You said request and I'm in an angsty mood lately soooo– no.20 out of those lines and its Pierre about Esteban and Charles ✨️
If that's alright? I apologize those three are stuck on my mind right now—
prompt 20, pairing: esteban&charles + pierre
(i've lowkey wanted to explore this pairing so thank you sm for your request)
He feels sick.
He's known about this for almost a year now. Hell, the entire paddock has known about it, but it doesn't do anything to soothe the burn rising inside Pierre's chest. The nausea bubbles up again and reminds Pierre that he should not have drunk that much tonight. But how could he not?
How could he not try and wash all of the nasty feelings swirling inside of him with alcohol when he sees them? How could he not want to disappear and just make everything stop? And he has tried. He has tried so fucking hard but they're everywhere.
They're such an unlikely couple, everybody in the paddock seemed to say. Yet, everybody adored them. How could they not? It was Charles that Esteban was in love with now. Everybody loves Charles. And ever since he was released from the shackles of Alpine, everybody has been loving Esteban too.
They indeed were an unlikely match. Except for the odd interactions during their early karting days around France, Esteban and Charles had never quite interacted. Pierre had though. Pierre had known both of them practically his whole lives. Charles has been one of his best friends for over 20 years, has stayed by his side through the whirlwind adventure that is the world of Formula 1. And Esteban...
Esteban was supposed to be...special. He was not quite a friend to Pierre, no. But not a lover either. They butted heads, they fought, their animosity bled through the cracks in their relationship that had been forming for years and years and years. Everybody saw it and everybody had accepted it like it was the absolute truth—Pierre and Esteban will always hate each other.
But Pierre did not hate Esteban, no. it was never all hate.
Away from the eyes of everybody else, hidden in lost pockets of time, they had their own moments. Moments where Esteban's peaceful, sleeping face was what Pierre would look at for an hour after waking up because he was unable to tear his eyes away. Moments where Esteban would slip in a wrapped warm sandwich into Pierre's hands on one of those cold Enstone days because You forgot to have breakfast today, cheri. Again. And Pierre would accept the food with a tiny smile, his fingers brushes against the other man's hand for just a second too long before they had to hop into the simulators. Moments that nobody but them knew about.
Charles never knew, is the sentence Pierre has kept repeating to himself since the day he found out. Charles never knew because Pierre never told him. Pierre never told him because Pierre wanted to never accept what they had for what it was. He waited because he thought they would have time. But he was wrong.
It unraveled once again before either of them ever had the chance to weave what they had into something beautiful. It all fell apart right in front of Pierre's eyes.
In a weird way, Pierre should credit himself for having brought Charles and Esteban to each other. And they're happy, which might be the worst part about all of this.
He has known them both all their lives and never once has he seen either of them this happy in a relationship.
"I know it must be weird for you, calamar," Pierre remembers Charles saying to him one night. He had shown up to Pierre's apartment having told him that there was something important he needed to tell him. Never in a million years would Pierre have guessed that it was this. "But I really do like him."
Pierre had just nodded, his throat having gone dry the second Charles revealed to him that he was now dating Esteban.
"I know you've both had a very tense relationship in the past," Charles went on, "but I really do hope you two can make a few amends now."
"Do you love him?" Pierre had asked him bluntly. He needed to know. Charles had hesitated and somehow that was enough for Pierre to know.
"It's too early to say anything now but," Charles had a bashful smile on his face, one that Pierre could tell he was trying his best to hide. "He's been really good to me, Pear. And I'm happy, really." Charles allows himself to fully smile this time, tilting his head up to look at Pierre. "He is kind and attentive and funny and caring and I know you have your opinions about him but please just give him a chance. Please."
Childishly, Pierre wanted to scream He was mine first! but he couldn't. Because Esteban never was his, Pierre had never called him so.
And maybe that's why he left. He deserved better.
Sometimes, on lonely drunken nights, Pierre wonders if they talk about him. He thinks about what they might be saying about him.
He did ask Esteban once, couple months ago at a party. He had seen him walk in with Charles. He had seen him cup Charles' face to pull him in for a kiss before walking off to fetch drinks for both of them. And he had also seen how Charles had immediately blushed and giggled as the others around teased him for it.
"What is it exactly that you're doing with Charles?" Pierre spat out the second Esteban slid up to the bar. But the other man ignored him and leaned over the bar to order his and Charles' drinks first before turning to face Pierre.
"What do you think I'm doing, Pierre? I'm dating him."
It never felt right, the thought of them together. Pierre clutched his glass a little tighter. "If this is your way of extracting some terrible, twisted kind of revenge then just stop it. Charles doesn't deserve to be caught in this mess."
Esteban tilted his head slightly, giving the man in front of him an incredulous look. "Mon dieu, you think everything is about you, don't you? Such a big ego you have."
Pierre was practically shaking with fury. "Do not hurt Charles because you want to hurt me. He doesn't deserve it."
"I am not going to hurt Charles, alright? I really do like him. He's a very nice guy and I've known him since we were kids. Just because I hadn't made a move before doesn't mean I was never planning on making one."
"So you had been planning this for, what, years then?" Pierre's eyes were narrowed, watching for any change in expression on Esteban's face. But nothing changed.
"No. No I hadn't."
Pierre had been too many drinks in already. He knew he would have to run into Charles and Esteban so he had gotten a head start on the drinking thinking that it would make it easier for him to see them. It had not.
"You look at him differently."
"Love," Esteban confirmed and the word landed like a slap across Pierre's face. "I look at him with love."
"I miss when you used to look at me the way you look at him now." It slipped out before Pierre could stop it. In the morning, Pierre would blame it on the alcohol, say that he had lost his filter and was just rambling drunkenly. Deep inside though, he knew he had meant it.
Esteban stilled at the confession and didn't move till the bartender tapped him on the shoulder to tell him that his drinks were ready. Esteban thanked him as he tipped the man and grabbed the drinks from the tray. Pierre hadn't expected a reply really as Esteban started to walk away. But then he stopped and turned around.
"I know you probably hate me," he said, "but remember that you don't hate Charles. So if you can, at least try and be happy for him. He really is happy, believe me. And I would never do anything to hurt him. I just hope you will do the same for him."
Pierre watched as Esteban walked through the crowd to find Charles and handed him his drink. He watched as Charles slightly craned his neck to thank Esteban with a kiss. He watched as Esteban slid his arm around Charles' waist with a kind of familiar comfort that Pierre never got to experience—and maybe never will.
He watched and he smiled as he tried to quell the rising sick feeling in his throat with another shot of tequila.
hi lovely! thank you for asking :D been a while since i did the color ask game but. i'm *always* down for it (& other prompts! i'm just. slow sometimes :p)
i started writing this and somehow it ended up in my dragon's blood universe! which is part of a long, messy daydream i've had goin' for a while. it's ridiculously self-indulgent, but! anyway. i hope you enjoy, nonny :)
also, u can read another short set in this universe over here :)
[ id: a screenshot of 3 colors. the first is an orange-y color, with the hex code #f38d68, and named dark salmon. the second is a light grey-blue, with the hex code #aab9cf and named light steel blue. the third is a dark reddish brown, with the hex code #3d2c2e, and named old burgundy. ]
dark salmon | light steel blue | old burgundy
There is an old burgundy sweater in the back of her closet. It's too large--the sleeves go down past her fingers, the shoulders drape oddly, the hem skims the middle of her thighs. There are cigarette burns on the wrists, and despite its long exile, it still smells like ash and nicotine.
Sometimes she takes it and breathes it in, just to... remind herself. That once upon a time, someone had worn it. She can't bring herself to do anything more than that, though. Can't bring herself to wear it, even though there are nights she desperately wants to. That, or use it like a pillowcase--clutch it close all night long, and hopes it chases the bad dreams away.
Today is one of those days. She brings the sleeve up to her face and squeezes her eyes shut. She breathes it in, sensitive nose catching the long-faded hints of smoke and ash and nicotine, and something else, beneath that. Something dark and smokey and---
And it's all in her imagination, she knows. It has to be. It's been two years.
But that doesn't make it feel less real.
A tear squeezes past her clenched eyelid, dripping down her cheek. She wipes it away, hastily. It's not that she's ashamed to cry. She's not. But she's just---
Tired. And lonely. And sick of both of those things. Sick of feeling sorry for herself, of missing a life that is never, ever going to come back to her no matter how hard she wishes.
She's interrupted from her sorrow by the sound of a knock at the door. It's soft. Tentative. She wouldn't have heard it at all, if she wasn't what she was. Didn't have the hearing that she does.
She wipes her face, despite the fact no other tears have fallen, and lets the sleeve slide from her fingers. She straightens, and pushes her hair back, and strides out of the bedroom and to the door. She peers through the peephole and sees...
Someone. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Their hair is dark and messy, but short cropped. She can't see their face. Their shoulders are hunched, face turned toward the floor, like they're trying to sink into their steel gray hoodie. She frowns to herself. She can hear their heartbeat. It sounds---
But no. She can't let herself think like that. Because if she does...
She turns the lock. Slides out the deadbolt. Opens the door.
Familiar brown eyes meet hers. Lips quirk up into a wry smile. "Hey, 'Nora. Long time no see."
There's a lump in her throat. "Jay." She has so many questions---how, where, when, why, what---but she swallows them all. They can wait. Instead, she steps forward, wraps her arms around his neck and buries her face in his neck.
He smells like ash, and smoke, and nicotine--and something else, something dark and smokey, and...
"Jay," she says, and bursts into tears.
Later, there will be conversations. How did he survive? Where has he been? What has he been doing? When did he get back? Why come back now?
But for right now...
All she wants to is to rest in his arms and content herself with the knowledge that he's here, he's alive, and he's hers.
[ send me some hex codes & i'll write something based off of them! ]
i could literally cry i was hoping someone would send in thompsborn god fucking bless lets go
20. …on a scar.
warning(s): harrison thompson is a piece of shit and this talks about a past drinking problem and vaguely talks about a memory of drunken abusive behavior
(the list) (send me a ship and a number)
—
From where they are, at a small little AirBnB hours outside of the city, they can see the stars. They shine and simmer in the inky black sky, twinkling beautifully and looking down on two boys, sitting at the edge of the lake close to their temporary getaway stay, a blanket beneath them and another blanket draped over their shoulders. For a long, long time, it’s quiet, save for the sounds of nature, the breeze rustling the trees and the leaves shifting against the swaying grass. Harry hums under his breath, uses their intertwined fingers to bring the back of Flash’s hand to his lips. Flash looks away from the stars with fond amusement in his eyes and says, not for the first since they left the city, “You didn’t have to do this.”
“No,” Harry says—also not for the first time, but just as happy to remind Flash of it as he was when he said it in the car. “But I wanted to. It’s your birthday weekend and I like spending my dad’s money on shit he doesn’t like. For instance, spoiling my boyfriend for his birthday because I adore him and I can. Deal with it.”
“Norman Osborn is going to kill me one of these days,” Flash muses, snickering.
Harry rolls his eyes. “He’s dead if he tries. Pete would kick his ass before we even blinked.”
At that, Flash lets out a snort, lulls his head back to squint up at the stars again. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that. Being friends with an overprotective superhero is so tiring.”
“Oh, yeah, I totally believe you. Tell me, what was your username on Instagram again? Before you found out who Spider-Man was?”
Flash winces. “Low blow, asshole.”
Harry beams, clearly enjoying himself. “Just keeping your ego in check, babe. Stop moving so much when I’m trying to cuddle with you.”
“Why do you whine so much?”
“I have a complex,” Harry shrugs. “Daddy never loved me, Mama died when I was oh so young, and now I never shut the hell up, or something like that. I stopped listening to my therapist when she looked grossed out about me having a boyfriend, so there’s no saying for sure. Now stop moving, you’re letting cold air under the blanket and I’m freezing my ass off.”
In an act of maturity, Flash sticks his tongue at out Harry. Clearly just as mature, Harry reaches up with the hand that isn’t holding onto Flash’s and flicks him in the nose. Flash huffs. “Idiot.”
“Less talking, more stargazing.”
Though Flash rolls his eyes, he quietly complies, leaning into Harry’s side and letting out a content sigh as the blanket draped around them shifts to cover them better, staring up at the stars with wide eyes. Harry glances up as well, but quickly finds his eyes drifting back down, taking up the close up side profile of his boyfriend with a little smile on his face, scanning over the curve of his nose and the angle of his jaw and—and a scar, just below his left ear, a faded line that’s only really visible due to Flash’s hair shifting back and uncovering it.
“Where’d this come from?” Harry asks.
Flash’s lips twitch, still looking up. “I thought you said less talking,” he quips, but it’s light and breezy. He looks to Harry, brow quirked.
Harry doesn’t respond to that, brings up his free hand to brush the tip of his finger along the line, almost two inches long, starting just below the ear lobe and angled diagonay to the hinge of Flash’s jaw. “The scar,” Harry says, feels unnerved by it’s placement. “What is it?”
“Wh—?” Flash stops, brings up his own hand to feel for the scar, wincing when his fingers skim across the barely noticable change in texture when he touches it. “Oh. Right. I, uh—I don’t actually remember what happened, exactly. I know I was pretty young, like—like, it was before my parents had Jesse, so they were even more shitty towards me than they are now. My dad had a drinking problem, back before Jess was born, and I know he was drunk, and I made him mad, somehow, and... and glass. I remember glass, but that’s pretty much it. Had to get stitches, though, and when I woke up in the hospital, my dad actually hugged me. I know it was an accident, whatever it was that happened, but I also know that it was his fault, even if he didn’t mean to do it, y’know?”
Harry doesn’t reply for what feels like a long time, just stares at the scar with something twisting in his gut, hot and painful and sad. “I’m sorry,” he eventually says, voice soft. “Jesus, that’s—I’m sorry. You deserve better than that.”
“All of us got a pretty shitty hand,” Flash says, shrugging. “We make do. It’s survivable.”
“You deserve more than survivable, Flash.”
There’s a heavy sort of lilt to Harry’s tone that makes Flash pause and stare up at the stars for another long moment of quiet, before, slowly, almost carefully, he tells Harry, “This is pretty great. This, you... it means, y’know... everything you‘ve done for me, what we are and where we’re at, everything... it means a lot to me.”
Within his chest, Harry’s heart thuds, loud and fluttery and insistent. It beats with purpose, and he struggles to think of what to say, so he opts not to, at least for the moment, instead tracing his fingers down Flash’s jaw gently, until he can lightly grab his chin and tilt their heads closer together, but he doesn’t turn Flash’s, keeps him facing forward in order to press his lips gently to the scar, lingers here for what could be considered too long, and then pulls away, but not very far, keeps his voice soft and gentle and says, for the first time, “I love you.”
Flash doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, not at first, but then he’s turning his head with something magnificent in his eyes and he whines, “You asshole. I wanted to say it first.”
“Too bad,” Harry snickers. “You gonna say it back? Before I start to freak out?”
“I love you, too,” Flash says. “I love you a lot.”
Harry grins. “I want to hear you say it again but if I‘m not kissing you in the next two seconds, I’m going to burst into flames or someth—”
Flash leans in before Harry can finish speaking, but Harry doesn’t really mind.
“Shh it’s okay. it was just a dream” with Milo/Kevin pretty pls ^_^ ?
ahhhh why does this feel so ooc :(
•••
Milo was plagued by his insomnia, and sat on the floor, leaning his head against the side of his bed, nimble fingers knotting and braiding strings to make a twisting pattern. He enjoyed having something to pick at, and focus on, especially when his boyfriend was fast asleep on the bed.
Speaking of, Kevin was twitching slightly, lost in his dreams with furrowed eyebrows and noises that died in his throat. Milo, used to it by now, ignored them, right up until Kevin woke himself with a start, sitting up slightly, and fumbling for his glasses.
Milo turned his head, peering at him, concerned. "Kevin?" His voice was quiet, and he shifted from the floor to the bed.
Kevin open and closed his mouth, almost as if he was buffering. "I.." He said, hoarsely, "I had.. too many eyes."
Milo's heart sank in his chest. "Oh.. Shit, man."
"I was.. I was trying to get them out, and.. You- you.. were there you were- right there." Kevin mumbled, and Milo realized he was shaking slightly, "I didn't want you to see me like that."
Milo was good with paper words, ones between him and his mind and well... Noah, in the future, he supposed. He wasn't.. a master of comfort, so he figured it was better to just use the tactile methods.
"Can I touch you?" He asks, after Kevin has stopped sniffling, still shaking like someone's cranked the A.C. to the max in the dead of winter.
"Yeah.. please." He tries to hide the way his voixe cracks. Milo doesn't mention it, and instead, gets under the covers with him. It took a bit of manuvering, but eventually, Milo had Kevin held tightly in his arms.
Kevin began to sob. They were quiet, contained sobs, which was honestly what he had expected out of his boyfriend. He wasn't the type of person to cry a lot or for long. He tried really hard to be strong, and keep going, despite the shit that got thrown at him.
"I'm sorr-sorry.. So stupid to.. cry over this." Kevin hiccups. "It was.. terrifying."
Milo hums gently, and places a kiss on his forehead. "Shh, it's okay. I got you. It was just a dream."
He holds him like that until Kevin is once again, tiredly nuzzled up, falling asleep against him.
hey! =D I made a lil comic from one of your writings! it was like someone wrote the text specifically for them. The things they said and words they used were spot on for my ocs. here's link to the comic. i also love reading the other things you've shared =D i see i can't send link, you can find it on twitter, my username is soulserenade92. just posted it so it's on top
i dont write nsfw at the moment, sorry! as soon as im more comfortable with the characters i will do!
i struggled a little bit with this but managed to figure it out in the end so i hope you enjoy it, even if its not quite what was asked <3
https://archiveofourown.org/works/14762330
‘To say Bandit isn't best pleased to be awoken at 2am on a Saturday morning would be an understatement.
If it's because Jäger's in trouble - well, that's a different matter altogether.’
