#seasidepierre 1k celebration

[seasidepierre]

OH AND ANOTHER DRABBLE SUGGESTION

bringing sunkissed cuties into the 2022 season.. like i wanna know how many races she’s going to, if they are a private couple or everyone knows about them, like i wanna be brought up to date with those beautiful people

You had absolutely lost your shit when Charles presented you with your own pass, with your name, in plastic and durable, stating a loud “Scuderia Ferrari” for the team under which you were supervised. You didn’t even know how he got a decent ID picture to add to the file he certainly had to put together, though you suspected that his newfound alliance with your father might be the culprit this time. Or should you say “again”.

“So I guess you’re happy about it?” Charles had chuckled.

Your grin was enough of a response and he didn’t press for words, knowing that you were often out of them and didn’t know what to say. So you did the only rational thing you could do at that time: you squealed, you danced on your feet a little and then you launched yourself at his neck, peppering his face with small but very loud kisses that made him giggle and wrap your hips with his warm hands. 

The fact that you were welcome to enter the paddock at any moment you deemed either necessary or just complimentary was enough to fill you with a deep joy and relief. This was Charles accepting you in his life, inviting you in it, even, and you couldn’t be happier about it. 

The first time you used that pass was in Barcelona, because you wanted to be there for the start of Charles’ season and he wanted you there anyway. You took a week of vacation, just to be able to enjoy the Spanish city and sun, which hadn’t been as hot as you’d thought it’d be but was still very enjoyable for the end of February. You scanned the pass on the little pole and the little jingly sound that came with it made you jiggle a little, which Charles found both hilarious and endearing. Charles had introduced you to the team, properly, which had been nice of him. You already knew Carlos, having briefly met him before, but this time, it was pretty chill. This was only a testing session, there was no hurry in any way. You got to speak with your boyfriend’s teammate and team principal, getting to know them both, as well as chat with some members of the team which had been pretty fun and nice, if you were being completely honest. 

You enjoyed a few days off with Charles in Barcelona, braving the breeze to lie on the sand of a beach with him, cuddling next to him and ignoring everything else, focusing on the warm rays and skin in contact with yours. You dropped enough kisses on Charles’ sternum to last a month, which he was pretty happy about and you got your fair share of forehead kisses too. All good in the world. You followed him and Andrea for the workouts, which usually ended up with Andrea giving you a list of very mild exercises to do while you waited for them to be done and which usually turned you into a bright tomato, cursing every God and nature for your very small endurance abilities. Charles would often laugh at you, especially when you crashed on the floor after a series of jumping jacks or squats, short of breath, feeling nauseous and on the verge of passing out. He wouldn’t laugh at you per say, because that would be mean and he never was, but he would laugh at your stubbornness and your mean glares at Andrea whenever he would turn his back to you. If looks could kill, your boyfriend’s personal trainer would be long dead by the time you left Charles at the airport, with a sweet kiss on the forehead and a piece of candy slipped in the back pocket of your jeans. That was something he had started to do a while ago and that you loved way beyond words. 

The second time you used the pass had been in Bahrain, because you were there for the testing and you wanted to be there for the official start of the season. You still have no idea how you managed to grab a couple of remote working days but you did, which allowed you to work on the different cases you were due to report on the following week. When you weren’t in the garage, you were nose deep into your laptop and when you weren’t at the track, you were buried under a mountain of papers, but you wouldn’t have traded your place for the world and you were ecstatic to just be there. You got to see your man on the top step of the podium and you shed a few tears at the bright smile he was sporting, holding his trophy like you would hold your teddy bear. When you parted at the Nice airport, him ready for a couple of off days in Monaco, you on the way back to London, you knew you wouldn’t be able to ignore the deep pull of wanting to be back on track as soon as possible.

Which happened in Imola, even though it didn’t go to plan and you got to face a very frustrated Charles, angry at himself and closed off like you had never seen him be. Even back in Monaco, on the weekend you met each other, he wasn’t as mad as he had been then in Italy. You didn’t know what to do, didn’t know what to say, so you just stayed there, a vague presence around him, just wanting to cast enough warmth and kindness for him to forgive himself. He didn’t say much when you bid your goodbyes that evening, in the Italian airport. He barely kissed you, if you recall well. But still you found an Italian sweet in your totebag and you smiled at the idea of this very very mad man turned into a thoughtful boy, just for you.

There had been numerous facetime sessions, enough nights spent on the phone or the computer, each of you asleep on the other end of the call, but not wanting to hang up, because hanging up meant being back to the loneliness when you could pretty much just spend the night with each other, even though the physicality of it was lost to a bunch of pixels. It would never be as nice as the days spent in between races, where Charles would forget he was a Formula 1 driver and spend his days in your bed, refusing to let you go, eyes droopy with sleep but his body warm and soft to your touch. It was still a way to have some domesticity even though you couldn’t, for real. 

It’s not that Charles didn’t want to show you off. The need never really appeared, if he was completely honest. He was fine having you to himself, he didn’t feel the need, nor the want, to broadcast your relationship to the entire world. He was content with you, he had everything he needed in you. You were enough. In that regard, he never really posted anything about you, nor did he answer questions about whether or not he had a girlfriend. There had been a few pictures, stolen at a restaurant or on a walk on the beach in Monaco, of you two together, arms linked, your head resting on top of his bicep. Your face was out there, whether it was because you had been shown as one of Tom’s and Harrison’s friends, or because you had been linked to Charles. Your Instagram account was private, which it had been for years before you even met the Monégasque, but truth be told, it’s not like they would find much more content on your page either. You weren’t secretive. It wasn’t about protecting anything. It was just a question of enjoying the small time you two had together and not wanting to spend it staging a photoshoot or taking pictures. You had pictures together, sure, they lived in a special folder that you opened whenever you missed Charles a bit too much, especially on the evenings when he wasn’t next to you and your bed was cold. But posting them online never really came to mind, as it never felt like you had to demonstrate he was yours to the world. You both knew you belonged to each other. It was plenty enough. Your friends knew about your couple. Your families knew about your couple. You didn’t need more than that. 

You used your pass a few more times, though. Once in Monaco, obviously, because this was your anniversary GP and you wouldn’t miss it for the world. You didn’t need to disclose about the heartbreak Monaco brought upon Charles, once again. You used it in Silverstone too, with your dad in toe, who literally lost his shit when the pass he was sporting got scanned and showed his picture on the small screen, along with his name and a bright “Ferrari guest”, which he hadn’t seen last time because you had hid it from him to keep the surprise. And truth be told, you hadn’t expected your own home race to be so cruel once again, Which might explain why you found Charles back in his little cubicle of a driver’s room with your dad’s arm around his shoulder, whispering the same words of encouragement and comfort that he gave you whenever you failed at something and would bawl your eyes out when you were younger. And sure it was heartbreaking to see Charles so beaten down by the hand of his own team, sure you were extremely mad at the strategists, but to see your dad and your boyfriend like that? It was just too much for your heart to handle. 

You used the pass once again in France, because it was close enough to Monaco and because you wanted to have some fun in the sun. You hadn’t been expecting to have to hold a crying Charles in your arms, trying his best to make no noise in his despair and frustration, but enjoying the feeling of your fingertips on his skull. You two took the first jet to Nice, then the helicopter to Monaco, and decided you wouldn’t speak about France 22 anymore. Which was a shame, because the atmosphere up until that dreadful yell had been really, really nice. 

At some point you wondered if the fact that you were coming to the races was more prejudicial than not, but Charles assured he wouldn’t be able to face it all without you, so you stayed at his side, as much as you could. 

You spent more time in Monaco in that first half of the year than you thought you would and he spent more time in London than he probably should have, but as the summer break rolled down on you, you realised that you wouldn’t have had it any other way. 

You finally had found your person and it felt exactly like it should. Family and friends had always told you that when you’d find the right guy, it would all feel easy and soft, and with Charles, it was as easy as breathing, and as soft as it could be. And despite the heartbreaks, despite the longing, despite the sad goodbyes and the lonely nights, you still felt like every second spent next to him was worth it, in the end. 

Charles was your own little ray of sunshine, your little space of comfort, your own taste at salvation. 

And you wouldn’t let him go, for anything in the world.

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[seasidepierre]

Thank you! And it’s okay take your time,

I was thinking something with Pierre , like reader tripping on air and bruising her knees. Pierre laughing but taking care of the reader, putting hello kitty or marvel bandaids and kissing it better, then just taking care of her (wrapping her in a blanket and eating ice cream, something like that). Just pure fluff. I hope it’s okay, Thank you!

The gasp that left Pierre’s lips could have been tainted by so many different shades. It could have been a steamy one, because your mouth was leaving sweet kisses on his abdomen. It could have been because your fingertips were cold against his skin. It could have been because you slipped a little and ended up sideways on the couch, your head banging against his stomach. But it was because his hand had found your hip and it wasn’t the colour it was supposed to be.

“What the hell have you done?” Pierre muttered, dragging the hem of your shirt higher on your side so he could examine the disaster.

You hissed a little when his fingers lightly grazed the bruise and scrape on your skin, the whole ordeal still sore from the angle of the desk he had bought specifically for you in his Milan apartment, that same desk that you slammed into about four hours ago when you’d get up from an intense work session with the biggest craving of all times and had miscalculated the distances between the desk, the door, your chair and pretty much everything in between.

“I didn’t take the apex between the desk and the door,” You grimaced but still amused by the situation. “This isn’t funny, Babe, you’re purple!” “Call me Tinky Winky, then,” You rolled your eyes. “No, I’m not calling you after a Teletubbie, I���m getting you some ice, Jesus Christ,” Pierre grumbled while getting off the couch to go rummage his freezer. “I promise you, Pierre, I’m okay,” You sighed. “Come back to the couch, I was having fun,” You whined. “Get your cute butt to the kitchen so I can assess the damages you’ve done to my girl,” He called after you.

And maybe he should have known. After all, he’d known you for pretty much his entire life. He should have known that his favourite girl was struggling with motor skills and that she’d find a way to hurt herself over freaking nothing. After all, he watched you bump your head into numerous table corners while sitting back up after dropping something, he saw you unable to pass a door without hitting the frame, he saw you getting bumps on your head from kitchen cabinets, he watched your knees turning purple, then blue, then green, then yellow.. He even had to bring you to a pharmacy once after you walked straight into a stop sign pole and had started seeing stars.

So watching you tripping over the sneaker you had left lingering on the floor right by the kitchen door shouldn’t have been such a surprise, but still, another yell came out of his throat, as he saw you fall almost in slow motion.

“Oh my God, Baby, are you alright?” He immediately came to the ground to check on you. “Yeah, yeah, wasn’t looking where I was going,” You grumbled. “I really need you to start paying attention to your surroundings,” He breathed out, helping you get up. “Ouch! Wait, wait, wait, wait,” You hissed. “I think I really hurt my knee, Pierre,” You choked on your words. “Let me check,” He bent down to take a look. “You scraped it pretty badly,” He sighed. “I guess I’ll get the first aid kit from the bathroom, then, patch you up again.”

What he did though, was get you to sit on the kitchen island before he left, the ice pack now left unattended. You took it between your fingers, wincing at the coldness of it but softly applied it on your hip, grimacing and out of breath.

“Okay, let’s go, my queen,” He came back to the kitchen, a small box underneath the arm. “Let’s clean that up.”

With infinite patience and delicate fingers, he sprayed some disinfectant on the scrape and wiped it with a cotton pad, doing his absolute best not to apply pressure. With time, though, he had learned to buy the right disinfectant solution, the one that didn’t sting, because having to restrain you from wriggling in every direction was never ideal, nor fun. It literally broke his heart so many times already, having to watch you hiss and wince and grimace, or literally cry out of pain, that he never wanted to see that ever again.

“I got Hello Kitty or Marvel,” He sighed, brandishing two boxes of bandaids. “Why the fuck do you have Hello Kitty bandaids?” You scoffed. “Don’t ask too many questions, Babe.” “No but seriously?” “My nieces and nephews came to visit a while ago, I had to prepare myself.” “That’s cute,” You smiled. “I’ll take a Captain America one, then. Oh! Do you have Spider-Man?” You exclaimed. “Your love for those two is starting to worry me, you know that?” He lamented. “You’re just jealous because Chris Evans has bigger biceps than you,” You stuck your tongue out.

Without any more word, Pierre applied the Spider-Man bandaid on your knee, making sure it was sticking on your skin correctly. Then he bent down and did what he had done every time he had had to patch you up like that. He rubbed your knee with his warm palm and dropped a kiss on the bandaid, in a desperate attempt to make it better.

“Bisou magique,” He murmured. “I think my lips hurt too,” You whispered back. “Don’t push it, my love. You had me worried too much for today, already. Come on, back to the couch we go, we’re gonna cuddle and watch Captain America.” “I thought I loved him too much for you?” You teased. “I need to study so I can ask Pyry for a specific type of training,” He rolled his eyes up. “Can I have ice cream?” “Of course you can, you know I always have some for you. Which one?” “Do you still have the strawberry tub?” “I got a new one just for you,” He grabbed it from the freezer then managed to wrap you in his arms too so he could lift you up. “You know I can still walk, right?” “I’m not taking any chances. No more sores for tonight. I’m gonna wrap you in the fluffy blanket like a little burrito and tomorrow, I’ll buy bubble wrap.” “Did I tell you that you’re the most infuriating guy I’ve ever met?” “Don’t care.” “Ugh. You’re lucky you’re cute.” “Yeah, well, so are you.” “Yeah, well, I love you,” You mimicked him.

Pierre’s little scoff was enough to warm your heart back up.

You would never admit it, but in your fall, you were pretty sure you also smashed your elbow on the floor tiles.

That would be the problem of tomorrow Pierre, you guessed.

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[seasidepierre]

Drabble prompt: Wearing red lipstick to leave smooches on Pierre, while being champagne drunk

As soon as Pierre saw you getting out of your bedroom, he knew he was fucked. He had come back to your hometown after a couple of races, enjoying a rare weekend off in this hell of a season and you two had accepted an invitation from your friends to go clubbing. He knew Rouen’s clubs weren’t the best, if he could, he’d take everyone to Paris and make sure everyone had a good time, but it was the middle of the week and apart from him, everyone had to go to work the morning after, so the town’s clubs would have to do.

Pierre had been adamant that you needed to wear those heels that he got you for a birthday a while ago. The black Louboutins, with the golden point, golden stilettos heels and open back, that he saw in the shop and imagined you in, falling in love with the idea of you wearing them and finally being eye level with you which had been enough for him to slap his credit card on the counter, stating a bold “I’m gonna need those in a 38, please” which made the sales lady grin a little because the amount of times she’d had to watch husbands, boyfriends, fathers or anyone call the girl in question to know the size of her shoes was just astonishing. But Pierre knew all your sizes and tastes, therefore, it's always been easy to shop for you. You’d come to the conclusion a few months ago that Pierre’s love language, apart from a blatant touch crave, was gifts giving and while sometimes you found it a bit strange to own high end pieces that didn’t really match with your day to day life, you were extremely grateful that he kept showering you in the most lavish objects that you wouldn’t even dream getting for yourself because your finances couldn’t keep suit. Money had never really been a taboo for you and Pierre and though you’d rather him not splurge on everything he saw, just for you, he knew your miserably small paycheck at the end of the month was already eaten up by your rent and bills. He stated that gifts would be his way to pay a tiny bit of your rent, since a good chunk of his stuff was now living in your flat.

You had decided to pair the said shoes with a little black dress, fitted to your curves and hitting the middle of your thighs. Nothing really fancy, but the small triangle of skin on your back was enough to have him grin when you closed the door of your bedroom, until he saw your dark red lips and gulped pretty loudly.

“Am I looking okay?” You enquired.

“Okay is not the word I would use, my queen,” Pierre swallowed. “You’re stunning.”

“Stop lying,” You giggled.

“You know I never lie to you, though.”

Emboldened by Pierre’s gawking and compliments, you grinned at him and grabbed your purse, ready to party and let loose for a few hours. Your weeks had been bleak without Pierre and having him back in your little flat was enough to feel like the sun was coming back to Rouen, even though the gloomy days were stretching to no end in the Norman city. Everything felt better with Pierre home and you couldn’t deny the fact that your chest wasn’t tight anymore, like it had been until a few days ago, when the door slid open in the middle of the night and Pierre slipped into your bed, even though you were asleep. The small whine you had let out before curling on his chest had been enough to make him sigh and engulf you in his arms, ready to forget about racing for a couple of days, even though Pyry was most likely going to come back to his mind with a few text stating his training schedule and programmes.

The car ride had been pretty silent, though Pierre’s hands couldn’t stop fidgeting on top of his wheel. There was no way he would have walked to the club with you, mainly because the club wasn’t in the safest part of the city but also because your heels would kill your feet by the time you’d arrive at your destination. You were also pretty sure some of your friends would be completely hammered and he would rather drive everybody home if needed than have them drunk in the middle of Rouen, trying to remember where the heck they even lived.

It took five entire minutes of him picking at the skin around his nail for you to slide your hand on top of his right and slip it on top of your thigh. The small sigh of relief that escaped his mouth would have been enough for you to be damn proud of yourself but the smirk you could see creeping on his lips was the best reward for it.

“Soft,” He only commented.

You let a small laugh echo through the car, knowing you’d been moisturising your entire body for weeks now and it was about damn time he’d realise it. Feeling content with yourself, you slid down a little in your seat, finding the perfect resting position for the small car ride and enjoying the fact that Pierre’s hand had ridden just a tiny bit higher on your thigh. You played with his wrist absentmindedly and drew a couple of arabesques on the back of his hand before you checked your lipstick in the mirror, finding, with relief, that it looked like your new acquisition stuck on your lips perfectly fine.

The club was packed but Pierre managed to get access to a VIP booth, that surely hadn’t seen very famous behinds yet. Your friends settled on the couches while Pierre ordered a magnum bottle of champagne and a fruity cocktail for you, because he knew how much you liked your rum. You grinned at him and sat for a while next to him, his forearm resting on top of your knees and his hand hooked behind one of them, marking his belonging and his pride of having such a good looking girl on his side. But the music soon was too enticing to resist and you squeezed his hand once, letting him know you’d be going on the dancefloor, before some of your friends followed suit, including a couple of guys which reassured him a little. He wasn’t in the mood to dance yet, but watching you sway your hips and laugh with your friends from the couch was already plenty of fun.

And those red lips, that kept stretching into the sweetest smiles to your friends, were going to be the best part of the night. Pierre already knew that when his head would touch the pillow next to yours and his eyelids would close, he would still see that dark red that would haunt him for a while. He wasn’t strong on his liking of red, but this particular one was soon going to become his favourite colour if you kept wearing it, for sure. Of course he had already seen you with lipstick, even a classic red one, for a wedding. But this dark red?

This dark red called for sins and he knew it.

Which truly did explain why, after you turned back on your heels and sipped on your straw, then looked at him with the naughtiest smile, he couldn’t have helped himself and got up to join you on the dancefloor, his hands immediately finding your hips like magnets on a fridge.

“I thought you’d never join,” You commented, throwing your arms above his head to knot them behind his neck.

“You knew exactly what you were doing, you little minx,” Pierre smiled.

“Maybe, but I couldn’t know how fast you’d arrive,” You grinned.

“Liar,” Pierre sighed, his face slotting into the crook of your neck, his lips leaving open-mouthed kisses on the side of your throat. “You have me wrapped around your little finger and you love it.”

You nodded once, twice, three times, a smirk hung on your drunken features but your mind just clear enough to know that you had won and you could gloat about it. You sure could feel the champagne (that Pierre had insisted you’d take a flute of after your cocktail) clouding your judgement and making the rest of your senses cottony, but you weren’t drunk to the point that you couldn’t feel pride at the speed of which Pierre had come to you on that dancefloor. You did know Pierre was a sucker for you and that absolutely blew your mind, every time you had proof of it, but the fact that he was now dancing with you after you only had to bat your eyelashes his way? Absolute bonkers. You loved that you had that effect on him. You loved that you could hear the little rasp in his breathing when your hips grazed his abdomen and when your lips barely brushed the skin of his jaw, leaving the faintest trace of red on his skin. 

To say that Pierre looked amazing wouldn’t be a lie, but truth be told, you weren’t sure you’d seen him look anything but great. Even when you had to watch over him during a friends getaway, when he had come down with some kind of cold, you had been in awe of him. Pierre always casted some kind of aura that he was somewhat able to control. When he was happy, the golden hue of his skin was unmissable. 

Tonight, though, he reeked of attraction and horniness and you were there for it. If it wasn’t for his hands finding the hem of your little black dress, his eyes constantly falling in the depths of your cleavage before finding your red-painted lips would be enough for you to know how the night was going to end. And if your friends were politely looking elsewhere when you started grinding on him, your back to his chest and his arms clad around your middle, you knew you wouldn’t be able to stop yourselves if you kept going. 

“Take me back home, Gas,” You muttered in his ear, a faint red streak on the top of his ear shell. 

“Understood, my queen.”

You loved that Pierre treated you like royalty, especially in the heat of the moment. He wouldn’t call you “queen” every day, this deserved a special occasion, one that usually involved a very horny driver. Not that you were materialistic, nor did you want to be the one in charge, but the reverence he put in it was enough to drive you mad. You felt like you were the most important person in his world when he called you like that and like you were invincible. You told him that one night, your phone rested on the pillow he used when he was in your bed, but he was laying thousands of kilometres away, in a hotel bed. You told him that this nickname made you feel powerful. That it made you feel loved way beyond measure. His only reaction had been “That’s exactly what I intend for, my queen” and you had ended up moaning his name on the phone, his breathing erratic on the other side of the line. 

The car ride back home had been quiet, even though his hand had found itself way higher on your thigh than on the way to the club. Your lips, though, had peppered kiss stains on his jaw, while your hand had been scratching his beard softly. 

As soon as the door of your flat closed behind your back, your dress was on the floor. 

Lying on the bed, your head loved against his chest, you admired your work of art. Red splotches on his skin, from his cheekbones to his belly button, passing by his throat, were tracing the road your mouth had taken on his body, enjoying the taste of his skin and the smell of his perfume that drove you wild. You grinned at your handiwork, happy with the end result. 

“You look happy, my queen,” Pierre smiled, playing with a strand of hair.

“You should look at yourself in the mirror,” You retorted.

“Do I look happy too?”

“You do, but please, go and have a look.”

Standing gloriously naked in the middle of your bedroom, you admired Pierre counting the red lips drawn on his body. He looked like a Greek God, muscles jutting out from every limb of his. The endless hours of training had changed your lanky best friend into the most  delicious of lovers, though you were still fond of the particular muscle that carved his ass cheeks just enough to make you want to bite them. You watched him discover the stains like small treasures, smiling at every one of them, fingertips tracing the lines were enough to want you to add some colour to his chest again. He looked so proud, it should have been a crime, but most of all, he looked yours and that made your heart swell even more. 

“You did an excellent job,” Pierre smiled, his voice so low you wondered for a second if you’d dreamed it.

“I’m quite proud of my work.”

“You missed a spot, though,” Pierre turned back to you before leaning on the mattress, his whole weight on his arms.

“Did I?” You grinned.

“Just here,” Pierre tapped his lips with an index. “It looks quite pale compared to the rest.”

You laughed for a second before leaning to him but he stopped you before you could kiss him like he wanted to. He turned back to your little vanity desk and grabbed your lipstick before presenting it to you. With a newfound admiration, he watched you reapply the dark red colour to your lips and waited barely long enough for it to dry, before he jumped at the occasion to finally kiss you, groaning in your mouth. 

“Want some more elsewhere?” You teased.

“I’ve got a couple of ideas, yeah,” He grinned. 

Needless to say, Pierre ordered you a stock of that lipstick on the following morning.

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[seasidepierre]

i sent in the max drabble idea about the cooking but it would absolutely also work for pierre! i actually meant to add that in my original ask :)

It had taken a grand total of five gurgling stomach noises, six “Ugh, I’m hungry” and about a thousand sighs for Pierre to understand that you, in fact, were famished. Not that your boyfriend was usually this ignorant when it came to your state (he actually never was, he was pretty perceptive in normal times and mindful to have you happy, fed and content) but he had been playing Warzone for what felt like forever and despite your constant signs throwing at him that you wanted him to put that damn controller down, he had been somewhat yelling into his headset for Charles to actually “do something, God dammit!”. 

Needless to say, you had heard Charles’ yells in your little living room more than the soft music you had been playing in hopes it’d drown the yelling, the gunshots and the helicopter blades whirring. You didn’t even comprehend where the fun was in throwing yourself in a game of war like those two kept doing. You had gladly accepted Pierre moved his console from his parents’ to your place because you didn’t want to prevent him from playing and having fun and you also weren’t against video games yourself, but you hadn’t expected it to turn your flat into a scene of battle. 

“Are you okay?” Pierre had finally asked after the uptenth sigh you had heaved. 

“I’m hungry,” You had moaned back.

“Well eat something,” Pierre had giggled.

“Pierre, it’s almost 10pm, I’ve been waiting for you for dinner,” You had explained.

“IT’S TEN PM?” Charles had yelled back.

“Hi Charles, yes, it’s past ten, even,” You had responded.

“Oh shoot, my girlfriend has been waiting for me too,” Charles had explained. “I think it’s time to call it quits, mate.”

“Tell her I said hi,” Pierre smiled fondly. “We’ll get back to this tomorrow?”

“Sure, if we’re both free and our poor girls aren’t too mad.”

“I’m never mad, Charles, I’m happy you guys are having fun, I’m just hungry.”

“She’s the best,” Pierre giggled. “See you soon mate,” He added, before turning the console off. “I’m sorry I lost track of time, do you want me to cook to make myself forgiven?” He smiled, his hands coming down on your thighs to drape your legs over his. 

“What do you have in mind?”

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Kinda am craving pasta right now.”

“How about fresh bolognese? And I’ll make my famous chocolate cake for dessert?”

“You would?” You lit up like a Christmas tree.

“I know how much you love it.”

“That chocolate cake is the best thing I’ve ever had,” You whined, closing your eyes and falling into his chest. “Don’t joke about that chocolate cake.”

“Do I ever lie to you?”

He never was. Of all the boyfriends you’ve had (not that you’d had that many), Pierre was the most honest, upfront guy you’ve ever got to date. It probably was because you were best friends before you ever became more, but he had no issue telling you the truth as it was, just like you didn’t wear gloves when the time of hard truths came. You would call him out on his ego sometimes and he would be blatantly honest when you’d be wearing a questionable outfit. It was never mean or rude, it was looking out for the best for each other and you loved that. 

Pierre took your hand and dragged your body back up. He pushed you to the kitchen and sat you on the counter next to where he was currently setting up everything he needed. He grabbed a carrot, an onion, the ground beef, a can of tomato pulp, salt, pepper, butter and everything else he needed before he opened a couple of cabinets to fetch a couple of pans, one for the sauce, one for the pasta. 

“So what are we gonna do first?” You asked.

“You always start with the sauce, because it takes a bit more time to cook,” He explained.

“You seemed to know a lot about this,” You teased him.

He smiled at the onion he was currently chopping, his eyes barely even watering which was a miracle but it seemed to be down to the fact that he had run his knife under water beforehand, something you didn’t even know. 

“When I moved to Italy, I was so completely lost at the beginning. Like, obviously you find the same type of products than here, but they do things differently and it was the first time I was really on my own and responsible for my meals.. So I took a few cooking classes with one of my neighbours. She was very helpful.”

“Oh you found yourself a nice lady in Italy, then?” You semi-joked, a bit of jealousy appearing in the pits of your stomach. 

“She was seventy and couldn’t stop gushing about her grandkids,” Pierre laughed. “You have nothing to worry about, mon amour.”

You felt so dumb that all you could do was lean your forehead on his shoulder and looked at what he was doing. Pierre started by putting the oil, butter and chopped onion in the pan that he had previously placed on the stove. He told you that you should always stick to the medium heat, because the higher one just had a tendency to burn everything, which made you smile because you had no idea Pierre knew this much about cooking. He left you in charge of the stirring while he was making sure the ground beef was correctly salted and peppered, before he crumbled it with a fork that he had fished in a drawer.

The fact that he knew exactly where to find everything was still making your heart swell, even though he had been somewhat living with you for almost six months now. 

He added the beef, told you to keep an eye open and to let him know when the meat wouldn’t be red anymore. After that, he did something you hadn’t expected and added milk to the preparation, which made you frown but he laughed, telling you that it was a secret he had learned from his neighbour and to trust him. So you did, especially when he uncorked a bottle of white wine, poured a quarter of it in your pan and grabbed two glasses for you to sip on while he took back the reins, or, more accurately, the wooden spoon. You did pour the tomato pulp, because he let you do it while he was filling the pot with water to cook the spaghetti and got another bowl to start on the chocolate cake while you were supervising the bolognese. 

The kitchen smelled deliciously good and the rumbling in your stomach truly kept getting louder and louder, only tamed by the sips of white wine you were getting and with the hand of Pierre rubbing gently your belly from behind you, before dropping a kiss on the crook of your shoulder. 

“It’s almost ready, I swear,” Pierre reassured you. “The cake will bake while we eat, it’ll still be warm for dessert, which I know is your favourite way of having it.”

“Do we have custard to go with it?” You enquired.

“I grabbed a brick at the grocery store. I knew you would ask for that cake and I knew you’d ask for custard with it,” Pierre tenderly confirmed.

“You know me so well,” You kissed him, lovingly.

“After all these years? I sure hope so. I’ve known you since we were five, mon amour!”

“And? You could have not paid attention,” You shrugged.

“Me? Not paying attention to you? That would have been worrying,” He scoffed. “I still remember that your favourite pen in primary school was a pink one with a little cat at the top of it.”

You giggled at his confession, still admirative that you weren’t the only one collecting details about him that you had carefully tucked in a corner of your memory. You knew everything there was to know about Pierre and he knew everything there was to know about you. You were each other’s guardian of everything that made yourselves you. 

“It’s funny how vocal you were and how you taught me to make that bolognese, but not the chocolate cake,” You remarked.

“That’s because one, the bolognese isn’t rightly made, it should stew for like three hours but you’re hungry so we’re doing a crash version of it, and two, I’m afraid you love that cake more than me, so it I teach you how to make it, I’ll be useless,” Pierre joked.

“You’re an idiot,” You giggled.

“Maybe, but I’m your idiot, so it’s your problem, really,” He shrugged, amused.

He was. He was your idiot and that truly made you so happy, it was ridiculous. You couldn’t remember the last time you thought you truly belonged to someone, someone that wasn’t Pierre already because he was your best friend and you were his and that’s what mattered the most. But to know that you could leave your heart into his hands, appreciating the fact that you didn’t have to fear anything because he would protect it fiercely? That was more than words could describe. 

Dating Pierre wasn’t easy every day. When it wasn’t the loneliness, the tears at every goodbye or the frustration that sometimes made him hurtful without realising, your insecurities kept telling you that you always were on the verge of being replaced by someone who would be thinner, prettier, more available, someone who would let him in charge and would accept to be dependent on him, so he’d never be alone. 

But when it came to the solar boy in your kitchen, baking your favourite cake just because he wanted to make you happy, you knew you were safe and cherished for years to come.

Or maybe even for infinity.

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Support a writer, reblog their works!

Tell me what you liked the most about this!

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[seasidepierre]

The road to 1K..

Guys, we did it..

A year and a half ago, I posted my very first blog post on a blog that was called Seaside Tom. I posted a few Tom Holland fics and then I posted a fic about Charles..

And that’s when things became interesting.

I have been writing and posting what I write on the Internet, for the last ten years. There has been long fics, there has been drabbles. There has been terrible pieces and pieces that I still absolutely love to re-read. 

But most of all..

There’s been you.

You made Seaside Tom explode. Then you embraced Seaside Pierre, a couple of weeks ago, like nothing was changing.

I can’t thank you enough for the outpour of love you’ve constantly sent my way. I’m so emotional tonight, seeing that bright 1.000 in front of my followers count. I’ve met some incredible people on here so far, some people that I’ve since then called friends.  

This is all thanks to you. 

I hope our journey will continue for a long, long time.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart 🤍

With all my love,

Seaside Pierre Xx

PS: Stay connected, the first drabble of our drabbles celebration is coming up very, very soon! (like in less than a hour hehe)

[seasidepierre]

can i request a drabble of the sunkissed couple but like charles’ pov of their first meeting?

It took me a while to answer this one but I hope you've liked the bonus part either way! 🤍

[parkerbunny]

LOOK AT MY BEAUTIFUL FRIEND!

I’ve made such a lovely friendship with you through your amazing talent of writing! I will forever feel like i bug you into a conversation no matter how many times we talk as i am not worthy of such an amazingly talented friend!

I cannot stress enough how talented you are at writing. I would embarrass myself if i told you how many times i have read Sunkissed (as a charles girl it ticks my box)! but also, every single thing you have posted on your blog and i will forever feel honoured when you ask me to put even the smallest amount of input into your writings.

Not only your writing, but your Girls Off Track group! i cannot thank you enough for that either, as it’s such a lovely place to go and be free to chat about all things f1 with other amazing girlies

So, i just wanted to say that you deserve every single follow, reblog, like and comment because you are unbelievably talented 💗😘🐰

The road to 1K..

Guys, we did it..

A year and a half ago, I posted my very first blog post on a blog that was called Seaside Tom. I posted a few Tom Holland fics and then I posted a fic about Charles..

And that’s when things became interesting.

I have been writing and posting what I write on the Internet, for the last ten years. There has been long fics, there has been drabbles. There has been terrible pieces and pieces that I still absolutely love to re-read. 

But most of all..

There’s been you.

You made Seaside Tom explode. Then you embraced Seaside Pierre, a couple of weeks ago, like nothing was changing.

I can’t thank you enough for the outpour of love you’ve constantly sent my way. I’m so emotional tonight, seeing that bright 1.000 in front of my followers count. I’ve met some incredible people on here so far, some people that I’ve since then called friends.  

This is all thanks to you. 

I hope our journey will continue for a long, long time.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart 🤍

With all my love,

Seaside Pierre Xx

PS: Stay connected, the first drabble of our drabbles celebration is coming up very, very soon! (like in less than a hour hehe)