#just specify the character

[umblrspectrum]

hi heres art so you pay attention to me now go read the tags

[arttsuka]

Based on somewhat real events

I spent way too much time drawing this...

But yeah, Ford finally saying thank you

A continuation (kinda)

[worldwright]

It's the "repeat after me" that always gets me.

The silent, invisible struggle is over. Jon has tried and failed to stop himself from speaking. He has turned the page and his voice is steady and expressive. His voice is Jonah's.

Was there ever a fight at all? Jon has always followed the path Jonah laid out for him. Or was that a lie Jonah told to make his victory seem unilateral? Regardless, the eye's weapon is information, and Jonah wields it with precision and uncompromising force. He always has. And now his favorite plaything is finally ready to serve its purpose.

In some ways, Jonah made a gamble by tossing his statement in the stack randomly. If Martin had seen it before Jon, then they would have known his plan and been much more wary of any future attempt he made. But his calculation was sound. Martin had no real reason to look over the statements, and Jonah knew that his Archivist liked to read them in private.

It's one thing for him to gloat. Villains like to have their little monologue, and an avatar of Beholding especially so. But dragging his confession out of the throat of the one he abused?

He chose Jon as Archivist. He made sure that he went far enough down the path that he wouldn't be able to stop. He made sure that every word out of Jon's mouth sounded uncannily like Jonah's own voice.

But even that wasn't enough. All he really had to do was put his little incantation on the second page and he would have won. But he wanted Jon to know what was happening, and why, and how. And that he never could have stopped it. And after all that:

"Repeat after me."

Jonah had never seen Jon as a person, that had been obvious for a long time. Even so, he had great affection for him. Enough to apply his twisted love to one final act of exquisite cruelty.

[aprofessionalwithoutstandards]

While playing tf2 today my brother came up with a feature called "cheerleader Scout" which is when I play Sniper and he plays Scout and he stands behind me and shouts "woohoo!" and "wicked!" and "way to go, slugger!" whenever I shoot my gun regardless if I hit anything

[cloudysfluffs]

alastor, after knowing lucifer for less than 14 seconds: ohhh i can't NOT wreck him

~kink/nsfw blogs please dni!!~

[oceanwithouthermoon]

okay some people genuinely really need to accept that the ONLY "queer coding" in saiki k is when they make gay jokes. there is NO other intentional queer coding, and i think people dont understand that claiming rep where it isnt there is much much more harmful than you think it is... just headcanon! its fun! you guys act like youre going to fucking die if you ship/hc something not canon, so you convince everyone that everything you say is canon ☠️ its literally insane

theres a HUGE difference between a headcanon or ship having what YOU see as canon backing, and a hc or ship that is actually implied or canon...

the only ship that you could argue is implied in saiki k is terusai, thats literally it, you could potentially make an argument that yumekai could be reciprocated towards the end, satoumiya, or MAYBE mikosai, but im pretty sure thats it...

nonbinary saiki is one of my personal favorite headcanons (one of the only ones i pretty much ALWAYS have in mind when talking or writing about him, it's practically a given) and i think it has pretty good canon backing, but its not ACTUALLY implied.

hes FAIRLY certain that his biological sex is male, and all evidence points to that, but he doesnt know and specifically says that he doesnt know what his true gender is... he clearly has absolutely zero discomfort with masculinity OR femininity, doesnt know or care about his gender, and is comfortable with either sex... he seems very happy to just be either...

seems like pretty solid evidence, but you also have to realize that there is literally zero chance that the author intended for saiki to be read as nonbinary, or trans in any way, this was literally just an excuse for plot and to have a reason to take advantage of his shapeshifting to do crossdressing/genderbend chapters ☠️ i love to see it as him being nonbinary and i think it has a lot of backing, but its not canon or even "implied" at all.

theres a lot of other examples of this kind of thing in this fandom, like theres a lot of people who claim that kubokai are queer coded (its usually just a joke when people say things like "hehe my ship is so canon" but im talking about like... people who see yumekai and go "um 🤨 this is LITERALLY homophobic because erm um kubokai are basically canon and queer coded and you shipping one of them with a WOMAN is HOMOPHOBIC" lmfao) and i am actually just not even sure where this comes from because they dont have anything that can even be twisted into romantic subtext, theyre just a popular ship because they have a good friendship. which is great! but theyre like the LAST thing i wouldve expected people to claim as implied or canon. they are absolutely not. the only thing i can even think of that might make people think that is saiki saying they look gay in that one chapter ☠️

[aclownsclownery]

"Aroace people can still date"

Yeah and aroace people can also bash your skull in and thats what this aroace person is gonna do if you keep using this as an argument to ignore a characters identity

[lost-in-fandoms]

I have no idea where this came from and where it's going. Probably nowhere. No thoughts, just vibes.

cw: implied past character death (i'll put something more specific in the tags)

The street looks the same as when Daniel had left. Same cracked pavement, same uneven sidewalk, only on the left. Even the washed out weeds, insisting on growing where they shouldn't have, look the same.

The fence on the right is maybe a little less red, a little more broken, but the hedge on the left is still cut in the same strictly rectangular shape, so dense you can't see the garden on the other side. His feet seem to remember just how many steps it takes to go from the intersection to the end of the cul-de-sac, stopping exactly where the old bus stop was.

The gate is different. It's jarring, in the sameness of it all, to see something so starkly changed. It used to be white, with rusted and mossy spots all over, a number of bars Daniel had never bothered to count. Nothing like the tall, solid black gate he's looking at now.

He just wanted to look at the garden, at the path, at the front door. He wanted to see if the hydrangeas had survived all these years, if the grass was overgrown, if the multi-colored window on the side of the door was still intact. If the rosemary, without someone carefully keeping it contained, had escaped its flowerbed and invaded the nearby hibiscus.

He had wanted to see if there was any part of him still clinging to the living room windows, to the sun-warmed bricks.

Now, all he can see are the second store windows, all curtains drawn, and the new solar panels on the garage roof.

He shouldn't have come.

There is an ache eating away at his chest, bacteria freed from a petri dish and given his whole insides to feast on, lid broken and thrown away by the first step he had taken out of the car.

Suddenly, as if yanked from the past he's both begging for and resisting, a child's laughter rings through the hot summer air, followed by a gleeful high pitched scream.

He shouldn't have come.

And yet, his feet are stuck on the pavement, and his mind is stuck in the nowhere place that is half in the present and half in a past that no longer exists.

There's another voice in the garden, too low to make out the words, but clearly belonging to a man. Daniel can hear a sliding door open and then close, the sound discordant against his sliding-door-free memories.

He should go.

The tide is already threatening to fill his lungs. The air smells the same, but somehow turns to rot when it reaches the back of his throat.

There's a high beeping sound, then a click, then the smaller gate to the side, the one they always needed to unstuck in the winter, now replaced too, opens.

Before he can stop himself, Daniel gasps, heart jumping in his throat, hope building like a cursed bubble. He's not quick enough to pop it himself, and it explodes right in front of his face, soapy water stinging his eyes, when the man who steps through it is a complete stranger.

The air is shimmering with heat, cicadas' screams swelling, and for a second Daniel thinks: it's not real.

Then the stranger fully exits the gate, square jaw set and eyebrows furrowed, and closes it behind him with a clank.

"Can I ask you who you are and what you are doing in front of my house?" No hellos.

There's an accent there, a rasp cutting through some words, a lisp making itself known into others. A frosty threat thickly slathered on top, icing on an uncut cake, knife into Daniel's hand to slice the tension in the air with.

His brain, still clawing its way back to the present, offers his tongue no words, half open mouth empty. The man raises his eyebrows, crosses his arms. Daniel knows with crystal clear certainty he's going to have the cops called on him very soon, or he's going to be punched. He thinks of the kid laughing and can't find any blame in either option.

"Sorry," he finally manages, stiff vocal cords striding together. The man doesn't look impressed.

Daniel forcefully pulls his brain together, connecting neurons like he's jump starting a car, stuffing memory boxes closed.

"I used to live here, years ago." He tears his eyes away, wishing once again he could see the hydrangeas. His mom had loved the hydrangeas, even when she cursed them every year for being needy fuckers. "When I was a kid."

When he looks back, the man doesn't look quite as tense, something absurdly like recognition in his blue eyes.

"I was in the area, and thought I would check it out," he offers lamely. Just sort of a lie, but he doesn't owe his bleeding soul to this stranger.

"I bought it four months ago," the man says, and Daniel feels weirdly chastised, as if he should have come by sooner.

"I know. I signed the deal." And then spent one whole day in bed, cradling ghosts in his arms underneath the blankets.

The man tilts his head appraisingly, lips slightly pursed. Daniel doesn't know what he's being considered for, but tries his best not too look to lost, or too insane, or too dangerous. He doesn't even know why. Maybe just to avoid the cops.

"There was a picture, in the living room," the man slowly says. Daniel immediately wishes he would stop talking, but his brain is gone again, unable to give words, too busy looking in his memories for the framed photograph he knows the man is talking about. There were four people in the picture, and Daniel had mourned it for years, forgotten on the shelf of the emptied dish cupboard.

Suddenly, fierce protectiveness surges inside him, hands twitching with the need to go back, to hide it from stranger's eyes, to cradle it to his chest so hard he can carve a space for it between his ribs.

"I know you are saying the truth, because you are in it. Smaller." The stranger's lips curve up a bit at his own little joke, but Daniel's don't.

Yeah, of course he had been in it, smiling his still-crooked smile, flash glinting on his braces, curls squished under a baseball cap. His dad's hand on his shoulder.

His insides, all eaten by the fugitive bacteria, are burning, poison seeping from his bloodstream.

"Yeah." He refuses to elaborate. He shouldn't have come. "I'll be going."

He doesn't want to go. He shouldn't have come, but now that he has, he doesn't want to go. Walking away once again feels like something that could kill him.

"You could come back, tomorrow morning, when my daughter isn't here."

Daniel doesn't know what his face is doing, too many feelings slamming into him all at once. He hopes the only one the other man can see is surprise.

"Why?" He shouldn't ask. He should just say okay. He should just say no. He should turn around and walk away, and keep walking and walking until his legs hurt as much as the traitorous hope biting at him again.

"For the picture. And to see the house, if you want." The man says it as if this whole conversation is a test, and Daniel is on the verge of failing. As always, he doesn't know the correct answer. And yet, he knows there's only one he can give.

"Okay." He nods, feeling like he's jumping off the boat without checking for sharks first. Then belatedly, "thank you."

"10 am. If you are a serial killer, I know how to box." The man smiles, as if it was a joke. Daniel doesn't need his full brain capacities to know he's one hundred percent serious.

"I'm not." He almost adds which is exactly what a serial killer would say, but now that the stranger has offered, he does want to come back, doesn't want to ruin his chance with a dumb joke.

"Good."

The man doesn't say goodbye before turning around and pulling a bunch of keys out of his shorts pocket, opening the small gate and walking through, closing it behind himself without a second glance towards Daniel.

As if broken out of a spell, his feet can move again, and he finds himself walking away before he can even make the conscious decision to, his body wanting to hurry along the hours, to shorten the time between now and tomorrow, 10 am.

He barely looks at the road, at the cracked pavement and uneven sidewalk. Impressed on his retinas, the flutter of a curtain on the second floor, and the new name on the doorbell.

Max Verstappen.

[velvetwyrme]

( ❌ ) Sorry! That name is taken :(

Figuring out a username is tough. So... why not outsource it ;)?

The upcoming chapters of Flipping Fate require Edge to have a username, so we figured we should open that up to y'all to decide! This is all for fun, so go buck wild! Do you want to give him the coolest, most badass username? Or perhaps you want him to be embarrassed to even type it? (Maybe his brother got into his account and changed it?)

We'll hold another poll with your submissions once this poll ends so that you guys can decide what username he gets stuck with >;3c

[freakinator]

thinking about kab and the thing about her i think is she knows just enough to keep herself safe Generally but not enough to really predict what would happen should something more... complicated??? unforeseen??? idk whats the right word to use but something not covered by someones reputation and/or vids happen, believe it or not this also affects her view of clownpierce (we'll get to that)

for example, mapicc has a reputation for being an violent, angry, & impulsive guy and nothing else which makes sense but is incredibly surface level and something that only really works if you dont have a lot of experience working with him

another is reddoons, his betrayal after the base incident while shocking is not unforeseen but his reputation as being a guy whos seen as being a reasonable person whos fairly loyal to his team made it seem like something he wouldnt do even tho it absolutely is

regarding how it affects her view of clown, since he isnt perfectly aligned with his reputation she instead pivots in the complete opposite direction and forgiving basically every crime he does even tho hes something much more mild and complicated than either his reputation or her view of him will ever be (think madonna-whore complex which is especially obvious when it comes to kabs vs woogies view of him)

another side effect of this Just Enough amount of knowledge aside from being blinded by her own expectations is that it frustrates ppl who think shes oversimplificating things (like me and seemingly several other tumblr users as well) especially when she claims that shes objectively correct and the smartest in the room at any given moment

how this roughness in her analysis affects her in the server still has yet to be fully seen but we do still have at least a couple months until the end but 'til then shes just gonna keep stumbling as more and more complicated situations pop up as is typical in lifesteal to happen and eventually shes gonna have to learn to adapt or else she'll be suffering the consequences one way or another

[junipum]

reading the entirety of house’s wiki page

and last but not least..

[despairs-memorial]

Starter for @yui-samidare-reborn

"...have you ever actually shot a gun before?"

The shooting range at Hope's Peak was one of the few places she could go without causing some sort of issue. Since there were so few that would be here, it was cathartic for her to practice her marksmanship without getting annoyed with people who knew nothing about it, but it seems like today that she would be having that issue here, too.

[ace-and-the-rpg-horrors]

random question!! in school, was/is it common for some people you're not friends with to be referred to by their full names? like if you're talking about someone else in your year, you say both their first name and last name, at least when first mentioning them in conversation?

[starry-bi-sky]

catch me looking up nightingale symbolisms for tales of the passerine. if danny's using the name of a songbird for a hero name, regardless of familial connections, i will utilize the symbolism tied to the bird. Anyways general gist of the nightingale symbolism i've seen, other than what wikipedia told me, is that nightingales were frequently symbolisms of spring renewal, loss/death, love, etc. catch me about to incorporate music into Danny's character

[starlightiing]

heartbeats between us - gen pierresteban ( pg10 && eo31 )

“Pierre, something is wrong.” Pierre is, admittedly, half-asleep in his chair as he leans across the table Alpine has situated in their meeting room. To his chagrin, the meeting is finally over - but being approached willingly by Esteban isn’t something he had on his bingo card for today. Esteban is usually very good at keeping his distance, so Pierre’s brows furrow on instinct and he pulls off his headset to turn around and give Esteban his full attention. “What do you mean something is wrong?” Pierre asks, eyes darting up to give Esteban a quick once-over. Concern pulls at his chest as he takes note of Esteban’s pale skin and shallow breathing, and the slight tremble to his hands as he raises one up to run through his hair. Or: Esteban has a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

READ ON AO3

“Pierre, something is wrong.” 

Pierre is, admittedly, half-asleep in his chair as he leans across the table Alpine has situated in their meeting room. To his chagrin, the meeting is finally over - but being approached willingly by Esteban isn’t something he had on his bingo card for today. Esteban is usually very good at keeping his distance, so Pierre’s brows furrow on instinct and he pulls off his headset to turn around and give Esteban his full attention.

“What do you mean something is wrong?” Pierre asks, eyes darting up to give Esteban a quick once-over. Concern pulls at his chest as he takes note of Esteban’s pale skin and shallow breathing, and the slight tremble to his hands as he raises one up to run through his hair. 

“I don’t know, something feels bad. Wrong.” Esteban replies, unhelpfully, if Pierre is honest.

“You look like shit, why don’t you start with what feels bad exactly?” Pierre urges him, scooting his chair back so he can stand to his feet. He doesn’t understand why Esteban isn’t telling his physio about this instead - he would be much better suited to handle this situation than Pierre.

“I feel weak and tired. My chest is fluttering and my throat is tight.” Esteban says,and when he swallows, Pierre can pick up on the difficulty in the action. His eyebrows furrow deeper as he reaches up and presses the back of his hand to Esteban’s forehead. His skin is surprisingly cool, but Pierre can feel the clamminess of sweat building at his hairline. 

“Where is your physio? You look sick, but I don’t think you have a fever.”

“No, Pierre, this is -” Esteban stops himself, and Pierre immediately makes eye contact with him, taking note of the fear and surprise evident in Esteban’s expression. The rest of the sentence never comes - instead, Esteban presses a hand to the base of his throat and lets out a strangled sort of gasping noise.

Pierre’s blood runs cold in his veins. Esteban is having trouble breathing.

“Hey! Somebody call the doctor in here!” he yells, carefully placing a hand to Esteban’s shoulder and guiding him down into the chair Pierre had been sitting in only moments ago. “Now!”

Pierre pats lightly at Esteban’s face, quickly grabbing his attention. His eyes are still alert which is good, but the wheeze that comes with his breaths is worrying Pierre more than he would like to admit. He can’t see what would be obstructing Esteban’s breaths, but the wheezing is sharp and prominent and it’s only getting worse. “Hey, keep breathing. Nice and easy, okay?” 

Esteban nods, his lips slightly parted as he tries to pull air in through his mouth. It sounds horrible, and Pierre winces in sympathy. He presses a hand to Esteban’s chest and rubs softly, as if it might help him breathe somehow.

It doesn’t.

“Pierre…I can’t…” “You can,” Pierre immediately replies, keeping his hand on Esteban’s chest to steady him. “You can. Keep going. Keep breathing.” 

Esteban’s heartbeat feels quick but weak, just a gentle flutter against Pierre’s hand. His eyes widen slightly as the severity of the situation registers in his mind.

“Hey! Where is that doctor?” he yells out again, craning his neck to see if anyone is even around to hear him. A head pops in - Pierre immediately recognizes him as Francis, and his eyes widen when he takes in Esteban’s state.

“He’s on the way. Is Esteban okay?” Francis asks, and Pierre can tell he’s being as gentle as possible. Pierre looks towards Esteban’s frightened eyes, then back to Francis and shakes his head.

“No, I don’t know what’s wrong but he can’t breathe. His heart’s racing but it’s weak. We need the doctor now.” 

Francis nods, concern blossoming over his expression. “I’ll tell him to haul ass back here. Hang in there, okay?”

Francis is gone before Pierre can reply, which only brings a small measure of comfort. As soon as his attention is back on Esteban, though,  it dissipates in an instant. He’s gasping for air, one hand reaching at his throat as if something is in there blocking his airway. Pierre notices then the swelling in Esteban’s throat - subtle but distinguishable, and his heart drops to his feet. This is an allergic reaction to something, but he cannot for the life of him ever remember Esteban being allergic to anything. He never had issues when they were kids, nor during the time they’ve spent together at Alpine. 

He takes a deep breath and snaps his fingers in front of Esteban’s dulling eyes. “Look at me. Eyes on me, Esteban.” Pierre demands, and the panic that flutters in his chest when Esteban looks up and looks through him, tired and frightened, is almost overwhelming. “Do you have an epi-pen?”

Esteban looks confused for a second, just a fleeting moment, before shaking his head. “No. Never…had one.” He gasps out, his hand coming to rest right under Pierre’s on his chest. “Pi-Pierre, I can’t breathe.” 

“The doctor is coming.” Pierre says matter-of-factly, hoping to keep the concern and uncertainty out of his voice. Being calm for Esteban is crucial right now; and perhaps even for himself, too. “I know it is hard, but keep breathing. Keep trying.” 

Pierre watches Esteban’s face carefully, eyes trained on his expression to try and get a read on how he’s feeling. His eyes are dull and lifeless, something that is setting Pierre’s heart racing fast enough to be noticeable, now. Esteban is breathing but he’s barely breathing, and his heartbeat has only gotten quicker and weaker in the last few moments. “He will be here in a moment, it’s okay, Esteban.”

All Esteban does in response is blink at Pierre tiredly, slowly, like it’s far too much of an effort for his body to handle. Then, to Pierre’s horror, Esteban’s eyes flutter shut and they do not open back up again. His weight lolls forward, right into Pierre’s expectant arms, who catches him and gently lays him down on the floor so he doesn’t hit his head.

“Esteban!” 

Pierre immediately checks his breathing, ear hovering right above Esteban’s lips and listening intently for any sound - even the wheezing, hell, he would take the wheezing at this point. He listens, and listens, and listens, but not a single sound escapes Esteban’s lips. “Fuck. Fuck.”

A trembling hand reaches forward to Esteban’s neck, fingers pressing into the carotid artery in desperate search of a pulse. Pierre can feel something - something soft and weak - but he cannot differentiate if it’s the throbbing of his own pulse in his fingertips, or blood pumping through Esteban’s veins. He leans forward and rests his head against Esteban’s heart, listening even closer to his chest than he had for Esteban’s breathing a moment ago. He can hear it, just a fleeting heartbeat, so delicate and quick and uneven. He can hear it, and it brings him at least some modicum of relief.

That is, of course, until he hears it flutter, stumble, and then go completely silent inside of Esteban’s chest.

“Fuck! Help! Someone get that goddamn doctor in here now!” Pierre cries out, his voice urgent and desperate, “He’s not breathing! For fuck’s sake!” 

The idea of CPR hammers itself into Pierre’s frantic brain. CPR would be Esteban’s only chance until the doctor got here, even if it’s success rate is - well, he won’t think about that right now. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. It’s Esteban’s only hope, and Pierre, god help him, will do what he can. He isn’t officially certified, but he doesn’t care. Something is better than nothing. Something might keep Esteban here with him.

Pierre swallows thickly and threads his hands together, positioning them over Esteban’s heart. He remembers he needs to compress at 100 beats per minute, and hard. Hard enough that he could potentially break Esteban’s ribs. The idea is terrifying, but he can’t dwell on it. Focus. Focus. Deep breath.

And he begins. 

“One, two, three,” he counts under his breath, pushing with all his might against Esteban’s chest. “Four, five, six…” 

Somewhere around twenty compressions, Pierre hears footsteps rush into the room. He doesn’t look up, forcing himself to ignore them and focus only on Esteban. He is Esteban’s heartbeat right now, and that comes before anything else. Push. Push. Push. 

Even for as fit as he is, Pierre can feel the strain in his arms and the way his breaths come just a tiny bit faster and more shallow. It’s hard work, but he doesn’t care - he keeps pressing down on Esteban’s chest until he reaches 30, and then gathers himself to give rescue breaths. “Pierre, let me help.” A voice says from above them, and Pierre snaps his head up to see Francis is back in the room. “Doc is on his way, I swear it. Until he gets here, I’ll give Esteban breaths and keep an eye out for his pulse, you just focus on compressions until you need to switch with me.” 

He can’t seem to argue with that, offering a curt nod. He’s grateful for the help, and for the speed at which Francis delivers it. He watches Francis tilt Esteban’s head back, pinching his nose and breathing into his mouth as hard as he can. Esteban’s chest barely rises, fuck, Pierre had forgotten about the swelling in his throat - but it’s something, it’s going to have to be enough. 

“Go. I’ve got him.” Francis says, pressing his fingers to Esteban’s wrist. Pierre doesn’t need any more than that, he jumps right back into action and begins his next cycle of thirty chest compressions. 

“Come on, Esteban.” He pants out, counting the compressions in his head as he pushes against Esteban’s ribs with all his might. About ten compressions in, he hears the sickening sound of bones snapping and he has to fight back the bile that rises to the back of his throat. The sound isn’t even the worst part, it’s the giveaway of bones he feels beneath his hands as he continues to pump Esteban’s heart through them. He can physically feel the ribs creaking and groaning beneath his hands, and as one after another snaps, he can feel a soft pop followed by diminished resistance to his compressions and, god, if he had the ability to stop and process it right now he would absolutely be sick. 

“Keep going,” he hears Francis urge him to his left. “It’s okay, just keep going.” 

Keep going. Pierre can do that. His arms are aching and he’s out of breath, but he’s alive and he’s healthy and he has the means to work as hard as humanly possible to bring Esteban back. And how jarring it is, to see Esteban so helpless and weak - two things Pierre would never use to describe him in any other scenario. No, Esteban is strong willed and stubborn; he doesn’t give up, doesn’t back down, never has - not even when they were just kids.

Pierre looks up at Esteban’s face as he continues the compressions, and something churns in his gut. He sees that lanky, goofy kid he used to know years and years ago. The kid that made him laugh until his stomach hurt, but also ran him down hard on the karting track without showing a single ounce of mercy. He sees the boy that let Pierre into his kart for the first time, with a proud smile and warm words of encouragement falling from his lips. He sees an old friend, lost to time and various other personal complications that seem so goddamn small and frivolous now in the face of all there is to lose.

Pierre looks at Esteban’s face and sees someone he still viciously cares about, no matter how hard he’s tried to deny it. He sees someone his heart simply cannot give up, will not give up, despite the trials and tribulations they’ve put each other through in the years since their friendship ended.

He sees someone who, the world be damned, he wants back as his friend. Someone he would never let die, no matter the circumstance. Someone who deep, deep down in the far reaches of his soul he knows he loves and will always love.

And he compresses and compresses with every bit of strength left in his body, because Esteban will not die here, not like this, not now. It’s not his time. 

“Pierre?” 

He hears his name but wholly ignores it, not wanting to hear a word out of Francis’ mouth unless it’s to say he’s got a heartbeat. The likelihood of that is slim, so Pierre keeps going even as a third rib snaps beneath his palms.

“Pierre? Pierre, listen to me.” Francis insists, putting a hand on Pierre’s shoulder, firm enough as if he’s trying to stop the compressions.

Pierre shrugs him off violently, “No! I have to focus!” 

“Pierre, the doctor is here. You need to move so he can help Esteban.”

“No!” Pierre cries out, raw and guttural, from the bottom of his stomach. He sounds every bit desperate and devastated, still attempting to administer compressions as Francis tries to pull him off of Esteban. “Stop! I have to help him! He’s not breathing! He’s not - his heart-” 

“I know, I know, Pierre,” Francis soothes, using his strength to lift  Pierre up from Esteban’s body. Pierre thrashes, nearly loosening himself from Francis’ grip, but it’s just not enough. He doesn’t have the power left in his own body to free himself. “But the doctor has to do his job. He’s the best chance of saving Esteban right now.” 

“But I…I didn’t even…” Pierre pauses to try and catch his breath, his eyes snapping over to Esteban.

The team doctor is knelt over him, and Pierre watches as he administers something into Esteban’s body. God, he hopes it will help, he needs it to help. But why isn’t he continuing the compressions? “What are you doing? His heart stopped, he needs compressions, or… or something!” 

“Pierre, you have to let the doctor work. If you keep yelling he’s going to make you leave.” Francis calmly explains, tightening his grip around Pierre’s body. “You did it, okay? Those compressions saved his life. There was already a pulse when the doctor checked him over. You did it.” 

“No,” Pierre feels so breathless, so useless, so hopeless. That can’t possibly be true. “No, his heart was not beating.”

“But it is now. Because of you. Because you jumped into action so quickly and put all of your effort into those compressions.” 

Pierre takes a minute to let that information sink into his brain. His adrenaline is still high, his body and mind working overtime as Francis’ words process. Esteban’s heart is beating again, because of him. The strained arms and the cracked ribs and the effort - it was all worth it. He lets out a breath and deflates in Francis’ arms, becoming something akin to a ragdoll.

“My god. Is he breathing?” Pierre asks, never tearing his gaze away from Esteban or the doctor at his side.

“They just got him breathing.” Francis confirms, gently rubbing Pierre’s arm with one of his hands. “He’s back, Pierre. He’s here.”

Pierre’s body sags even further with relief, and he lets out a humorless chuckle as he surrenders all of his weight into Francis, “That fucking bastard. Thank God.” 

~~

It takes Esteban precisely two days and twelve hours to wake up after all is said and done. Not that Pierre is counting - he’s definitely not counting. He has not been sitting hopelessly by Esteban’s room for hours upon hours a day, waiting for this moment or anything. Two days and twelve long, painful hours before the nurses come out to let him know Esteban is awake, alert, and agreeable to company. 

It feels like so much longer, and Pierre almost doesn’t believe his ears when he hears it. Two days of filtering through worried text messages from other drivers in the paddock (namely Lance and Charles, though Fernando has sent his fair share of texts and so has Max), and awkward interactions with Esteban’s parents who had flown in immediately upon hearing the news. They are nice people, really, it’s just been so long since he’s had any positive interactions with them that when Laurent came in for a hug, Pierre hadn’t been fairly certain how to react, and Sabrina’s kisses to his cheeks still burn warm even hours after the fact. 

It’s all a bit overwhelming, and Pierre of course let them go visit their son first and foremost. But if he’s honest, he’s chomping at the bit to go in and make sure Esteban is okay with his own eyes after everything that’s happened. 

And yet, now that it is finally his turn, his palms are sweating and he finds himself at a loss of what to say or do when he’s finally face to face with Esteban.

“He’s eager to see you.” Sabrina tells him softly, her touch on his shoulder warm and comforting, similar to his own mother’s. “Don’t worry.”

Pierre nods at her words, swallowing a lump in the back of his throat as he reaches out and opens the door to Esteban’s room. Almost immediately, Esteban’s eyes are fastened directly on him, and his breath catches in his lungs. He closes the door behind him, and takes a few steps towards the bed as he tries to ignore the echo of his heart pounding in his ears.

“You’re awake.” “I am.” Esteban agrees, smiling up at Pierre tiredly. “I have heard you are the one to thank for that?” 

Pierre clears his throat, looking down at the blankets on Esteban’s bed and nodding softly. “You don’t have to thank me, though.”

“Thank you, Pierre.” He says anyway, and it stirs up something warm and comforting in Pierre’s belly. “You saved my life. That more than deserves thanks.”

“I think you would have done the same for me.” Pierre says carefully, not wanting to put words in Esteban’s mouth. “I’m just glad you’re okay now.”

Esteban nods, leaning his head back into his pillows and sucking in a deep breath. Pierre watches his chest rise with the action, and it's relieving to see him breathing so easily. Above the bed, the monitor tracking Esteban’s heartbeat is beeping very softly and gently to indicate the rate and rhythm of his heart, and it’s all so unbelievably comforting to Pierre to see for himself that Esteban truly is okay. 

“Sorry you had to do it. I had no idea what was wrong and you were the closest person.” Esteban explains, and Pierre can detect something like guilt in his tone.

“Don’t apologize for that. I’m glad you reached out for help at all. I know you are sometimes too stubborn for your own good.” Pierre says, meeting Esteban’s gaze with a knowing smirk. 

“Yeah, well, I’m just glad I reached out to the right person. When did you learn CPR anyway?”

Pierre chuckles at that, shaking his head as he settles himself down in the chair next to Esteban’s bed. “I’m not certified. I just got really fucking lucky.”

“No, I got really fucking lucky.” Esteban jokes, though his chuckle sounds more half-hearted than anything. Pierre knows it’s just because he’s tired and probably still a bit disoriented. He can’t imagine how he might feel if he woke up only to hear his heart had stopped and his childhood ex-friend was the one to restart it. 

“You should probably get more rest. More people are going to want to come visit you soon now that you’ve woken up.” Pierre reaches out on instinct, grabbing Esteban’s blanket and pulling it up over his arms. “Do you need anything before I go?” 

“No. Just for you to stay a little longer.” Esteban replies, looking over at Pierre with something indistinguishable written into his features.

Pierre feels his heart freeze momentarily in his chest, not expecting Esteban to want him to stay. And hell, he’s been here for nearly two days - what would a few more hours hurt? Especially if it would help Esteban to relax.

“Yeah, I can stay a little while. Just make sure you get some rest.”

Esteban smiles at him, and Pierre’s stomach does flips. Rude of it, honestly, to react that way without his express permission. After a moment, Pierre smiles back, watching as Esteban’s eyes flutter shut.

“Thank you, Pierre.” 

Pierre clears his throat and leans forward a bit in his chair, reaching out to tousle Esteban’s hair affectionately. “You’re welcome. Just never do that to me again, okay?”

Esteban grins, letting out a soft, amused breath through his nose. “I’ll do my best.”

He falls asleep only moments later, and Pierre listens to each and every breath that enters and leaves his lungs as he sleeps.

It’s all the proof Pierre needs to know that Esteban is truly going to be okay.

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

TWENTYFIVEMICEINATRENCHCOAT. DROP ANOTHER SATOSUGU X GN READER FANFIC, AND MY LIFE IS YOURS. (please get the reference)

YOU’RE IN LUCK ANON………. i’m working on another stsg/reader fic rn, just not sure when i’ll get to posting it!! but have a snippet from it that makes me feel severely ill ily mwah <333

“i think you need to cry, honey.” “… i don’t want to.” “i know,” he coos, his voice like honey in your ear, smooth and reassuring. “but you need to.” you feel him move, behind you, his lips meeting the crown of your head. he exhales against your hair, and you feel yourself crumble — taking a shaky inhale. “… and you're going to,” he continues, voice still soft and molten, a gentle command. “for me.”