighed, stepping in to help free you. “You’re on your own with this one, Ben, no one's fending for you, young man.”

Bryan clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, troublemaker, let’s go. Outdoor lights are waiting.”

Ben groaned as he was shepherded outside. “Man, I don’t get paid enough for this.”

“You don’t get paid at all!” Bryan called back, earning a laugh from everyone.

“Exactly,” he muttered under his breath.

With Ben out of the room, Emma plopped down beside you, grinning. “He’s so easy to blame, isn’t he?”

“Way too easy,” you agreed, shaking your head as you picked up the lights again.

Lisa smiled as she handed you another box. “Alright, girls. Let’s get to work. The house won’t decorate itself.”

The living room was quickly becoming a festive workshop with you three girls chirping in conversation. Boxes were opened, and decorations of every shape and size spilt out onto the coffee table and floor in organised piles.

“Let’s start with the lights for the tree,” Lisa said, pulling out yet another tangled mess of twinkling bulbs. She handed one end to you and the other to Emma, gesturing for the two of you to get to work.

“I swear these things tangle themselves on purpose. Ben never packs them away properly,” Emma muttered, kneeling on the floor beside you.

As you began untangling, Ben’s mischief from earlier was still fresh in your mind. You were hyper-aware of every step you took to avoid recreating that particular disaster as you smiled at Emma's words.

Lisa flitted between the hallway and the living room, bringing garlands, baubles, and figurines.

“I’ll organise these while you work on that,” she said, eyeing the progress you and Emma were making with the lights.

It took some time, but eventually, you and Emma held up the neatly untangled string triumphantly. “Got it!”

“Perfect,” Lisa said, motioning for you both to circle the tree. “Now, remember, don’t just wrap them around the outside. Weave them in and out of the branches. Otherwise, it’ll look like a mess.”

Emma groaned. “We know, Mom. You only say this every year.”

“And yet,” Lisa teased, “every year, I have to redo half of it because someone doesn’t listen.”

Laughing, you and Emma began winding the lights around the tree while Lisa hovered nearby, occasionally stopping you to adjust a strand or reposition a bulb. Slowly but surely, the tree began to glow, the warm light casting soft shadows on the walls.

Once the lights were done, Lisa pulled out the garlands. “Alright, now these go next. Green and gold for the tree, red and silver for the mantle.”

The three of you worked together to drape the garlands, the tree taking shape as a stunning centrepiece.

Then came the baubles. Each one had a story, some were pristine and new, purchased earlier this year, while others were handmade or gifted over the years.

Emma held up a misshapen clay ornament, her face a mixture of embarrassment and fondness. “Oh no! My first-grade disaster.”

“Hey! I still think it’s cute,” Lisa said, hanging it front and centre.

“Mom!” Emma whined, though she was laughing.

You picked up a glittery bauble that had clearly seen better days. “What’s the story with this one?”

Lisa smiled. “That’s from Ben’s kindergarten Christmas. He got glitter everywhere making it. Came home with more glitter in his hair, his clothes and arms than the damn bauble, God, it was there for days.”

Emma snickered. “Classic Ben.”

As the stories continued, Lisa pulled out a delicate glass ornament shaped like an angel. Her expression eased. “This one’s from our first Christmas together,” she said quietly. “Back when Bryan and I were first dating.”

You held it carefully, admiring the intricate details. “It’s beautiful.”

Lisa smiled, her eyes warm. “And this one” she reached into the box, pulling out a small, heavy gold-metal ornament, “was from our first Christmas as a married couple.”

The room fell quiet for a moment, the weight of those memories settling warmly over all of you.

When the tree was nearly complete, Lisa climbed the step stool with the star in hand. “This is always my favourite part,” she said, placing it delicately at the top.

The living room sparkled with the glow of the tree, but there was still plenty to do. The three of you moved on to decorating the rest of the house. Garlands were hung on the staircase, stockings were carefully arranged along the mantle, and the nativity set was placed on a small table near the fireplace. In the kitchen, holiday-themed dish towels and centrepieces brought the festive spirit to life, while Emma lined the hallway mirror with a string of twinkling lights.

During all this, the front yard was abuzz as Ben and Bryan worked to untangle the long strings of lights, their voices carrying into the chilly evening air. A ladder leaned against the house, and plastic bins of decorations sat open on the porch. Ben held a tangled bundle of white lights, stretching them out to find the end while Bryan adjusted the ladder’s position along the front porch’s edge.

“You think we’re the only house in Florida still doing this ourselves?” Ben asked, his tone half-joking but with a thread of sincerity. “Bet all these other folks around here got companies for this kinda thing. They’re sittin’ inside toasty while we’re out here workin’ our butts off.”

Bryan snorted, looping a strand of lights over his arm. “You’ve said that about five times already, son. Sounds like you’re angling to hire someone for next year.”

Ben’s grin widened. “I mean, I’m just sayin’. Ain’t it smarter to delegate?”

Bryan paused, looking at Ben from the top of the ladder. “Smarter, maybe. But you can’t put a price on tradition.”

Ben tipped his head back, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Uh, I think you can, Dad. Pretty sure that’s what decorators do. They set the price.”

Bryan shook his head, laughing as he clipped a strand of lights into place. “You’ve been spending too much time crunchin’ numbers. This ain’t a spreadsheet, it’s Christmas, Ben. It’s about makin’ memories, not outsourcing ‘em.”

Ben muttered under his breath, “Still feels like highway robbery not to outsource ladder duty.”

Ben stepped back from the ladder, brushing his hands together as he looked through the living room window. His eyes settled on you, standing between Lisa and Emma, holding up one end of the garland like you three ladies were trying to negotiate a peace treaty. The sound of laughter muffled through the glass as Emma gestured dramatically at her mom, who was clearly in her element directing the two of you. You said something, and whatever it was, had Emma doubled over laughing, leaning against you for support while Lisa shook her head chuckling softly. Ben’s grin softened, his breath escaping in a small cloud in the crisp air.

Bryan caught the look, stepping down from the ladder with a knowing smile. He didn’t say anything at first, just following his son’s gaze. When Lisa threw her hands up, mock-annoyed at Emma, and you quickly stepped in to fix the garland, Bryan finally spoke.

“That’s the good stuff right there,” he said, his voice low but steady. “That’s what it’s all about. Why we do all this crazy stuff.”

Ben nodded slowly, his grip loosening on the string of lights in his hands. “Yeah… I get it.”

Bryan turned to him, his brow lifting. “You do?”

Ben chuckled, shaking his head. “I mean, I didn’t- not like this. But seeing her in there, fitting in with us so easy? Like, she’s been doin’ this forever? That’s... somethin’ else, Dad. Makes me think about stuff different.”

Bryan tilted his head, studying his son. “Stuff like what?”

Ben hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like... how lucky I am. She didn’t have to come down here for this. She could’ve stayed up n' been with her family, but instead, she’s here. With us. That says a lot.”

Bryan nodded, a small smile playing on his face. “Says even more about how she feels about you, Ben.”

“Yeah,” Ben said quietly, his voice softer now. He glanced back at the window where you and Lisa were laughing over something. “She’s just... she’s somethin’ else, Dad. I don’t know how I got her to say yes to all this.”

Bryan chuckled, clapping a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “Yeah you chose a good one. But don’t sell yourself short, kid. You’ve got a lot goin’ for you, just don’t forget it’s a two-way street. She’s here ‘cause of you, yeah, but she’s also here for what we are, what this is.”

Ben nodded, his grip tightening around the lights again. “I won’t forget. Ever.”

Bryan’s hand lingered on his shoulder for a moment before he patted him again. “Good. Now, before this turns into a Hallmark movie, how ‘bout we get back to work before your mama starts thinkin’ we’re slackin’ off?”

Ben laughed, some of the weight lifting from his expression. “Fair enough. Don’t want to end up on her bad side. You know how she gets about the lights.”

“Oh, I know,” Bryan said with a grin. “But that’s tradition too, son. And you know what I always say-”

“You can’t put a price on tradition,” Ben cut in, smirking.

Bryan shot him a pointed look. “Exactly. Now grab the ladder.”

Ben moved to grab the ladder, but not before sneaking one last glance through the window. The sound of your laughter carried faintly through the cold breeze, and he smiled to himself as he got back to work.

The sun had long set by the time Ben and Bryan finished stringing the last set of lights along the edges of the house. The chill of the evening bit through their jackets, and their breaths puffed visibly in the air as they stepped back to admire their work. The house was wrapped in glowing strands of warm white light, flickering icicles hanging from the gutters, and a glowing wreath positioned perfectly over the front door.

“You ready to see if we got it right?” Bryan asked, flipping through his phone to find the timer settings for the lights.

Ben shoved his hands in his jacket pockets, his teeth chattering slightly as he grinned. “Let’s do it. If it doesn’t light up, though, I’m blaming you.”

Bryan shot him a look. “You’re the one who tangled half the cords.”

He clicked a button, and with a soft whirr, the entire house came alive. The lights blazed warmly against the dark backdrop, illuminating the yard and casting a soft glow on the driveway.

Ben whistled low, the corners of his lips turning up. “Alright, fine, I’ll admit it. Looks kinda amazing.”

Bryan grinned, clapping Ben on the shoulder. “Good work, son. Now let’s get inside before we freeze out here.”

The two of them headed for the door, their boots crunching over the slightly frosted ground. Inside, the warmth of the house greeted them immediately, along with the smell of chocolate, cinnamon and marshmallows. Emma was in the hallway, packing up the last of the decoration boxes. Halo padded around her feet, wagging his tail and sniffing curiously at the leftover garlands.

“Don’t eat the tinsel, Halo,” Emma muttered as she scratched behind his ears. She glanced up, spotting Ben and Bryan shaking off the cold. “Took y’all long enough. You better be done, I am not bringing those bins back up tonight.”

“We’re done, don’t worry,” Bryan assured her, stomping the snow off his boots. “And it looks pretty good out there if I do say so myself.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I’ll take your word for it.”

In the kitchen, you and Lisa were finishing up the cocoa. The mugs were steaming, each topped with a swirl of whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, and the warmth spread through the room like a cozy blanket.

Ben barely made it through the living room doorway before you were there, a fluffy blanket in your arms. His cheeks were slightly red from the cold winds outside, and his nose looked frosty.

“Here,” you murmured, wrapping the blanket snugly around him. He let out a soft sigh of relief as the warmth surrounded him, leaning into your touch as you pressed a soft kiss to his chilled cheek. “You’re freezing.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he said, his voice still tinged with a shiver. “But it was worth it. House looks good.”

You smiled, handing him a mug of cocoa from the coffee table. “It better, after all that work.”

Ben grinned, his fingers wrapping around the mug as he took a long sip. “Okay, this makes it all worth it.”

Lisa ushered Bryan to the sofa in the living room opposite the fire, where she handed him his own mug and fussed over him briefly, adjusting his blanket and settling beside him.

“You two did a good job out there,” she said, her eyes flickering to the fireplace decorations you’d all worked on earlier. “It really feels like Christmas now.”

Bryan took a sip of cocoa, nodding in agreement. “You ladies did a fine job in here too. This place looks great. The fireplace? Perfect.”

Emma finished packing up the last box, then plopped down on the floor beside Halo, who promptly curled up beside her. “Can we officially call it done now?” she asked, looking up at Lisa.

Lisa smiled, glancing around the room. “I think so.”

Ben stepped closer to you, his mug in one hand while his other arm draped around your shoulders, the blanket draped over his back. The firelight cast a golden glow on his face, and for a moment, he just looked at you, his expression soft.

“You fit in here so well,” he said quietly, his voice warm and sincere. “It’s like you’ve always been a part of this.”

You leaned into him, your voice just as soft. “It feels like home. Like I’ve always been meant to be here.”

Ben’s arm tightened around you, his cheek brushing against your temple as he whispered, “This is gonna be a special Christmas, I can feel it.”

You smiled, resting your head against his chest as the warmth of the fire and the quiet hum of laughter and conversation filled the room. It was more than a feeling, it was a certainty.

#Azzie's Advent Calendar #azzie asks #ben shelton #benshelton #ben shelton x reader #atp tennis

46 notes · View notes

eretzyisrael · 2 months ago

Text

by Mark Oppenheimer

Black Classic also offers numerous books by the late Hunter College historian John Henrik Clarke (1915-1998), who shared Welsing’s homophobia. Clarke’s detractors often mention his antisemitism, but his homophobia is sometimes overlooked. On YouTube, you can see him cheered on as he tells an audience that Africans “had a healthy attitude toward things other people made unhealthy and made filthy and dirty.” Scornfully, he denies the possibility of gay Africans in antiquity. “Show me one case of sexual deviation before the coming of foreigners!” Elsewhere, Clarke, who blamed the “Jewish educational mafia” for multiculturalism, wrote an introduction to an edition of Michael Bradley’s 1978 book The Iceman Inheritance, which argues that white people are genetically predisposed to higher levels of racism and aggression than other groups, and speculates that Jews might be the ultimate “Neanderthal-Caucasoids.”

He also wrote the foreword to Bradley’s 1992 work Chosen People from the Caucasus: Jewish Origins, Delusions, Deceptions and Historical Role in the Slave Trade, Genocide and Cultural Colonization. This last work argues that the people known as Jews today are descended from eighth-century converts to Judaism, having usurped the tradition from a group that had been practicing Judaism for more than two millennia; these late-arriving Jews, including today’s Ashkenazi Jews, have uniquely high levels of Neanderthal aggression, which has helped them dominate other groups.

In 2001, Clarke told an interviewer that “the European uses this religion”—Judaism—“as the handmaiden of his imperial desires. I strictly mean the Europeans who answer to the word Jew. He reads the word Jew into ancient history, where the word didn’t exist. When the European Jew didn’t exist.” In an interview you can find online, Clarke told an audience, “If Jews want to dominate something, it’s very easy to dominate us. So that’s what they do.”

The idea that “white” Jews, whether Ashkenazi, Sephardi (Iberian), or Mizrahi (Middle Eastern and North African), are somehow impostors or usurpers—with the “real” Jews coming from the Nile River Valley or other parts of Africa—is a poisonous myth deployed to subvert the ancient connection of the Jewish people to the land of Israel. It’s a lie presented as a given within a certain strain of Afrocentric thought, and embraced not only by Clarke but by the aforementioned “Dr. Ben”—Yosef A.A. ben-Jochannan—who, like Clarke, is well-represented in the offerings of Black Classic Press, which publishes 12 ben-Jochannan titles. These include We the Black Jews: Witness to the “White Jewish Race” Myth and African Origins of the Major “Western Religions.”

In 2015, shortly after ben-Jochannan’s death at 96, The New York Times reported that for decades he had deceived employers about his credentials, telling Cornell and other institutions that he had degrees from Cambridge, in England, and the University of Puerto Rico at Mayagüez. Neither school had a record of his enrollment. “ ‘People condemn me for not being an intellectual of the Ph.D. type,’ Mr. Ben-Jochannan once said, reacting to questions later raised about his résumé,” the Times wrote. “While he used the ‘white man’s credential’ to go ‘certain places,’ Mr. Ben-Jochannan said, he refused to ‘let the white man certify’ his work.”

As far as I can tell, Coates has nowhere discussed the allegations against ben-Jochannan, his longtime intellectual partner—and a writer who remains a source of revenue for the press. To the contrary, Coates has always spoken of ben-Jochannan with reverence. “In 1978, when we started publishing, three elders were inspirations and gave their support—John G. Jackson, John Henrik Clarke, and Yosef ben-Jochannan,” writes Coates on the Black Classic website. “His books have revolutionized the way Black people relate to Africa and the Nile Valley.” After ben-Jochannan’s death, Coates told the Times, “I consider Dr. Ben the greatest of the self-trained historians.” Ta-Nehisi told the Times that ben-Jochannan’s example “runs through everything I do.”

Along with Clarke and ben-Jochannan, one of the authors best represented in Black Classic’s offerings remains Tony Martin. The Jewish Onslaught may be gone from the website, but several of his other books are still there, including a pamphlet, published in 1998, containing the text of a lecture given in Trinidad called The Progress of the African Race Since Emancipation and Prospects for the Future. Although largely about the Afro-Caribbean experience, Martin takes time to explain that “[p]seudo-scientific racism had been around since at least the 4th or 5th century AD when the Jewish holy book, the Talmud, pioneered the notion that Africans were recipients of the curse of Ham.” The Talmud makes no connection between Noah’s son Ham and Africa—that is a later, mainly Christian tradition, seen in early church theologians like Eusebius of Caesarea (CE 260-340) and Bede (CE 673-735).

But Martin, though a professor at Wellesley for many years, isn’t making a scholarly argument. He is making an indictment. This is also what he is doing when he writes:

“When President Clinton becomes president, he goes to Geneva and he bows down before the World Jewish Congress. When the African American woman Myrlie Evers-Williams became head of the NAACP the other day, she went straight to Geneva and bowed down before the World Jewish Congress.” This is fiction, of course—neither of them went to Geneva to genuflect before Jews—but hardly surprising coming from Martin, who elsewhere in his pamphlet calls the World Jewish Congress “a body organized on a racial or religious or whatever-the-Jews-are basis.”

One has to ask: Why is Coates selling this?

#w paul coates #national book award #antisemitism #the jewish onslaught #national book foundation #black classic press

20 notes · View notes

thegrimdog13 · 1 year ago

Text

Star au headcannons pt.1

If you want more just tell me! Again this is not related to any of my other aus and will have different designs.I also want to come out with some art for it soon! Love you all ❤️

______________________________________________

Jeff-

•The fans call him Jeff the killer because he kills it on stage and the ladies, men, and others lol

•Jeff is a bitch to everyone and needs everything to be perfect

•Jeff loves the attention

•Jeff has a preference towards woman so he often is like ohhhhh let that one on stage or take her backstage.

•Jeff did this to Nina once and after she became obsessed. Nina then became a pop star so she could be close to him at events.

•Jeff’s rock band wears fun makeup like kiss ( but it is like there regularly designs so Jeff has a smile painted on his face and EJ has black tears same with Lulu except hers are red.)

Stuff close to what Jeff would write or play-

•Falling in reverse- Good girls like bad guys

•Mötley Crüe- Dr. Feelgood

•Ozzy Osbourne - crazy train

•Green Day- boulevard of Broken dreams

______________________________________________

Nina-

•Nina stole the killer part from Jeff because she is obsessed.

•She loves Jeff’s music (Jeff does a lot of rock and emo like music. )

•Nina loves pop too and does scene music to get Jeff’s attention.

•Nina really leans into pop with her outfits but tries to add in some scene girl vibes.

•Nina moves a lot on stage like dancing and bopping around

•Nina copied Jeff a little with the smile but instead drew her lip stick into a smile.

Stuff close to what Nina would sing-

•Tessa Violet- Crush

•Bebe Rexha- I’m a mess

•Katy Perry-Hot n Cold

•Savannah Lee May-All eyes on me

•Never shot never-Happy

•lady Gaga- paparazzi

______________________________________________

Jane-

•Her stage name in Jane everlasting but it used to be Jane the killer when she was in a band with Jeff.

•She refuses to sing anything rock and metal

• Jeff and her had a call out when he was being a bitch to her and she was tired of his crap.

• She hates talking about anything about Jeff and when interviewers asked her about it she freaks out

•She mostly sings sad and inspiring songs

•She just hates Jeff lol

Stuff close to what Jane would sing-

• Alicia Keys- Underdog

•Kyla Jade- you don’t own me

•Adele- Hello

•Adele-easy on me

______________________________________________

Eyeless Jack-

•EJ puts up with Jeff better then anyone else he gets pissed at everything but Jeff some how

•EJ is basically feeds Jeff’s delusions while Liu is just like shut fuck up Jeff.

•EJ is as nice as he can be until someone annoys him then he will break his drums and Jeff will be pissed. He would say why the fuck EJ those are expensive and then EJ would just be like I’m sorry Jeff and beg for forgiveness lol.

•EJ is basically Jeff’s Boyfriend without being his boyfriend he will bring Jeff flowers before shows and simp for him and Jeff will be like cool attention.

•EJ is just like notice meeee twenty four seven towards Jeff but Jeff is oblivious.

______________________________________________

Ticci Toby and Clockwork-

•Literally Idiots they make jokes on stage before they start singing

•Toby plays the ukulele sometimes probably

•Clockwork will sing a sad song and make raunchy jokes after.

•They sing lots of comedy duets.

stuff that is similar to what they would sing-

•Joel Grey & Sutton Foster- Friendship

•Mindy Gledhill- I Do Adore

•Alex & Sierra- Little do you know

______________________________________________

Sally-

•Sally is a child ballet dancer and her mom posted her residual online and it got millions of views

•Sally appreciates people being nice to her

•Sally is super sweet and nice

•She loves people and talking to fans

•She adores dancing

______________________________________________

Ben-

Ben’s nickname is Ben Drowned because of Minecraft lol

• Ben also does gaming competitions even though he is a kid

•Ben is really good for a teen and his dad is a pro gamer that helped him get in the competitions

•Ben is a little brat and loves trash talking people

•Ben learned how to hack so even if he was losing he could just click a couple buttons and win.

•Ben is a big fan of Jeff’s music

______________________________________________

Laughing Jack and Laughing Jill -

•They are a twin trapeze act

•They are in a traveling Circus

•They often make jokes a lot so the ringmaster decided they should have Laughing Jack and Laughing Jill as their nicknames

•Laughing Jack loves to throw candy for the children when they are swinging all over the place.It often hits the kids in the face though lol.

•Laughing Jill also loves to dance

______________________________________________

Jason The Toymaker-

• he does all types of acrobatics

•He thinks that he is the best thing ever lol

•not much is known about him and no one even knows why he is as famous as he is ( probably some sort of controversial thing but like something dumb like him saying I’m better then *insert name* at this thing lol) ______________________________________________

CandyPop-

•An aerial dancer

•He just loves looking majestic lol

•Candypop has lots of energy and does hard tricks so fast it’s unbelievable

•Candypop jumps around before her gets on the silks and it’s so funny looking lol

•Candypop just love’s attention

______________________________________________

Bloody Painter-

•Bloody painter is a painter so creative lol

•Instead of painting with blood he uses regular paint. But the reason he is called blood painter is because he paints serial killers.

•Helen is really sweet but loves dark things

•Helen is quiet and often compliments other people’s work even if it isn’t that good. •Helen just appreciates other artists ☺️

______________________________________________

Homicidal Liu-

•Liu was taught piano by his mother

•Liu was going to join Jeff’s band but Jeff said no because he can’t play anything cool.

•Liu plays sad music ever since his Mom died from an unknown illness

•Liu loves his brother but has to give him realty checks a lot.

•Liu is older then Jeff but somehow he feels like he is always treated as lower by Jeff

______________________________________________

Lulu -

•Lulu loves being Jeff’s band but she thinks he is kinda rude

•Lulu is a really quiet person who is a bit of a people pleaser

•Lulu stays on Jeff’s good side because she enjoys seeing him happy.

•Nina hates Lulu

•Lulu is quiet off stage but when she is on the stage her voice is booming

•Lulu has a really pretty voice and sometimes Jeff gets a little jealous

______________________________________________

Brian and Tim-

•They are gay country boys and no one can tell me otherwise lol

•They sing lots of love songs

•They are little cuties

•Brian is a big goof and makes lots of jokes while Tim is just like really…….

•Tim secretly loves Brian’s humor

•Brian is a big flirt and it makes Tim blush

•Countryyyyy boyyyy Iiii lovvveeee youuu

songs similar to what they would sing-

•Johnny Cash - you are my sunshine

•Tonight I’m Garth Brooks- we shall be free

•Prisley Fields-Ride Me Cowboy ( Brian would definitely sing this lol)

______________________________________________

This is all I can think of for now let me know if you want a part two! If you have any suggestions, questions, or drawings requests! Love you all ❤️

35 notes · View notes

yoakkemae · 1 year ago

Text

it was perhaps strange that ben found a strange sense of amusement of confusing his captor , even as he found himself closer to death with the knife digging just under his chin. the confusion made his captor look a little younger , closer to ben's age , and it was nice to see that he had other expressions than hostile blankness. still , what wasn't nice was the knife , but ben could understand the hostility and confusion. ben's pretty sure , as an understatement , that life on the isle wasn't quite the kindest.

' if there was a dog here , you would have either heard it or it would have attacked already since the kitchen is right next to the entryway , ' ben says honestly. they just had a small cottage , after all , and the only " rooms " that were separated with walls and a door were the three bedrooms and the two bathrooms. ( there was the attic that did have a shotgun , but he wasn't exactly going to tell the man with a knife where to find a better weapon ).

' no tricks , no traps , and no alarms , ' ben continues , still honest. he has a feeling that the stranger wouldn't trust pure altruism , despite the fact that ben wanted to feed him because he assumes that the other man must be starving , so he lies with , ' i think trying to appease the man taking you hostage is " hostage 101 ". i would hope you're less likely to stab and kill me if you at least had some food and water in you. and , like i said earlier , you can prepare and check everything as much as you want. you're going to need some sort of nourishment if you need to plan your next steps anyway. '

regardless of the tension, or the urgency or even the threat of his escape being so fleeting, harry still noticed the way the stranger fixed his clothes, watched the way he put on a mask and deliver a performance that should have been more difficult. it was so easy, the lie wrapped in partial truths, it slipped from his mouth like syrup and the guardsmen ate it up without a thought. before harry could focus too directly on his current hostage, the guardsmen's voice brought his attention back to what was more pressing.

someone. singular. did that mean he was the only one that had escaped, or the only one accounted for? it would have been more convenient had others escaped from the isle, they could have served as distractions, scapegoats, he could have used them as canon fodder or lures but if he was alone . . . harry's upper lip curled back into something resembling a snarl. they'd already identified him. if not by name then by description. fuck.

harry settled, bringing himself back to the task and situation at hand. survive the night, think about the next day later. he arched a brow slightly as his hostage praised the guardsmen for their work only for his brows to disappear behind his soaking bangs when his captive hushed him once the door was closed. harry blinked. opened his mouth as if to say something, briefly considered stabbing him, then smartly decided to remain silent until the stranger had dropped their hand.

when his captive spoke next it was before he could gather his bearings and what came out of his mouth elicited a somewhat comedic look from the pirate: startled, confused, and a little annoyed. ❝ i— what? ❞ food? water? with a flourish, harry had the pointed tip of his knife angled just under the strangers chin, ❝ are you trying to play games with me? trying to trick me? what's in the kitchen, ey? you got a dog in there? traps? alarm trigger? ❞

#tiderider #⤷ ben g.【 ❝ i don’t like to do what is easy; i like to do what is right. ❞ 】interactions.#au tbt.#b//en upon seeing h//arry: he's built but also clearly starved ... why do i want to feed my kidnapper

14 notes · View notes

movedyoakkemae · 3 years ago

Text

@gggno asked: “ i never noticed your eyes were this green. ” / uma @ ben.

most would be intimidated with how close uma was , but ben wasn’t most. it wasn’t that he underestimated her , but it was because he trusted her. ( some would also call ben stupid or naïve for trusting uma , especially after she used a love spell on him , but -- he understands where uma had been coming from , and he doesn’t begrudge her on it ). he just blinks up at her as she peers closely into his eyes.

“ i never noticed your eyes were this green , ” uma mentions , and normally ben would be flattered by the compliment , especially since uma was complimenting him , but.

unable to help himself , his lip curls into an amused smirk , head tilting as if he doesn’t realise what reaction he might get with his next statement , tone purposefully sounding clueless. ‘ my eyes are blue. ’

#gggno #⤷ ben g.【 ❝ kindness is not just a way to get your guard to lower and to find a knife in your back later. ❞ 】answered.#⤷ ben g.【 ❝ i don’t like to do what is easy; i like to do what is right. ❞ 】threads.#kissus #I CAN'T BELIEVE WE FOUND OUT UMA WAS COLOUR BLIND BC OF THIS

7 notes · View notes

yoakkemae-moved · 5 years ago

Text

@gggno asked: △ " how was it like to be spelled " / uma @ ben why is she messy

‘ one. ’ he raises an eyebrow at uma after he gives the score for the scale and he asks, very dryly, ‘ for clarification, do you mean by mal, by you, or by audrey ? ’ there’s a twitch to his lips, an almost cynical twist, before it smooths out to his usual placid and polite expression. ‘ in regard to the love spells, it was almost like being a passenger in a car -- you can see the path in front of you, but you don’t quite know what decisions the driver is going to make for you, and you can’t help with navigating either. ’ it was almost true but not completely. although, really, sometimes he’s not even quite sure himself. ( that’s a lie ).

21 notes · View notes

yoakkemae · 2 years ago

Text

' be honest with me , ' ben can't help but start to ask , even if he finds himself unable to look up from his paperwork. ' if you didn't know me , if you didn't like me -- would you think it would be well-deserved if the leader of auradon was slowly killing themselves to make things right with the isle ? '

#⤷ ben g.【 ❝ i don’t like to do what is easy; i like to do what is right. ❞ 】interactions.#:D

15 notes · View notes

writings-of-a-hufflepuff · 3 years ago

Text

Fir Tree

Fandom: The Amazing Spider-Man (Andrew Garfield TASM)

Collection/Series: N/A

Pairing: TASM! Peter Parker x Reader

Writer: @writings-of-a-hufflepuff aka @hufflepuffing-all-day-long

Rating: G

Warnings: Angst, canon character death, hurt/comfort

Summary: He made a promise to himself that he’d tell you everything, he didn’t realise just how hard that would be.

Fir Tree - Honesty; Remembrance; Resilience; Friendship

Notes: This follows on from Azalea but you don’t necessarily have to read that to read this. But they link up. This is kind of a sequel piece.

That night that you found him struggling down the corridor was forever burned into his consciousness, the memory lasting longer than the wounds themselves which healed within two days. Those Spider-Man plasters quickly became obsolete, but his promise remained. He had made a promise to himself that night to tell you everything...well, almost everything. He wasn’t quite sure you were ready to hear about his budding and blooming love for you, but everything else? That he was Spider-Man, about Uncle Ben, Harry, Gwen? That? He needed to tell you and sooner rather than later.

He knew he’d been putting it off since that night. Writing and rewriting out what he would say, how he would say it. How to explain it all. With Gwen it had seemed almost easy in comparison. He’d been a kid, young, foolish, brave enough to just do it. To just tell her the truth. With you it was so much harder. He didn’t want to lose anyone else. He was twenty-five now, that recklessness had dimmed slightly. He was tired. It wasn’t fun and games anymore.

He’d lost so many people. He only had you and Aunt May left and the thought...the thought that you might stop even being friends with him or that you might hate him for not telling you or think him crazy or a liar or...or…or God forbid, you might get hurt because you knew he was Spider-Man...

There were so many possibilities of how it could all go wrong, but he wanted you to know. He was fed up with hiding it, he hated how confused and concerned you were whenever you noticed a new bruise or when he was late to yours for a movie night or a meet up somewhere in the city. Peter had never been a great liar, not to those he cared about, and every excuse was getting weaker and weaker. Your smile dropped quicker every time and he knew you noticed his lies, and he knew it hurt you. He didn’t want to lie to you anymore, he wanted to have someone, someone who knew, who he could talk to.

Standing in front of your apartment door with a speech written out was the best he was going to get.

You’d been expecting the knock, Peter had been due to arrive for chinese takeout and a rewatch of the Empire Strikes Back any minute, so it wasn’t a surprise to see him on the other side of your door. The surprise was seeing him standing there with a piece of crumpled and worn white paper shaking in his hands.

“Peter? Are you okay?” You were worried something had happened again, but he didn’t have any new cuts or bruises. You’d never seen him shake like that...like he was standing on a school stage waiting for the audience to laugh.

“I...can I come in first?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” You step back to let him in. He nearly trips over Jimjams who decides to weave between his legs as a form of greeting before disappearing into your bedroom. He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, twisting back and forth full of nervous energy at the prospect of being honest with you.

“Hey…” You reach for him, smoothing a hand down his cheek. His bouncing stops for a moment as he looks at you, big doe eyes full of fear and you wonder what could possibly put him in this state. It’s that touch of yours that gives him the resolve to say it, you’re always gentle with him, always kind, so kind, and he knows in that moment it’ll be okay. You’ll still be his friend in the end.

He grabs your hand removing it from his face, but keeping it in his as he looks down at his speech, trying to remind himself of the words he planned to say, as if having a script would make this easier.

“I-I have something I have to tell you, well, actually, um, a lot of things I have to tell you but...but I’m scared you’re gonna hate me. I, uh, you’re my best friend and I...I don’t want to lie to you anymore..but...i’m scared.” He closes his eyes shut tight, the corners crinkling from the force as he lets out one big deep breath before opening them again.

“Pete…?”

“I’m...I’m Spider-Man, the Spider-Man and...and that’s why I’m always getting hurt and I turn up late for things and half my socks are red and blue because they used to be white and...and...and…” The tears start to gather in his eyes as rubs his nose with back of his palming, sniffling already. His eyes are focused on the floor, scared to look at you, scared to see your reaction. “I’ve lost so many people. My...my Uncle Ben cause I was being stubborn and childish...why didn’t...why didn’t I just stay in the house? Why didn’t I just leave the lab and...and walk Aunt May home from work? Who...who does that?”

“Peter…” You step closer, but he pulls back and spins in a circle as if letting you touch him might stop the words from coming out. Maybe that’s the truth. Maybe he needs to just get it all off of his chest, everything it seems he’s been bottling up for so long. You don’t know what to say, to do...you’re still reeling from the revelation that your friend is Spider-Man, a local hero.

It makes sense. The cuts. The bruises. His fast reflexes whenever your clumsiness causes you to drop something. How he’s often late for things just when something crazy is happening in the city. It makes perfect and total sense, but by golly does it rattle your brain a little bit.

“And...and I lost Gwen...I…” You usher him to your sofa, his elbows pressing into his knees as he hides his face in his hands. Peter’s shoulders shake with the weight of tears and the thrumming pain that speeds through him. For seven years he’s kept it all bottled up, for seven long years he hasn’t said a word to anyone about it. No one knew he was Spider-Man, no one really knew the guilt he felt about his Uncle or the truth about...about Gwen. No one knew he was there. No one knew he’d failed her. No one knew the real truth about his life and it was tearing him apart.

You take a seat next to him, pressing your side against his own and touching your forehead to his shoulder. “Who...who was she?”

“...Gwen...she...she was my girlfriend. I-I loved her so so much and I….I couldn’t save her, I failed her. Seven years and I just can’t get over the feeling that I should have done better, been better. I drew her into my life and Harry...Harry knew that and he...she...she died in my arms and it...it was all my fault. It's all my fault…” He sounds breathless, like the words are suffocating him and the weight of his grief seems to fall over you too, the full realisation that the Peter you knew wasn’t just a ‘disaster’ of an adult, but a man who had seen some truly horrible things, who had lost some truly important people and didn’t know how to move on.

“Peter Parker, look at me.” You’re surprisingly stern, the words an order, a directive. Said in a way that Peter can’t help but follow. He lifts his head, brown eyes boring into you. You take his hand into your own and squeeze tight. “I didn’t know her, Gwen, but...something tells me that she wouldn’t want you to blame yourself for her death.”

“How do you know?” His voice is thick with tears, his words choked out as if they’re stuck on a lump in his throat. Real or imagined. You can’t begin to imagine what Peter feels, the pain, the guilt...but you know, you know that if you were in Gwen’s place the last thing you’d ever want is for Peter to keep hurting like this. Who would want the person they loved to feel like that?

“If...if you’d died, would you have wanted her to blame herself?”

“No.” Of course not. He’d want her to move on, to be happy, to go to England and go to Oxford. To be the best she could be and live her life to the absolute fullest. To fall in love, have a family, a big house full of love.

“When...when we love someone, Peter,” You cup his face in your palms, thumbs brushing away the tear tracks that have made their way across his skin, “we want them to be happy. You’re torturing yourself because of something you can’t change, something that wasn’t your fault. There’s only one person to blame and it’s not you. It’s not you. If Gwen loved you, like I’m sure she did, then she’d want you to be happy and stop blaming yourself.”

“It’s just so hard...Whenever I think...about...about moving on, I feel so guilty, like I'm replacing her.” Whenever he caught himself looking at you like that, soft, the sort of soft he used to feel for Gwen, it chokes him, grabs him by the neck with guilt. Whenever he finds himself staring, thinking of the possibility of a date, of a relationship, of love, it sucker punches him in the face. He’s reminded of Gwen’s look of fear, of her body, cold and lifeless, and he always looks away. It always felt like he was replacing her, replacing those feelings, that time, that space.

You brush a dark strand of hair away from his brow, soothing fingers run down his temple.

“Peter, no one is ever going to replace her and no one should try to or have to. She’s always going to have a space,” You reach forward and pat his chest, to the left, right over where his heart beats, “right here. But, there’s space there for someone else too. You don’t have to be lonely forever, Peter. She wouldn’t want that.”

Your hand glides up his chest and over his shoulder, cupping the back of his neck. A delicate brushing of your fingers that comforts him more than it should, the tactile touch of someone who cares. Peter’s hands reach for you, strong arms wrap around your waist and pull you into his lap. A tight, close hug, that has your face pressing into the crook of his neck as he breathes you in.

“Thank you…thank you.”

You pull back, despite the resistance from Peter’s arms. “Thank you for telling me everything.” You know it couldn’t be easy. To let someone in after so much hurt, but he did and he chose to let you in and that meant something.

You let him hold you for a long while, till his breathing evened out and the tears dried up. Till he could look at you with a smile. “So, Spider-Man, huh?” You lean back with a cautious smile, testing the waters, seeing if he’s okay...or as okay as he could be given everything he’d told you.

The little smirk that lights up Peter’s face is confirmation enough, the self-satisfied sense that he knows what he told you was pretty awesome and it was. “Yeah…”

“That’s...that’s pretty cool, Peter.” You’d never imagined that you’d be best friends with a superhero, that you’d have a crush on a superhero and he wasn’t...he wasn’t just any superhero either. He wasn’t some guy throwing his weight around for the attention, you knew that what Peter was doing was to help the little guy, the normal person. To keep normal people safe and that was...that was something else. It made your heart contract.

“Yeah?”

“Uh, yeah! You save people! That’s...that’s amazing.” The look you give him makes his heart squeeze. Peter can’t help but swallow harshly because you just seem to glow at him, eyes wide and bright and so, so damn impressed with him, so damn happy. It makes his chest feel tight and normally, normally it’d hurt in a bad way, but tonight? Tonight he feels lifted, free, like he can truly enjoy the way you look at him and the way he looks at you. Because you were right. Gwen would want him to be happy, to move forward.

“I think you're amazing.” It’s breathy and sweet and even you can’t mistake the feeling in his words and the look in his eyes like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen.

“Peter…”

“I mean it. You’re amazing and I am so lucky to have you in my life. You're the best thing that’s happened to me in seven years.” He can’t stop the tears that start up again, welling in his eyes like rain drops in a gutter. You cup his cheeks again, a habit you seem to be developing, one he won’t complain about, and try to shush him.

“Hey...hey...that’s enough tears for tonight…” You press a kiss to his cheek, the saltiness of his tears a reminder of the twists and turns of events tonight and reminder of how tonight was supposed to have gone. “Why don’t I go order the chinese?”

“Yeah, sounds good. I’ll...I’ll put the movie on.”

He’s grateful for you, for the kindness and the patience you show him. The way you know his order like the back of your hand and that you seem to know that one too many big conversations have been had that night. That it’s time to rest easy, to watch mindless television and eat food and for a moment, forget that anything hurts at all.

As he watches you order, Peter’s certain that there’s space enough in his heart for not just Gwen and her memory, but you too.

#tasm!peter parker #tasm!peter parker x reader #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker reader insert #the amazing spider-man #spider-man

239 notes · View notes

scribeofpnakotis · 2 years ago

Text

Izzy Hands & Dean Winchester- The Only Retirement We Get Is Death

Yeah that’s right, I’m finally doing it. First of all, I do want to make it clear that this is heavily reliant on @autisticandroids SPN meta, as I point blank refuse to subject myself to rewatching Supernatural for what is honestly MOSTLY an OFMD post.

Secondly, the customary disclosing of personal biases. I fucking hate Izzy Hands. He is an extremely effective rom-com villain and a fantastic example of character writing/top-notch acting, but as a character I despise him. As far as I’m concerned that ‘x’ tattoo is a target for my fist. I also Do Not Like canon Dean (fanon Dean is a different guy at this point & we will not be discussing him in this post). I was a Sam Girl back in the day, and although I am no longer a) a girl or b) attracted to men, my allegiance remains.

Now, to the meat of the issue.

I’ll start with the point that initially struck me with these two characters, which is specifically Izzy’s line in episode 4 “the only retirement we get is… death.” Now I can’t recall if it’s word-for-word (as I said, I’m not rewatching SPN for this) but this is absolutely a sentiment that Dean has expressed at least once with regards to being a hunter, and I’d go as far as to say it’s almost a thesis statement for the show overall. Like the writers do seem to enjoy repeatedly driving it home for the characters and audience that there is no escape from the lifestyle. Mary tries to leave & dies. Sam tries to leave, dead girlfriend. Dean tries to leave, SUCKS at it & Lisa&Ben lose their memories of him and are never mentioned again.

Now, this is handled very differently in OFMD. There are a few reasons for this (it’s a romcom, not a very gory genre soap to begin with) but I think the core of it is that the shows have almost diametrically opposed views of traditional masculinity. Supernatural is ultimately very fatalistic, and is also presenting its take on masculinity as represented by the hunter lifestyle as something aspirational. “This is who you are.” It says. “This is how things will go for you, you don’t have a choice in the matter.” OFMD is saying “That’s dumb actually. People should get to choose how they live, how they love & how they express themselves.” (it’s very queer philosophically & I love it). So when Izzy says ‘The only retirement we get is death’ he is presented pretty explicitly as being wrong. Ed can totally retire if he wants to. He should get to take his soft frilly BF to a secluded tropical island and live out the rest of their days in adorable romantic bliss. Izzy is being a dickhead by attempting to deny him that.

This brings us to my second point, which is that structurally, within the context of their shows, both Izzy and Dean are, at least partially, actively preventing another character from escaping a life in which they feel trapped. For both of them, this takes the form of a lot of policing that character’s expression of their masculinity. Like this sort of goes away to an extent in later seasons of SPN, but early show Sam was uh. Pretty fucking femme for 2005, let’s put it that way. A lot of the humour/interpersonal bitching in early seasons is based on Sam wanting to have nicer things, or eat healthier food (burger/salad dichotomy) or just generally act in a way that Dean very obviously is trying not to call him slurs about. It’s easy to miss because the shows are framed differently, but this is the exact dynamic Izzy has with Ed. Ed is not that femme tbh but the way Izzy reacts to him wanting to wear nicer clothes/go to flash parties/make out with a fancy man is very similar to like S1 Dean getting this close to calling Sam a f*g.

(join me in a moment of silence to mourn the loss of AU supernatural where Sam is explicitly queer in the show)

The thing is, again, Izzy is explicitly shown to be in the wrong for acting like this. He’s literally the romcom villain. Ed is right for wanting to escape the toxically masculine world of traditional piracy. Whereas in SPN, because the show frames the hunter lifestyle as aspirational (it’s the american dream! Road trips! Credit card fraud!) we’re… kind of set up to agree with Dean? Like it is portrayed as a tragedy when Sam’s girlfriend of the week gets fridged, but ultimately, the narrative supports Dean’s position that it’s ‘once a hunter, always a hunter’. There is literally no escape, and you should stop trying before you get more people hurt or killed.

Also on the topic of characters reading pretty damn queer. Both of these sad fictional men are deeply, deeply repressed about their sexualities. Like they’re so far in the closet they’re having adventures together in Narnia. This is explicit and canonical with Izzy- he’s in love with Ed. A good portion of his hatred for Stede is actually jealousy (whether or not he can admit that to himself). He fully cried a bit when he thought they were fucking in episode 6. I don’t think this is news to anyone in the fandom.

Dean is… a little more complicated, let’s say. I don’t think it’s controversial to say he’s canonically straight, at least in terms of what the writers actually seemed to intend regarding his character. However um. Look. I don’t ship wincest. I never shipped wincest. Honestly the whole concept squicks me the hell out. But I think we have to accept that the ship was huge for a reason, and only part of that was people having incest fetishes. There’s also the matter of that siren turning into a ‘replacement little brother’ that one time, and of course I would be remiss to ignore the issue of Destiel. (eleven fucking seasons of queerbaiting holy shit how did we live like that?)

Izzy and Dean also both respond to their own queerness in very similar ways- namely by retreating into very strictly defined, pre-existing roles so that they don’t have to think about all the ways in which they don’t fit in. For Izzy, this takes the form of his slavish devotion to the concept of being a ‘real pirate’ (read: real man). ‘Real pirates’ in his book, take pleasure only in violence and conquest, they might fuck but they never love, and they certainly don’t talk about their feelings. This then spills over into his dynamic with Ed- the ‘devoted first mate/captain’ thing they have going on is as close as he can allow himself to get to an actual relationship, so when Ed starts flirting like a normal person with someone else, it turns his whole world on its head.

Similarly, Dean has devoted himself to doing the ‘red-blooded american man’ thing, almost to his own detriment. He’s convinced himself that he just isn’t meant for any kind of stability or long-term happiness and self-sabotages every time he feels like he might be getting close. By the time the show ended, he was, God, I think in his fifties? And still pretty much only had drunken one-night stands with disposable extras. Like, even ignoring his whole thing with Castiel, he’d entirely given up on the idea of a long-term relationship with a woman (the only kind he’d be ‘allowed’ under the white-picket-fence, nuclear family ideal he freaking lionizes), if he ever seriously entertained it at all.

So, I think the main reason this comparison stands up is that Supernatural and OFMD are both, textually, using a particular fictionalized lifestyle as a metaphor for a particular style of masculinity. In SPN, hunting is representative of a very, uh, stylized form of american manhood, one centred around the concepts of personal freedom and extreme self-reliance. Violence is also absolutely central to this style of masculinity.

In OFMD, piracy actually represents a lot of things. For Stede, it’s freedom from heteronormativity. For Ed, it’s a chain tying him to a version of himself he’s desperate to escape. For Izzy, saliently to my point here, piracy is representative of the particular form of masculinity by which he judges himself and others. It’s about the intersection of violence and freedom, and being strong enough to never really need another person. The tragedy of which is, of course, that you can then never really want another person.

I think, to bring this home, that Izzy would thrive in the violent, emotionally constipated world of Supernatural. I think, conversely that Dean would absolutely fucking hate it in queer pirate rom-com land.

If anyone writes a crossover fic I will read the hell out of it.

#OFMD #Supernatural #Our Flag Means Death #SPN #izzy hands #izzy critical #to an extent #dean winchester #dean critical #again to an extentt #meta #character analysis #I DID THE THING

24 notes · View notes

yoakkemae · 6 months ago

Text

' you are so wrong. books are amazing ! they're a way for people to see a completely new world that you would have never known ! '

stupid dialouge starter call, accepting! ( @yoakkemae ) ༄

“ books … are stupid. ”

#calithal #⤷ ben g.【 ❝ i don’t like to do what is easy; i like to do what is right. ❞ 】interactions.#send help this is so fucking funny #hE'S SO OFFENDED LMAOOOO

2 notes · View notes

idontblushsrry · 4 years ago

Text

Kyoya Ootori||SFW Alphabet

A/N: Here’s Kyoya 4 more to go!

Word Count: 1753

A: Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Kyoya shows affection very subtly. Honestly you might feel like you’re stuck in a Victorian novel especially at the beginning of your relationship. He’ll brush his hand along the back of yours and then smile at you like oh that was intentional, ok. He’s really trying his best, but he’s not very obvious with his affection, all of his love tends to be conveyed through words and actions of caring.

B: Best Friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

As a best friend, Kyoya is lowkey a gossip. He’s not going to tell everyone what information he has but if you come up to him complaining about how so and so was bothering you, he’s already got a journal full of secrets and he’s ready to ruin someone’s career.

C: Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Kyoya likes to cuddle but he prefers to be the big spoon, this is solely because he doesn’t want to be woken up early just because you had to go to the bathroom or something. He only cuddles during night time and if you do wake up before him, he’s pretty easily fooled if you just replace your body with a pillow.

D: Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

He definitely wants to settle own, not just because of his family and him feeling like he’s obligated to settle down, but also just because he’s a traditional person in the sense that he wants to marry the person he fell in love with. As for domestic skills, Kyoya can’t cook or clean for SHIT. The only skill he’s got is probably managing finances and things along those lines but if you asked him to cook, he’d somehow find a way to burn water, just a bad time for everyone involved.

E: Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

If Kyoya doesn’t break up with you via text message (or letter if he’s feeling fancy), he honestly probably just tells you upfront that he doesn’t view your relationship as something he has a vested interest in continuing. Ouch.

F: Fiance(e) (How would they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Commitment for Kyoya has always ben somewhat of an obligation. He feels like he has to propose to you if you’re relationship is becoming serious. He’ll discuss it with you of course, but the man is very committed to those he loves and what better way to show that than marriage?

G: Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Not very physically gentle, again, he’s just not very physically affectionate. When he does initiate physical affection with you it’s always with a measure of unsureness and caution. Emotionally, he’s a bit more gentle. Kyoya looks for the type of person who can keep up with him especially intellectually, with him it’s like no words are needed, you both just get it.

H: Hugs( Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Kyoya’s hugs kinda suck. He doesn’t give them often, let alone initiate them, and if you hug him, he’ll just stand there kinda surprised and at a loss for what to do. At least he’s nice to hug, he’s got this cologne that smells like a warm fireplace during a winter storm that smells so comforting.

I: I love you (How fast do they say the L-word)

You definitely say ‘I love you’ before Kyoya. He expresses his love through tender gazes and lovesick smiles so he definitely assumes you get the message. However, if you express to Kyoya that you’d like to hear him say that he loves you, he’ll oblige.

J: Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous)

Kyoya doesn’t really get jealous, it’s not a matter of arrogance, more like, he knows that you’re with him and he’s with you. He doesn’t act out either on the off chance that he does get jealous because he was raised to bottle things up. In fact, the most Kyoya’s ever been jealous was in the beginning of your relationship/before you were dating where he was sure someone was gonna come by and sweep you away.

K: Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

The way Kyoya kisses is by cradling your face and just kinda going for it. He prefers to kiss you on the lips but he doesn’t mind placing them elsewhere if things get more intimate.

L: Little ones (How are they around children)

Kyoya kind of sucks around children. He’s not rude to them or anything of that sort but he just doesn’t find himself having anything in common with them and doesn’t really care for the topics they find interesting.

M: Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Mornings with Kyoya depend on if he’s off or not. If he has work or an early morning obligation of some sort, you’ll probably have to wake him up. He sets alarms but he’ll just swat at his alarm and then go back to bed, can’t exactly do that with your s/o now can you? However, if he has the day off or doesn’t have to wake up early, he won’t let you leave the bed until he’s ready to wake up. He’s surprisingly hard to move when he’s dead asleep like that.

N: Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Nights with Kyoya, he tends to stay up late and then just pass out on the nearest surface. If you happen to be awake long enough or pass him on the way to the kitchen/bathroom/etc., please move him into your bed. He will complain about his back problems if you don’t, if you can’t move him (which fair tbh he does deadweight) please give him a blanket and pillow, when he wakes up, it means the world to him.

O: Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Kyoya reveals things very gradually to you over time, he’s a very layered person and while certain aspects of his true personality may bubble up, you’re gonna have to put the full picture together on your own. Unless you’re like Tamaki and can just see through all his bs.

P: Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Kyoya is actually pretty easy to anger. This is because of his no nonsense attitude as well as his general grumpiness with the world. Although, no anger can top Kyoya’s anger from being woken up early.

Q: Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Kyoya remembers every detail you’re willing to share with him. He writes most of it in his notebook but somethings he likes to keep to himself and surprise you with later on.

R: Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

His favorite moment in your relationship was when you suggested your next date be at a flower viewing. Kyoya initially thought it might just be like a boring “commoner” thing to do but as the date went on, he ended up really enjoying himself. The sight of you surrounded by flowers was also a plus

S: Security (How protective are they? How would they like to be protected?)

Kyoya’s family has essentially a private police force, in addition he also has personal guards, best believe, you are protected. Don’t even worry about trying to protect him either, he has people on payroll for that

T: Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Kyoya puts a lot of effort into dates, anniversaries, and gifts. The man always knows when there’s a special occasion coming up and has already planned for every step of the day. As for dates in general, he likes to spoil you. He has absolutely no problem with flying you to somewhere like Okinawa for example, just because

U: Ugly (What are some bad habits of theirs? (I’m gonna add arguments here because they aren’t on the prompt list I found))

A bad habit Kyoya has is that he tends to try and test people and their limits with no prompting. He’s very secretive in general so that plus his sudden decisions to test people can lead to some bad arguments. The worst argument you’ve gotten into to date is when he suddenly started flirting back with his guests during the regular day and you got jealous and snapped.

V: Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Kyoya is concerned with his looks in the sense that he has a reputation to uphold. He’s not arrogant by any means but he does take pride in looking good. Plus Tamaki recommended a skin care routine to him once and now he’s hooked

W: Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

He views you as his better, he doesn’t feel incomplete without you but he can feel himself turning back into his sort of middle school self pre-Tamaki when you aren’t around.

X: (E)xes (Any previous relationship experience. How does that factor into your current relationship?)

He has no previous relationship experience. He has experience flirting of course and he’s had crushes before but he’s new to this, please be gentle.

Y: Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner)

Kyoya doesn’t like people with forceful personalities. He tolerates it for the sake of being polite and his image if nothing else but this man cannot stand when people are pushy and always have to get their way. He also hates boring people.

Z: Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

Canonically Kyoya is a heavy sleeper, this can be kind of an issue at times. He’s a hard worker who stays up late on things he’s passionate about which means he might fall asleep on whatever’s closest. There’s been more than one occasion where you’ve walked over to him sound asleep on his laptop with a document covered in keysmash from where he slumped on the computer.

#sfw alphabet #kyoya ootori x reader #kyoya headcanon #ohshc imagines #ohshc x reader #ohshc kyoya x reader #x black reader #idontblushsrry

522 notes · View notes

kariachi · 3 years ago

Text

Have not-really-Gwen-or-Gwevn-positive thoughts in the head and want to get them down. Going under a readmore because I know fans follow me and y’all don’t want this shit.

Just, lots of thoughts, mind was spinning last night in bed, so figuring where to start....

I think how much Gwen respects Kevin is kinda wibbly? Like, we all know she cares greatly, but caring isn’t respecting. I mean so much of early Gwevin is Kevin respecting her initial ‘not interested’ boundary while she’s actively pressuring and belittling him over his lack of action on his interest. Like, it was one thing back when that shit aired and I could sit there and go ‘ah, this will be her character growth is learning to respect him and that she isn’t owed his affection no matter how he feels’ but looking back and knowing that that’s not going to happen? That instead 90% of the time with the pair of them it’ll be Gwen’s way or the highway, even when Kevin’s position is justified (*coughcough*Enemy of My Frenemy*coughcough*).

And honestly I’d put this under.... I’m not sure how to phrase this... Gwen Tennyson the top tier student. Gwen Tennyson the hero. Gwen Tennyson the extremely-talented-sorceress. Gwen Tennyson the martial arts master. Gwen Tennyson the responsible one. Gwen Tennyson the capable and successful. I feel like Gwen probably has herself up on a pedestal, no so much in the ego way as the ‘under a lot of pressure’ way. Her mother has high expectations for her, she internalized those, and then she found herself with world saving going on which only made things a bigger deal. Which ties into the other shit because I kinda feel like she puts herself on a pedestal both because she’s put in a lot of work and has earned a bit of a pedestal and... Phrasing... If you tell yourself you’re right, you know what you’re doing, you can do whatever, then you don’t have to worry about the expectations dogging at your heels. Problem being that from up there it’s really easy to, even without meaning to, find yourself looking down on other people.

The line between, say, ‘there’s mutual attraction here, but he’s not comfortable, why’ and ‘there’s mutual attraction here, he’s not acting on it because something is wrong with him, I need to fix this’ becomes so much easier to cross. Because you’re right (of course you’re right, you can’t be wrong that would be a failure and you don’t fail) and you know best (of course you know best, you can’t be wrong-) and little things like his feelings and comfort are just in the way of you fixing everything.

And actually, side tangent, this plays into- I think Gwen may have a bit of a savior complex going on? Not like massive but, half her shit with Kevin, falling hook line and sinker the second Pandor went “I haven’t told anybody else but I’m totally dying and need you to save me”, more than half her shit with Charmcaster including deciding to store the woman in a bag for an undetermined length of time so she can ‘help’ her whether she likes it or not and without any sort’ve legal backing or representation for Charm. Like, damn G. We always talk about Ben having a hero complex but, I don’t think she’s immune y’all.

But, okay, back on topic, back to shit tied to the whole ‘questioning respect levels’ thing- Gwen has used physical violence to punish Kevin repeatedly, just because she’s unhappy with him. Yes, I see you fuckers in the back groaning about “oh gods Achi’s still on this soapbox” I ain’t leaving it! It’s fucked up!

We’ve got Too Hot To Handle, where Gwen’s response to Kevin’s “I don’t trust that guy and anyway it’s too dangerous to the local populace to let him loose” is to drop him out of the air. Not cool. If your partner does something equivalent to this, leave them. Don’t think I haven’t seen fuckers class this and similar shit under “sometimes you hurt the people you love” like this wasn’t deliberately attempting physical harm as a punishment.

We have Showdown, where her response to Kevin making a joke at her expense and Ben laughing at it is to shove them both into free fall. “But Achi that was mean of him” Yes it was! And she was right to be angry at him for it! But that is something you give someone a- reasonable- cold shoulder for until you can talk to them later about the matter. It is not something you shove someone out of a plane without safety gear over! They could’ve pressed charges! Depending on local law that would’ve been at least assault, possibly attempted manslaughter. That was, quite simply, banking on the Omnitrix not having one of it’s difficult moments and/or Kevin having the energy to shapeshift (and I’m being nice and assuming she knows that’s something he’s capable of without drawing from the Omnitrix) to keep them from going splat! “But it’s supposed to be funny” I don’t know who came up with this idea that characters’ actions don’t count if the viewer is meant to laugh but guess what, it’s still the characters’ actions and it’s entirely right to judge them on them.

And I still am not sure how I feel about Undercover. Though I do find a sad amusement that the wiki describes the scene where the team use Kevin essentially as a gong as- and I quote- “Kevin absorbs the metal and Ben transforms into Echo Echo. Gwen tricks the guards into opening the door and they escape from the cell. Gwen hits the metal and Echo Echo amplifies the sound”. Which I guess should probably answer my ‘was this entirely on the up-and-up’ question, if the fucking wiki is talking circles to not mention that Gwen’s specifically hitting a metal-coated Kevin. Because here’s the thing, the actions taken were necessary, but the enjoyment Gwen took out of them and the implication that she hit him harder than she had to because she was aggravated with him? When taken in combination with the other shit? Bad taste in the mouth. Like, have the episode in front of me and, she’s throwing multiple shots in one go, Kevin is visibly and audibly in pain, to put it in perspective he’s showing no reaction to being shot repeatedly but was near begging for them to finish up in Los Soledad after the whole resonance maneuver. On it’s own it’d be acceptable, more or less, due to circumstances, but, keeping in mind that later she’ll respond to a meanish joke by shoving him into freefall...

Like, I’m not about to say I think she beats him for fun or some shit, she’s not the type, but that shit up there’s not okay. Again, if your partner thinks using physical pain to punish you outside of agreed upon and consented kink contexts, get the fuck out of there. I worry about some of y’all.

And the thing is, I do think there’s more shit than what we’re shown. Somebody who, when upset with their partner, will, in front of witnesses, shove them to what could well be their death? Isn’t going to be someone who doesn’t do shit in private. Again, I doubt it’s a ‘she beats him for shits and giggles’ situation, but I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that she does smaller things like tripping him, swatting him with things, directly or with her powers shoving him, when she’s annoyed with him or they’re arguing.

I think it’s likely there’s a couple different things behind the behavior. Starting off with the respect thing (doesn’t respect his boundaries, doesn’t respect his right to not be assaulted), probably a decent chunk of ‘I’m a good person so-’, plus the savior stuff (a boy’s gotta learn-), his powers making the things she does less physically damaging than if she was pulling it with like Julie or somebody, the ongoing cultural lean towards ‘guys can’t be abused especially not by women’-

I don’t think she’s a bad person at heart, I think if she got slapped with some proper consequences for this shit, if just in the form of people around her going ‘wtf that’s not cool’, she’d probably figure it out and put in the effort to stop. But, I also think the most likely explanation for the boundary trampling and the aggression is simply that as of canon she doesn’t see a problem. She likely sees her actions as her fixing him, making him a better person, because she’s good and loves him and both knows and wants best, without seeing that the way she goes about it is very wrong. That it goes beyond any punishment he may deserve. And that his boundaries and comfort zones should be respected no matter how much they may inconvenience her.

Yeah, so... There’s some thoughts right there.

#achi rambles #just getting the thoughts out my head #warning i am very much on my 'this shit ain't healthy' soapbox here so #we coulda had it all but no we got this shit

24 notes · View notes

lightsovermonaco · 4 years ago

Text

His Good Sweater: Chapter 9

Masterlist

As always thank you to my beautiful bestie @acollectionofficsandshit you can also thank her for all the Max content in this chapter. Its a long one, enjoy!

Word Count: 9.6k

Recommended song: “Hate the way” by G-Easy and blackbear

The one thing that never failed to lift your spirits was your dad's homemade blueberry chocolate chip pancakes. Whenever you were upset as a kid, whether it be your team losing a sporting event, your high-school boyfriend dumping you for the head cheerleader, or getting rejected from an ivy league college you never expected to get into in the first place, his pancakes had been there to cushion the fall. Clever as he was, he always messed them up in some insignificant way like leaving off the whipped cream and hiding the container so you were forced to talk to him in order to remedy it. Then he would crack some stupid joke or cheesy pun that would just barely have the ghost of a smile curling your lips.

Blueberry chocolate chip pancakes were no match for the heartbreak of losing your best friend.

The morning after, you only trudge to the kitchen when your stomach's demands to be fed become too loud to ignore. A steaming pile of fluffy pancakes sits at your usual spot, no syrup in sight. You don't have the energy to find your dad and ask where he's hidden it, instead picking at them. You knew the flavor should be fruity and sweet but every bite tastes like ash. One pancake is all you can manage before nausea roils, threatening to make your meager brunch resurface.

"Some is better than none," Ben murmurs behind you and you drop your chin in the barest of nods. "We can save the rest and you can warm them up later."

"Thanks," you mumble when he takes your plate. You pull your blanket tight around your shoulders as your gaze turns to the window while your brother washes your dishes, wishing for all the world that you could make your uncooperative limbs move and help him but the mental effort it requires is too taxing. Instead you stay curled up on the chair, the noises of the house waking up around you a dull buzz in your ears. At some point your mother kisses your head and hustles out the door to work, her husband close behind. Ben is the last to leave and is reluctant to do so.

"Promise you'll text me if you need me," he says. "Mom already gave me permission to cut class after trigonometry."

"Sure." You both know it's a lie and a bad one at that. Your voice is dull and flat, completely void of emotion.

"Mom said she's coming home early anyway,” he tries. “Something about overstaffing at the greenhouse."

"Okay."

The mechanical spooling of the garage door tells you he's finally gone. Your elbows slide forward until your head rests on the table, unable to hold it up any longer.

Every fiber of your being yearns for him, to hear the distinct r's and flowery lilt of his accent as he comforts you through the heartbreak, always knowing exactly what to say. It was second nature to call one another when either of you had had a bad day or a good day or just a normal day - you'd talked so often that last year you had convinced your parents to add international minutes to your phone plan.

Your fingers itch to dial the number you had long since memorized, knowing it would ring no more than twice before he picked up. He never let it go to voicemail unless he absolutely couldn't avoid it and you had a hunch he was waiting for your call.

Despite knowing better, you scroll through the messages on your phone. Love was evident in each witty remark and wish goodnight, pulling at your heartstrings. Your finger hovers over the delete conversation button, and after a minute of debate, you can't bring yourself to do it. You would allow yourself one reprieve to look back on and remember the good.

It would be so much easier if he had given you a reason to hate him. If he'd cheated or intentionally led the media to your house, hating him would be easy. You wouldn't have to admit that you still loved him because his betrayal would have yanked out the newly blooming bud of love you nurtured and crushed the fragile petals. Instead, you were left knowing that it had been your choice to inflict damage in him. You had no right to seek comfort in his arms or even ask how he was doing. You deserved to be miserable for causing him to feel the same way.

Yuki is the first to check in on you. You don’t know what he expects; you lie through your teeth when you tell him you were fine.

The press is asking me for my thoughts. No idea why. I told them not to stick their noses where they don't belong.

At least someone had the guts to stand up to those bloodsuckers. Yuki was the last person you'd suspect to do so, but the scrappy twenty-something continued to surprise you.

Thanks, you type back. How is he?

You hesitate. You didn't really want to know the answer. Pierre was devastated and just as broken as you are. You delete the last part and opt to refrain from subjecting yourself to biting off more than you could chew.

I'm here if you need me, is Yuki's reply.

Charles, Daniel, and his newly promoted girlfriend were the next ones to text you, all offering varying degrees of support. Daniel's friend was the one that offered to sucker punch anyone that came near you without your permission, and actually dragged a single huff of laughter from your aching lungs.

I'm good thanks. But if I need a bodyguard you'll be first on the list.

Just because Daniel can lift me with one arm doesn't mean I'm not punchy!

I believe you.

Spent, you set your phone down and retreat under the down comforter. The bright pink clashed with your earthy decor, but at least the old blanket didn't smell like Pierre. Your mother had taken it upon herself to erase all trace of him from your room when she had managed to coax you into a shower, and the half hour you had spent letting the scalding water run over your skin had given her plenty of time to do so. The absence of him hurts almost as much as the trace of cedar you know you're imagining when you breathe deep.

It has to be impossible for so much agony to be contained in your body. No matter how much you try, the tears won't stop flowing because Pierre's crushed expression had taken up residence at the forefront of your consciousness.

It didn't help that so many of your recent memories were touched by his presence. Getting into university served to remind you of the ecstatic call you'd gotten after his race that Sunday, voice strained with a mix of excitement for you and the disappointment of his race ending crash on the opening lap. Even something as simple as staring at the saggy bean bag chair in the corner brought back the memory of the countless times he had lounged there, sprawled out like he owned it.

Max's text brings you briefly back to reality.

You doing okay? Dan told me what happened.

No, was all you say back. Within a minute, Max's face occupies your screen. You sigh but accept the call, laying the phone on the pillow.

"I don't feel like talking, Max."

"That bad huh?" He asks, concern lacing his usually chipper voice.

"Yeah. That bad." As if that summed up getting your heart torn to shreds.

He's uncharacteristically quiet for a beat. "Wanna hear about Vic's day? She had some crazy clients at her salon- it'll take your mind off it."

"I guess," you say, utterly nonplussed. You could care less if he kept talking or not, you wouldn't be paying attention. He prattles on for a few minutes, seemingly unaffected by your silence as his words pass through one ear and out the other.

"Told you it was crazy," he says finally, your cue to respond. You hum noncommittally and Max just sighs.

"Look, I don't know how I can help you unless you come here. I know you have a flight booked- do you still wanna come to the gala? My date's been stolen so I'm in need of one."

"Who stole your-"

The realization hits you before you can finish. Pierre. Pierre stole Max's sister and left him without a date. Something about his willingness to replace you so quickly rubs you the wrong way. It shouldn't have been so easy for him to find someone new; he should be hurting just as much as you. Fundamentally, you knew nothing would happen between Pierre and Victoria. She wouldn't go for him out of respect for both of you and you were thankful in the knowledge that it was completely platonic. Still, it was like rubbing salt in a wound.

"You know what? I'll go." It was the most you'd said all day, your throat scratchy with disuse. Max whoops on the other line and you could almost see him punching the air in victory.

"Great! When's your flight get in? I'll bring the Acura and pick you up."

You put him on speaker and login to the airlines website to punch in the flight number. Last night you'd debated canceling the flight that Pierre had paid for, determined to stay home and be miserable. Looking back you were glad you'd trusted your gut and left the reservation untouched. If he could find someone else to attend the gala with, so could you. "I land in Nice at noon on Friday. It'll be a short flight, I can text you when we take off."

"Sounds good. I'll set up the spare room for you. Victoria is staying here too, I'm sure she would love to help you get ready and do whatever it is girls do before fancy events."

"Hey, Max?"

"Whats up?"

You trace patterns through the condensation left by the glass on your nightstand. "Thank you. For understanding."

"That's what friends are for," he assures you. "Is there anything you wanna talk about now? Or are you planning to wait until you're here?"

"Ben's been keeping an eye on me. I'm okay for now." Better now that you had something to look forward to.

"All you have to do is call," he promises. "I'll listen, I don't have anything going on this week besides streaming."

You latch on to the small redirection and run with it. "You and the twitch quartet?"

"They've been kind enough to allow me to join them on the sim this week, yeah."

"I'll try to catch a race. No promises though."

"See you Friday. Try to contain your excitement."

Your lips twitch upward. "Bye Max."

**********

The rest of the week was more of the same. You stayed home and your family dealt with the swarms of people that still gathered on the lawn each morning not so patiently waiting for you to tell your side of the story. You had decided that the best course of action was to keep your mouth shut and let them figure out for themselves that there was no longer a story to report thanks to the wedge they had driven in your relationship.

By the time Ben drives you to the airport Friday the buzz has died down. You hug your brother tight before checking in for the flight and texting Max. His response is immediate, letting you know he's excited to see you.

You wish you could return the sentiment. You wanted to see your friend, sure, but you were beginning to dread the upcoming gala. Max would be your crutch and you knew he was okay with that, but it still felt wrong.

Unlike your brother, Max was waiting at the curb when you arrived in Nice. A nondescript cap was perched on his head, the oversized sunglasses he wore hiding his eyes from passersby. His gleaming orange peel of a car attracted more attention than he did for once, people stopping to ogle the Acura as they came and went.

"Hey you," Max greets, a broad grin causing his trademark dimple to appear as he wraps you in a rare hug. You cling to him, throat going tight at the intimacy of it. Max wasn't a physical person by any stretch; if he was hugging you this tightly it meant he knew how broken you were.

He waited for you to break contact first, giving you all the time you need. You sniff and wipe the single tear that had somehow escaped and laugh lightly.

"Hey," you say, voice scratchy. "Thanks for picking me up."

He waves a hand, brushing it off. "Vic wanted to come but she changed her mind when I told her I was driving."

"Probably a smart choice," you observe, letting him pop the trunk- which was in the front of the car, since the Acura NSX was a mid-engined beast of a Japanese supercar- "and considering your choice of car, she wouldn't have fit anyway."

"This is true." He starts the engine, the roar of which makes a poor old woman a few yards away drop her purse.

The drive back is near silent, broken only by Max's occasional quips about a landmark or an observation about someone's driving. It was impossible for any driver to turn off the analytical part of their brain, their Formula 1 habits crossing into their daily lives.

When Max parks at the curb outside his apartment, you move to open the door but he hits the lock button. You glance over your shoulder at him and quirk a brow.

"Am I your prisoner?"

"Are you gonna talk about what happened?"

Sighing, you sink back into the seat. The way the bolstering hugs your sides almost makes you believe you could fade into it if you try hard enough. "I wasn't really planning on it."

It had only been a handful of days since you had broken it off, the wound still leaking fresh blood when you poked at it. It refused to scab over or give you any kind of reprieve from the torture.

"You know you'll have to face him tomorrow at some point. He'll want to talk to you."

"That's why I'm going with you. You won't have a problem telling him to leave me alone."

Max sighs. "Yeah, I suppose. If that's what you think is best."

The trudge up the stairs and subsequent silent elevator ride allows your thoughts to wander to Victoria. It wasn't her fault that Pierre had asked her to come with him after you'd canceled, after all she was already planning on going and the late notice meant it was likely no one else could make it, but it didn't stop the pang of jealousy that rocketed through you each time you ruminate on it.

It didn't help when she wrapped you in a hug the moment she saw you and whispered an apology in your ear, like she knew she'd done something wrong. Tears spring to your eyes again and Victoria shoots Max a leave us alone look.

"Uh, I'm gonna hop on the sim. Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge if you're hungry."

"Thanks Max." Your eyes are pinned to a smudge of dirt on the wood floor, safely out of range of anything triggering. Keeping it together was more of a struggle than you'd expected.

"I hope you don't hate me," Victoria starts genuine concern lacing the words. "It was just easiest-"

"I know," you cut in. "And I don't." Your smile is tight, not quite hitting home as she returns it.

"Well then. Let's figure out how we're gonna do your hair tomorrow, shall we?"

**********

The dress was a single, simple piece of fabric, spun of sunset orange and free of any bells or whistles. The feather light chiffon hugged every supple curve through your hips until flaring out slightly at the bottom just enough to allow you range of motion. The deep vee of the neckline prominently displayed your cleavage, toeing the line between attention grabbing and scandal starting and leaving little to the imagination. The back dropped low, leaving the elegant curve of your spine free to be kissed by the salty Mediterranean breeze.

The dress is nothing special compared to the thousand dollar pieces that the other boy's dates would be wearing, but you didn't have the money- or the will- to find something new. It by no means broke the bank when you picked it up from the second hand store last year, but it looked the part. It had been a showstopper at the spring formal you'd originally worn it to and judging by Max's reaction, it still was.

He let out a low whistle when you stepped into the living room. "I'm sorry, did you pick that out with me in mind?" He laughs and despite yourself, heat rises to your cheeks. You hated being the center of attention, even among friends. "It's the perfect shade of orange to match my tie. I swear I didn't plan it that way!"

"I know you didn't." You give him a forced smile, praying he doesn't call you out on it. The dress you wore hadn't been your first choice. The one you originally planned to wear still sat in your closet at home collecting dust. It had been the perfect shade of blue to compliment Pierre's sky eyes, but it didn't match Max's deeper ocean blue. So at home it had stayed, and you had chosen the orange one because it made the necklace at your throat pop.

Your fingers engulf the stone before you can stop yourself, as they always do when your thoughts wander to him. Him, because you could scarcely think his name before your heart wretches at the reminder of what you'd lost. Flashes of bright smiles and soft kisses filter through your mind, making you lock up. You swear you can feel the ghost of plush lips to your throat and the scrape of callouses over the curve of your spine. Your eyes fall shut, desperate to get lost in the idea of him like you used to.

"You good?"

Max's quiet words startle you back into the present. No, you were in no way shape or form good, but you had no choice to fall back on the familiar mask of humor to cover up your inner turmoil.

"The real question is are you?" You smirk and look him over. The Red Bull navy suit strains over his broad shoulders, suggesting he had put on muscle since the last time he'd been forced into it. "You look stiff as a board in that tux."

"I feel so awkward." He straightens the suit coat and absentmindedly lifts a hand to tousle his hair. You grab his wrist just in time to keep him from ruining his sister's hard work and shoot him a chiding look. He grins sheepishly and lowers his hand.

"Vic would kill me if you got to the gala looking like you got run over."

"That's a good point." He offers you his arm and you accept the lifeline he unwittingly offers you. "But I refuse to leave the windows up on this beautiful night, so we'll test how well it'll hold."

You quirk an eyebrow at him. "You're driving us there?"

"Well duh. I always drive when I'm at home."

You glance sidelong at the glaringly orange Acura parked at the curb a few floors below. Your dress would blend right in with the paint, but perhaps that was a good thing. It would provide that much more of a shock factor when you arrived and stepped out.

"Just don't crash out on the hairpin," you tease half heartedly.

He rolls his eyes. "At least it's just the two of us so I don't have to call an uber. Vic's getting picked up by-'' Max cuts himself off and gives you an apologetic smile.

"You can say his name," you whisper, eyes trained on the tile of the hallway as you walk. "It's not like he's gone."

"Getting picked up by... Pierre," Max tries, carefully monitoring his neutral tone. God, you thought you could handle it but you can't, stumbling over your own feet with only Max's grip on your arm to catch you.

He'd dance with Vic tonight, and probably countless other women, his hands drifting over their bodies like they'd done on yours only days ago. You'd be forced to watch from the sidelines and make small talk that no one would remember come morning, utterly unable to do anything about it. At least Daniel’s girlfriend would be there to be the voice of reason, if you could peel her away from Daniel long enough to speak with her for any length of time.

Max was uncharacteristically quiet on the ride to the venue, leaving you to study the city as he drove. Few yachts were left in the harbor as the sun was swallowed by the sea, the owners undoubtedly set sail for a weekend getaway. Your gaze involuntarily searched for the slip that held Charles' Ferrari red speedboat that you'd visited countless times with Pierre. The eyesore was hard to miss when surrounded by its monotone brethren, memories flooding back in droves at the sight of it.

Sighing, you turn away to glimpse what you can of the city through the ridiculously tiny sliver of windshield. How anyone could confidently drive the Acura while having so little field of vision was beyond you. It was probably second nature to Max, who weaves through the narrow streets with practiced ease and barely lets off the gas through the corners.

The city of Monaco rarely slept, and tonight was no different. Soft yellow fluorescent glow seeps from high rise balconies, the occupants soaking up the last dregs of sunlight before heading out to the casinos and clubs. People spilled out of cafes onto the sidewalks, their laughter lingering on the breeze as you speed past.

The list of people you trust enough to get in the car with and let them drive with such intensity is short: Max and Pierre. Not even Daniel made the final cut, not when his then not-girlfriend had recounted the tale of him losing the rear of his McLaren 570s at a track day and nearly sending them into the wall. According to her, he'd been too busy ogling her to keep his full attention on the road, but it was enough for you to question his judgement at times.

If you close your eyes, you could pretend it was someone else next to you, cutting through the gears like a hot knife through butter and coaxing every inch of performance out of the car that he could with the light traffic. You draw a surf-scented breath deep, lungs aching with the effort.

Max joins the queue of cars waiting to park outside the venue, your attention trained on the guests stepping out of cars and climbing the wide set of marble steps leading to the sleek glass building. The modern structure is slightly out of place among the Roman-esque buildings surrounding it but the air of importance it exudes overrules any who dare say it doesn't belong.

"I can't tell you how glad I am that there's an open bar," Max remarks, hanging his head out the window to wave at someone. "It makes these events so much easier."

"You're telling me," you mumble, searching involuntarily for a familiar head of dusty blond hair in the droves of people arriving. Instead of sight, it's the unforgettable rumble of his Civic Type R's exhaust that alerts you to his arrival. Your head whips around, eyes eating up the pearl white paint of Pierre's favored car as it slides in behind you. You silently thank whatever deity is listening that his windshield is tinted, protecting you from seeing the smirk you are certain is playing on his lips.

Once upon a time, the cockpit of that car had been your favorite place in the world. You'd spent countless hours inside it eating shitty gas station cuisine and singing along to the radio at the top of your lungs as Pierre drove you to whatever adventure he had planned for the day.

Max waves at your- his friend, you remind yourself sharply- and revs his Acura in response. He leaves the keys with the valet, picking up on the tension in your shoulders as the white car parks behind you. Max tugs your arm in attempt to turn you away, but your feet are rooted to the spot.

“I see you found another date-” The flash of a grin on Pierre's face as he steps out is immediately dashed when he notices you on Max's arm.

If looks could kill, Max would keel over then and there. A muscle in Pierre's jaw flutters as he takes in the sight of the two of you together, your hand on the Dutchman's forearm and your matching attire looking for all the world as if it was purposefully coordinated.

Max lifts his chin, spine going straight under Pierre's threatening glare. “Her airfare was already paid for and she already had the dress. Someone had to take her.”

Your stomach sinks; the last thing you wanted to do was become a point of contention between the two boys, but you refused to apologize for at least attempting to enjoy yourself.

Pierre doesn't speak again, only nods to Max and pointedly avoids your stare. He tosses the keys to the smart-dressed kid serving as his valet, coming around to open Victoria's door. With his back turned to you, you take a moment to study the crisp white suit he's chosen for tonight. You had always told him black wasn't his color and he seemed to have taken it to heart. White was what you loved seeing him in, and the tight cut brought back memories of a different type of suit in an entirely different city only a few weeks ago. You'd peeled him out of that Alpha Tauri race suit the moment he made it to the trailer, eager to worship him after his podium. You'd be lying if you said it hasn't been the best sex of your life.

"Come on," Max urges, placing a chaste hand on your upper back and turning you around. He leads you up the stairs, his comforting touch never leaving your skin for a moment. The callouses were all wrong, the fingers too broad to be who you wanted it to be, and yet you couldn't help but imagine it was Pierre leading you up, stopping to smile for the few cameras scattered around.

Flashes spot your vision as you pull your face into an expression of excitement. Max murmurs something in your ear that you think is encouragement but the din of reporters is too deafening to be sure.

"How come you aren't with Pierre?"

The shouted question comes from an unknown assailant but it strikes you like a physical blow. You freeze, mouth going dry as you search for a suitable excuse. Max grants you the space of a single heartbeat to respond before he does so on your behalf.

"How about you mind your own damn business and worry about your cheating wife?"

The man who had bombarded you goes slack jawed, Max's wild guess clearly somehow hitting him just as hard as he had hit you.

"Keep walking," he urges you, leading you through the blinding sea of flashing lights. When you hear the same question directed at Pierre, his flippant laugh grates on your nerves.

You don't have it in you to appreciate the grand architecture of the entrance hall, too busy trying to keep your breathing in check. Max steers you off to the side and places his hands on your shoulders.

"Look at me," he demands, and you drag your eyes up to his face. "Breathe. He's hurting just as bad as you, only difference is he's better at hiding it. Just enjoy the night okay? I'll grab you a drink and we can find Daniel and his friend and you two can catch up."

You nod, placing a hand on your throat. The delicate chain of the necklace is a vice around your neck, the reminder of him pulling it tight. Your pulse hammers beneath your fingers and you focus on it until it slows. "Get me whatever you're having."

Max disappears in the crowd, and you take a seat at the bench tucked in the corner. No one pays you any heed as they walk past, entranced by the elegant decor and fragrant florals. Your head falls forward to rest in your hands and you struggle to take deep, calming breaths.

Pierre was here. Inhale.

He looked happy. Exhale.

He was getting by. Inhale.

You could get by, too. Exhale.

Renewed, you glance up in time to find Max standing before you with a drink of dark liquid adorned with maraschino cherries in each hand. He extends one glass to you and you don't bother to question what it is before swallowing half in one go. "Better?"

"Much." You stand and brush out the wrinkles in your dress. "Where are we sitting?"

"Er, about that," Max starts, rubbing his neck sheepishly. "They put two teams at each table. We're at the Red Bull Alpha Tauri table."

"I see." You take another deep, steadying breath, letting the anxiety ebbing in your veins fade out with the exhale. It was times like this that you channeled Daniel a bit. It sounded silly and you would never admit it, but the slogans on his helmets worked if you focused on them hard enough. All good, all ways.

If Pierre could get through tonight, so could you.

“I can try to see if I can switch tables-”

"It's fine," you say and down the rest of the drink. “I can handle it.”

Max shifts on his feet, his discomfort something you rarely see from him. He usually excelled at keeping a straight face in uncomfortable situations but it seems that your unease rubbed off on him. “We should get going then, dinner will be served any minute.”

You once again take the arm he offers you, the liquor in your veins already granting you false courage. “We would have time to mingle if you hadn’t taken the scenic route.”

“It was nice out,” he protests, and pulls you to a halt when he spots Daniel across the hall. His girlfriend waves at you with a sad smile. She gestures between the two of you to indicate that you’ll talk later before Daniel pulls her towards the McLaren table. That boy was punctual to a fault and would be caught dead before he was late to anything.

Thankfully, the two of you arrive before Victoria and her date and are able to secure seats that ensure there’s a buffer between you. By some small miracle Christian Horner and his wife were absent and instead a few engineers and their significant others sat at the packed table. Max greets Gianpiero while you take your seat, happy to observe.

“Hey!”

You twist in time to see Yuki’s short frame emerge from the crowd and point to the empty seat to your right. “This one taken?”

You shake your head, standing to give him a quick hug. “How are you doing? Where’s your date?”

“Ah, she couldn’t make it. Had some family stuff to take care of. You look great, by the way.”

You dip your chin in thanks, unsure how else to respond. He was in a white suit that you were sure would wind up stained five minutes into dinner. “Did they mandate that you wear white?”

He shakes his head with a rueful smile. “Honestly, it’s the only one I own. I haven't been to enough events to build up my closet yet."

"Well I think it's…"

You spot Pierre before he sees you. His brow is slightly creased as he hunts for the correct table using the same focused determination as when driving his Alpha. For a split second, he meets your gaze. The cacophony of the event fades to background noise and suddenly it's just the two of you and you damn near lift your hand in a wave. You're positive he can see your heart beating out of your chest like in an old cartoon as you curl your fingers into a fist in your lap. Your restraint proves fatal, the floor falling out from beneath your feet when he drops your stare. This was your new normal, you remind yourself. Stolen glances were all you would get.

"I can move," Yuki says, starting to rise. You grip his wrist, holding him in place.

"Please don't." The only other open seats were across the table, and at least then you didn't have to worry about brushing elbows with him all night long.

Yuki nods, slowly settling back in. Max finally takes his seat after giving your shoulder a supportive squeeze.

"You don't have to say anything to him," he reminds you, barely audible over the scrape of chairs and various chatter.

You find anywhere else to look as Pierre pulls out Vic's chair for her and makes his rounds to greet everyone. Daniel and his girlfriend are seated a few tables away and you distract yourself by attempting to read their lips. You manage a few minutes of tenuous peace, catching snippets of Daniel's cheesy jokes and her disapproving, yet flirty, responses.

"Damn, we clean up well, huh?"

You squeeze your eyes shut at the sound of home. His words are honey and you lap them up like you'd never tasted anything sweeter. They weren't even directed at you and yet somehow you twist them to fit your narrative.

Pierre stands at the bottom of the stairs like a chaste high school prom date patiently waiting for your grand entrance. He checks his watch and rakes a hand through his messy hair. You stifle your laugh with a hand, amused by his unnecessary nervous energy.

Taking mercy on him, you clear your throat. His gaze snaps up to you, mouth falling open. You take your time gathering the orange fabric of your dress and descending the stairs, savoring the way he eats you up. He was resplendent in his crisp white tuxedo and you had half a mind to make him late for the gala and strip him out of it then and there and devour him.

Your heels clack on the marble floor of his entirely too fancy apartment and you pause to do a little spin for him, earning you an appreciative whistle for your trouble. A laugh bubbles out of you and you place your hands on his shoulders. His own settle on your waist to pull you flush against him, his body heat soaking through the thin fabric of your dress to warm your core.

"Damn, we clean up well, huh?"

You start when knuckles graze the back of your bare neck. The touch is there and gone but you know immediately that it's Pierre. It's slight enough to be brushed off as accidental to anyone else, but nothing was accidental with Pierre. The barely there contact conveys more than any words ever could.

He still loved you. You looked stunning. He wishes you were still his so he could prove it to you. All this and so much more contained in a half second brush of his skin to yours.

It all comes back to you in a rush, the emotion you'd so carefully tucked away in a locked box in the back of your mind finally set free. His touch ignites any other thought in your mind that isn't him, burning it away until it's ashes on the wind.

Despite your better judgement, you lean into him, giving him permission to unravel you. This time you sigh when his fingers ghost over your skin, electricity sparking in their wake. You didn't care who might be watching; the tiny touches were slowly repairing your shattered heart. Your traitorous mind replaces his fingers with the brush of his lips to your nape, imagining the heat as he slides the strap of your dress off your shoulder, lips moving to follow.

You bite your lip to stifle a groan when his heat is withdrawn, leaving you feeling inexplicably naked. You open your eyes to find Victoria's pitying stare paired with an apologetic smile. Max nudges you with his elbow, and you realize someone has addressed you.

"Um, what?"

"I said I like how you guys coordinated outfits," Pierre repeats and openly prods your shoulder. "Obviously Max chose the color."

His tone is playful, but his words are clipped in a way only you understand. Craning your neck, you twist to look up at him. His eyes are cloudy and his smile doesn't reach them, more for show than anything else. "It was an accident."

"Doesn't look that way."

Your retort is ready on your tongue but he doesn't give you a chance to reply before retreating to his seat. His ability to act as if nothing has changed astounds you, as your head is still reeling from the pinpricks of his skin on yours. Instead of being rendered speechless, he strikes up a conversation with Yuki about the Alpha's performance, leaving out the confidential details but giving enough away that it surprises you.

The sheer fact that he can so easily switch off whatever feelings he harbors is unfair. The sensation of his fingers on your neck still lingers and it's all you can do to keep from stepping around the table and slotting yourself between his legs like you had in that bar in London. Your nails bite into your palms, listening in if only for his voice to wash over you and calm your racing heart.

When he mentions the rake angle, you know it's just to mislead anyone who might be eavesdropping. He'd told you the exact angle in the past, and it certainly was not one degree, and it did not cause the level of understeer he was describing.

"The understeer comes from improper tire selection," you blurt. "And driver error."

All eyes turn to you and you straighten. You knew enough about the construction of a Formula 1 car to be positive your assessment was correct. You were almost as certain that he'd said it to force you into speaking to him whether you liked it or not.

"What was that?"

If Pierre could torment you with his subtle touches, you could do the same and call him out when he was wrong.

"Driver error caused the rear end to slide out around that turn in Japan, not the rake angle. That's got nothing to do with it. Your tires were blistered because of you taking an imperfect racing line and they were old. You miscalculated the level of traction they'd give you."

Why no one else had pointed it out was beyond you.

"So you're an engineer now?" Pierre challenges, crossing his arms. Something about the arrogance radiating from him rubbed you the wrong way. You let all the emotion of the past few days surface and add fuel to the fire.

"No, but I've learned enough to see through the bullshit drivers spin to mislead other teams."

Max murmurs your name in warning but your frustration is boiling over. He replaced you tonight, didn't even pause to consider going alone and instead choosing to take Victoria. Sure, it had been your fault that he was dateless, but that didn't give him the right to hurt you too. He knew it would destroy you to see him with anyone else even if it was completely platonic, but he did it anyway.

"Why don't you tell me where I should brake on turn ten since you're an expert all of a sudden?" Victoria lays a hand on his arm but he yanks it out of her grip. "What crack in the pavement? Or is it a mark on the barrier? Drive one lap in my car and then you can tell me how to drive."

It wasn't your analysis that had upset him. You'd done so plenty of times and he had always taken your criticism with an open mind, using it to tweak his driving style to improve his lap time or turn it into a teaching experience so you could learn. No, judging by the way his eyes are lined with silver that he fights to blink away, it's your betrayal that upsets him and rightfully so. You glance around the table but no one is willing to meet your eyes save for Max, who angles his head as if to say fight for it.

But you can't. It's monumentally easier to let Pierre win and sweep it under the rug than to address the deeper issue. "I was trying to help," you say lamely, picking at the salad in front of you.

"You don't get to do that anymore."

The venomous words hit like knives, knocking the breath out of you. Your mouth hangs open like a fish gasping for air but any reply you think up dies on your tongue.

As the music fades out and a man climbs up onto the stage, Pierre gets up and leaves. You track his progress as he weaves through tables, noting Daniel reaching for him as he passes. You flinch when the balcony door slams behind him, an astonished murmur rocking through the crowd.

"You should probably talk to him," Max whispers.

You shake your head, not trusting yourself to speak. You had no idea what you would say. 'Sorry' was insignificant and 'I love you' would be cruel when the barest of thought regarding how the media treated you made your stomach churn.

Max pulls his phone out under the table and you think you see Charles' name on the screen. Good; someone had to make sure Pierre didn't do anything he would regret in the morning and if it wasn't you, Charles was the next best chaperone. A minute later, the Ferrari driver leaves his seat too, exiting the same way as Pierre.

Focusing on what's said on stage proves fruitless. Try as you might, your attention is trained on the side door Pierre had disappeared through, praying he returns despite knowing it would mean more barbed words hurled at you. Neither he nor Charles return at any point during the presentation. His absence was quickly becoming a gaping black hole, swallowing up any semblance of sanity you had managed to gather in preparation for tonight.

"Try to have some fun," Max says, nudging you with an elbow. "As soon as this guy shuts up I’ll get us some more drinks and then we can eat and get out on the dance floor and forget about everything, yeah?"

You nod. You already feel the buzz of the first drink, and one or two more would push you thoroughly over the edge into blissful forgetfulness. "I don't wanna be sad anymore."

**********

He didn't know where he was going. All he knew was that he had to get away from you before he said something that would tear whatever hope he held of repairing what was between you to ribbons. He registers Daniel's low, "Gas, you good?" as he breezes past, but doesn't pause to answer. His sights are locked on the wide, carved oak doors that lead to fresh air.

The breath whooshes out of him when he flings open the balcony doors. They slam behind him and he winces. Chalk that up as something else for Helmut to pick him apart for on Monday.

Pierre rakes a trembling hand through his hair and rests his elbows on the railing, sucking in lungfuls of air like he'd just surfaced from a dive in the harbor.

When you'd agreed to come to the gala with him, he had been overjoyed. You hadn't made it to the winter gala earlier this year due to a last minute exam and he had sulked the entire night. He still had the place card embossed with your name in the fishbowl by his door, the sizable container nearly overflowing with memories of you. Everything from forgotten earrings to plastic hotel key cards filled the bowl and it was a bright reminder of your adventures together. His plan had been to add another place card to the mix after tonight but after what he'd just said to you, he'd rather forget today ever happened.

He fucking hurt. Everything just hurt, from the shirt collar scratching at his neck to the bone deep ache that had started when he laid eyes on you on those steps, arm locked with Max's. You'd stolen the words from his mouth, the jab he'd planned to toss at Max dying at the sight of you.

He hadn't expected you to come tonight. Despite anyone's objections, he'd been fully prepared to get completely shit faced to the point that the ghost of your skin no longer haunted his fingertips and your voice no longer sang in his head. But seeing your damned face had shattered the false reality he had constructed, the one where you never broke him and left him scrambling to piece himself back together.

The universe had dealt him another low blow when he discovered Red Bull and Alpha Tauri would be at the same table and he'd be forced to endure your presence at arms length, close enough to touch but absolutely not allowed to do so. It was his own personal hell, constructed solely to punish him for whatever transgressions he'd made in his life.

And that fucking dress.

The orange painted the aquamarine charm at the hollow of your throat in sharp relief, showing it off like he somehow still owned you. If you had arrived with him, he would have already led you back to the Civic and bunched that damned dress up past your hips to drag his favorite sounds from you with his tongue. If he could just get you alone, he's sure it wouldn't take more than a single touch to have you crashing into him and begging for more.

Seeing you with Max tonight paints an entirely different picture.

It's Max he sees tearing off the dress at the end of the night when you get back to his apartment. Max's hands slide over your hips and you laugh, walking back so you can keep your lips on his as he slams the door shut behind you. You dip your head back when he presses you to the wall, Max unfaltering as his lips and teeth trace the curve of your exposed throat and he slips the straps of the matching dress of your shoulders to let it pool at your feet. Max's name breezes past your lips on a shaky exhale as you become putty beneath his fingers.

No matter how loud Pierre calls your name, you don't hear him, instead cupping the back of the Dutchman's head and pulling him in for a heated kiss. When you do finally notice him observing from afar, agony wracking his body, all you do is grin. It feels real, even though Pierre is certain it's a crazed fever dream, his mind spinning his worst fear to life: you seeking comfort in the company of someone that wasn't him.

Pierre starts when the door squeaks open, the nightmare thankfully dissolving. Charles steps out clad head to toe in blazing Ferrari red and instantly he knows who sent him. The thought alone stokes rage in his chest, the image of your lips on Max's still fresh.

"Not as easy as you expected it to be, is it?" He asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Fuck off," Pierre growls and immediately regrets it. Beyond you, Charles was his closest friend. They had known each other for ages. It wasn’t a friendship he was willing to sacrifice just because he felt like shit. Pierre sighs and throws him an apologetic glance. "No it's not."

"Why don't you talk to her?"

"She doesn't want to fucking talk, Charles. Take one look at her, she's hanging on Max like she can't get enough of him." Pierre hangs his head in his hands, emotions shifting faster than he did on race day. "I can't go back in there and watch her choose him over me."

"You don't really believe that bullshit, do you?" Charles asks, joining him at the railing.

Not entirely, but he still struggled to understand your thought process. He thought he knew you, but you being here tonight when he had been certain you wouldn't be proved he didn't.

"I don't know what to believe anymore. I thought it would be forever, that I'd finally found someone who didn't mind my lifestyle and accepted it for what it was, who loved me unconditionally. I thought she was my forever."

"You think she's done with you just because some assholes invaded her privacy?" Charles shakes his head. "She's loved you for a long time, years even. You haven't seen the looks she gives you, but the rest of us have. You hung the moon in her sky, Pierre. That kind of thing doesn't just get swept away by the breeze."

His shoulders curl inward in an attempt to hide the frustrated tear that escapes him. "What am I supposed to do?"

Charles shrugs. "I don't think there's a right answer to that. Try giving her some space. She didn't grow up in the spotlight like we did. It's not an easy adjustment for some people, mate. And blowing up on her when she tries to make conversation doesn't help anything," he says gently. "Let her figure it out and come to you when she's ready."

The concept of letting you go even temporarily was terrifying to him. Waiting on you to make the first move was even worse because he was setting his fate in your hands.

"I miss her," he murmurs, turning his face to his friend.

"I know." Charles throws an arm around the taller man's shoulders and follows his gaze out over the tiered streets of Monaco's city center. "My suggestion is to throw yourself into the season. Show her you know how to fight, y'know?"

Pierre nods. He could do that. It was how he normally handled his problems anyway; let the track wick away whatever was on his mind and force him to hone in on the details surrounding him in each moment.

"You ready to head inside?" Charles asks.

"I don't think I can go back just yet."

"Want me to hang out here with you?"

"No. I'll be back eventually."

Charles' hand falls from his shoulder after a short squeeze, the sound of a tinny voice over the speakers temporarily flooding the balcony as Charles returns to the banquet. Pierre allows himself a few more moments of reprieve before slipping back inside just as the applause starts. Rather than returning to the delicately portioned meal that sat cooling before his empty chair, he orders a drink. Whiskey on the rocks, his go to in times of crisis. He takes one sip before the reminder of you ordering it for him in London makes holding the glass of caramel liquid unbearable and he downs it in a single swallow, going back to order a beer instead.

He nurses the green bottle of Heineken as he leans against the wall until the meal is finished and the chit chat starts. You stand with Max, practically pressed against him as you snatch a flute of champagne from a passing server. You search the crowd, brows drawing together when you don't locate your quarry. Pierre had made sure that he was tucked out of the low lighting, unsure if he could survive you stealing worried glances at him all night.

Charles winds his way over to pass off a roll he snagged from dinner, practically forcing the Frenchman to eat it before returning to his date. He nibbles at it absentmindedly, entirely too focused on you to divert an ounce of focus elsewhere.

Your dress is a glowing sun in a sea of earth tone garments, drawing his eye as you pull Max out onto the wood platform serving as the dance floor before the tables are fully cleared. The flush in your cheeks tells him you're deeper in your cups than you should be; Max didn't know your limit as well as he did. Three drinks was all you could manage before you got tipsy, five if you wanted to be completely blitzed.

The lights dim and his hiding spot is no longer quite as good as the party lights sweep over him from time to time. Max places one hand on your hip and you place one on his shoulder and grin up at him. Judging by the fit of giggles that requires you to lean into Max for support, you were teetering dangerously on the edge of being wholly drunk. You throw your head back and laugh at whatever Max says in response to your fit, Pierre straining to hear the musical sound over the band.

"Hey," Victoria says, breaking his concentration. "You wanna get out there?"

Pierre grimaces. He had managed to completely forget about her, too stuck in his own head. "Sorry, Vic. I don't think I'd be a very good partner tonight."

"No worries," she says, a soft, understanding smile on her lips. "I can keep myself busy."

Pierre nods his thanks, his attention immediately returning to the dance floor. Daniel and his girlfriend steal the show, both laughing as he dips and twirls her across the floor.

Being together was so fucking easy for them, effortless in a way it wasn't for you and Pierre. They never once paid any heed to the photographers that swarmed them or the headlines printed about them, they just laughed the rumors off and carried on. No one could question their love for each other because they were vocal about it- sometimes annoyingly so- and Daniel was rarely seen in public without her at his side. They were always touching, holding hands or stealing kisses or even the near scandal of his hand blatantly on her ass at the podium a few races back, and neither of them cared.

Their love was all that mattered. They didn't care who knew it.

But you and Pierre were far too private to be like that, at least not when you were still trying to figure things out yourself. The first sign of outside pressure had you cracking, and he wouldn't stand for knowing he was the source of your pain.

He tries and fails to convince himself he isn't jealous of the way Dan's hand so easily glides under the navy blue silk of her dress to caress her back without a second thought, wishing he could do the same to you. If he's being honest, he's living vicariously through Daniel for the next few songs, pretending he was someone else observing you and himself on the dance floor instead. It almost works; the way she shudders when his lips graze her ear is strikingly similar to how you'd react. The smile she flashes up at him is agonizingly close to your own wicked grin.

When her mouth finds his, Pierre gathers his wits and turns away. Their blatant public affection flipped a switch inside him, disgust rocking through him for a split second before he pushed it away.

He was happy for them. He knew what a long, rocky road it had been for them to become lovers instead of friends, had firsthand knowledge of the stress they'd gone through before they'd finally admitted their feelings to each other, put their pride aside and got together. Pierre had been the one to offer her advice on a night not much different than this one months ago, helping repair the damage Daniel's idiotic, thoughtless words had caused.

But Pierre had since become the person who was sickened at the sight of others in love. It reminded him that part of himself was missing and he hated it.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep his eyes from wandering back to you. You still occasionally scan the room as Max struggles to lead you through a dance. By some stroke of bad luck your gaze snags on him just as a spotlight illuminates his face and he grimaces. A slow blink is the only surprise you let show before laying your head on Max's shoulder. Jealousy spikes through him like wildfire, igniting his blood and tinging his vision with red.

He wants to march over and rip you off Max. He wants you tucked safely against him as his thumb rubs circles on the bare skin of the small of your back. He wants, more than anything, to take you to his apartment and half carry you up the stairs, having to shush you because you're giggling loud enough to wake the dead, and lay you down in his bed. He wants to help you out of that stunning dress and into a pair of his sweats and curl up against you, letting you sleep off your hangover until noon.

He'd fucked up that chance though, hadn't he? He had slipped up and driven you straight into your friend's arms, who he trusted not to make a move on you but not enough to negate the jealousy coursing through him.

In that moment, he hates you. He hates the hold you have on him, the way a simple gesture between half-drunk friends could send him into a spiral so steep he didn't recognize himself. He hates that he can't keep his eyes off you, your gravity too strong for him to resist.

Most of all, he hates that he doesn’t know how to quit you.

@seasidetom @flashcal @limp-wrist-max @sunshinesewis @lifeofzoemichael @ninuffi @perfectfantasies22 @lamboleglerg @ladyperceval

143 notes · View notes