#there are definitely typos.

[shark-farm]

wieder zuhause.

ich kehre wider nach hause zurück. das ist das beste, diese süße zeit wo dir alles was dir gefehlt hat auffällt. der winter ist vor mit hier eingekehrt, den herbst habe ich verpasst und mit der kälte zieht berlin sich ganz eng und steif zusammen. als ich am morgen das hause verlasse, knistert das streusalz unter meinen stiefeln und ich fliege auf der brücke wie immer wenn es schneit erstmal fast auf den hintern. aber so habe ich es gern. auf der spree bildet sich eine dünne eisschicht, und ich kriege schon wieder blasen an den füßen. ein hund schüttelt sich hinter mir und das klingeln weckt in mir dir wonne. ganz sorgenfrei schlendere ich mit der tiefen sonne durch die straßen. in der sbahn stinkt's, trotzdem atme ich tief ein und aus. ich will mich an alles erinnen können. im buchladen sehen meine freunde von hinter einer seule im partnerlook fast aus wie ein liebespaar, das nebeneinander durch die politische literatur stöbert. ich auge diese augenblicke wie ein durstiger schwamm in mich auf, und das hörsüiel des alltags summt in meinen ohren; das sanfte zuklappen eines buches, das flüstern der cremigen seiten eines romans, die gedeckte stimme einer verkäuferin. in meinem kopf kommt alles zusammen wie eine sinfonie, und ich drücke die augen ganz fest zu, damit ich mir jedes detail einprägen kann.

die große vegetarische platte die wir uns beim dem libanesen auf der sonnenallee bestellen ist das bunteste, schönste und üppigstes festmal was ich je vor mir hatte. säure, süße und salziges tanzen auf meiner zunge einen walzer. und schon wieder schwellt mein herz vor glück an. der überzuckerte, heiße schwarztee macht mir wach und aufmerksam, und ich lausche wieder: die nicht entzifferbare ansage, das zischen aus der küche, das arabische gespräch aus der ecke welches ich nicht verstehe, ja selbst das schmatzen von meinen gegenübern was mich normalerweise verrückt machen würde. jedem geräusch schenke ich abwechselnd mein ohr, als ob ich durch dir radiosender stöbere. es kommt mir so irreal vor. das es diesen ort noch gibt, das ich ihn nach meiner langen abwesenheit noch anfassen, riechen und hören kann.

[yamujiburo]

i can't believe i never posted this here

[iheartmonaco]

HI CAN YOU PLEASE WRITE A FULL FIC ON THE VERSTAPPEN GOOD BOY TEXTS PLEASEEE

Good Boy

MV1 X GN!reader

Summary: max verstappen with a praise kink that's it that's the fic

Warnings: suggestive

Inspired by these texts

It started as a joke, really, when you said "you're such a good boy" to Max for the first time.

What shocked you was his reaction to it— the Dutchman, blunt as ever, replied, "I want to hear that in your actual voice, not through texts."

So here you were, with Max's head in your lap, petting him like he does to the cats. A soft sigh left his half-open mouth. You couldn't help but think of it as the perfect opportunity to try out what could be an amazing new addition to your sex lives.

As Max was coming close to the end of his ramble about the day's race, you ran your fingers through his hair and spoke softly, "You did so good today, baby. I'm so proud of you."

It was barely the starting, just typical praise you would always give him after a race, but his reaction was always so adorable you couldn't help but melt. Featherlight pink dusted his cheeks. "Mhm," he replied, lips pressed together in a small smile.

"Such a good boy, always making me so proud."

Heat rushed to his cheeks, cherry red now, as he struggled to keep a straight face. "Thank you, schatje."

You resumed patting his head, cooing softly, "You like that, baby? Like when I call you a good boy?"

Max was looking up at you with sultry eyes and his pupils blown wide. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Then why don't you get on your knees and give me a good reason to call you that, hm?" Max moved instantly, on his knees in front of you in what seemed to be 2 seconds at most. "You know what to do, right, pretty boy?"

He nodded, lips parted as his chest heaved for oxygen. He looked a little dizzy, pupils blown out and blushing down to his chest, and you were loving the effect the simple words had on him.

"Words, baby."

He swallowed dryly, his breath on your thigh. "Yes, schatje, please. Let me please you."

You decided to tease him a while longer, cupping his chin with one hand. "And why should Iet you do that, baby?"

His fingers toyed with the waistband of your sweatpants. "Because I wan— I wanna be a good boy. For you."

You lifted you hips, letting him take your pants off. "Oh, you already are, Max...

"you're such a good boy."

[on-a-lucky-tide]

Simon's body matures into its prime. There's only one mate he wants. #GhostPriceWeek.

Day One: Confession/Kneel.

cw: omegaverse, penetrative sex, dubcon by nature of Price's sex negative attitude, gentle sex, bonding. ( @gomzdrawfr )

Simon wasn't sure what had changed or why, but he knew he was looking at Price differently these days and he couldn't ignore it for much fuckin’ longer. It was driving him even more insane than he already was.

Price had been helping him–them, all of ‘em–through ruts for the last few years. When it had just been the two of them, Simon would spend the few days leave in Price's Hereford flat exhausting himself between Price's legs and then they would return to normal once the cycle had passed. It had been hard at first, trusting someone, but like in everything, Price had his back. He had only ever treated Simon with dignity and respect.

When the other two joined, Simon didn't bat an eyelid. It made sense. Price was logical like that; easier for them to fuck him and get it over with in a few days, than long it out over a week and risk them snooping around the local villages, potentially ending up with a pup brewing and an angry farmer at the barrack gates with a shotgun. Johnny had priors with it too. Simon had seen the indiscretions on his record, and Gaz was so painfully good-looking that Simon wouldn't be surprised if there were already a few Garrick pups knocking about North London. 

The arrangement bloody worked. Everyone seemed satisfied. So why had Simon started… yearning?

The word had appeared when he'd googled his symptoms one day in a coffee shop. He'd headed off base to do it because all the search histories passed over Price's desk at some point, with questionable or worrying shit highlighted by the IT team for review, and he really didn't need that conversation. “Why are your guts aching, Simon? Do you need medical?” Price would ask, that stern line between his brows, lips pressed down in a deep frown. 

No, sir, my intestines seem to twist themselves in knots every time I see you shirtless at the moment and I can't stop thinkin' about how much I want to shove my tongue down yer throat, now about that requisition form… 

But it wouldn't be like that. Simon would stand there in dumb silence trying to find the words to explain that being around Price at the moment made him ache in ways he had never experienced before. That when he was alone in his own flat a short bus ride away from base, he thought of their time together with a hand around his knot and his knuckles between his teeth. He thought about how good the indomitable John Price would look in the throes of heat, completely vulnerable.

He must have been acting differently, because Price had become more distant. Detached, almost. He was shorter, sharper, than Simon had ever known him to be, even when his temper occasionally flared in the face of red tape and stupidity. Simon needed to get this, whatever this was, under control.

Sitting in that café with his black coffee and Bakewell tart, Simon had learned that an alpha of his age was reaching full maturity and his body was ready to find a permanent mate. By mid-thirties, an alpha’s strength and esteem within a pack was fully established, or it would be if the world still worked like it did a few thousand years ago. If they were still in loincloths, Simon would have battered his fair share of pack alphas and worked his way to the top by now. An omega would select him as worthy and choose him to father their pups. His body was just doing what it had done throughout millennia. Preparing.

In all honesty, his sex ed’ had been woefully lacking. Partly because the mixed comprehensive he had attended had been in special measures and the PSHE lessons had been all out brawls at some points, but also because his attendance had dropped below fifty percent fairly regularly throughout his compulsory education. ‘Very intelligent and capable, but limited by his frequent absences,’ had been his school report a few months before he had scraped just enough GCSEs to fall into a trade apprenticeship, and then September eleventh had happened and his whole world outlook had changed.

The guidance on the website also told him that his scent would change. That he might experience more attention from fertile omegas, and notice their scents more, their bodies. There was a paragraph about consent that followed and Simon had winced at the implications of needing it. He had met enough knotheads in his time even outside his own deranged father, fuckin’ Roba, to know why it was there. While most omegas were dominant and fierce by nature, the modern world had flipped things. Sometimes it just wasn't that straight forward.

The notes said it would pass. By late forties, his hormones would ebb away to normal levels again and by then he'd either be mated or, in his case, probably dead. The odds weren’t exactly in his bloody favour with his current choice of career. They also said his attention would probably flit between options, from omega to omega, as his body sought to spread its genetics as far as possible.

Except it fucking didn't, did it?

There were other omegas on base. A gorgeous blonde in logistics with tits and arse for days, a strapping redheaded mechanic with strong thighs and a pretty smile, then there was the brunette in medical. But those are cursory observations. Simon saw them as attractive in the detached manner you looked at someone who was attractive in the traditional sense. Yeah, he could see it, but he didn't want it.

He wanted Price. His fockin’ captain.

Tart and coffee finished, Simon had headed back to base. He tried to exhaust himself in the gym, finished some paperwork, and eventually wandered to the mess hall for some dinner. It was just as he was tucking into a pile of mashed potatoes and gravy that his phone pinged. 

CJP: My office.

Simon chucked his tray onto the trolley and headed out. By the time he was knocking on Price's door, his heart was beating hard in anticipation. Of fuckin’ what, he had no idea. Clearly needed to watch less porn because the image his mind provided of Price spread out on his desk, presenting, was bloody unhelpful.

“Simon.” Price acknowledged him with a glance as he shut the door behind him. The room was warm, the old radiator beneath the window chucking out more heat than was strictly necessary this early in October. The lights were dim too, the brightness on Price's monitor turned down lower, and there was a subtle, sweet scent beneath the must of paper, furniture polish and old wallpaper that usually hung in the air. 

The primal part of Simon recognised it for what it was, and the rest of him caught up as he got a good look at Price; his cheeks flushed, his blue eyes bright. Pre-heat. Price was getting more sensitive to everything; light, the cold. The smell in here had to be bloody awful to his sensitive nose. Simon blinked slowly, taking a deep breath through the fabric of the mask just to taste more of that glorious promise. If he could lick it out of the air, he would.

“We've got a problem,” Price murmured, slumping back in his chair, his fingers wounded together over his belly.

Simon didn't need to ask. He knew. “S’not a problem, sir. I can keep it under control.”

Price looked down, his face twisting in a brief grimace as he considered the edge of his desk. “S’not just you, Simon. It's me as well.”

Simon blinked, shifting his weight. “Wot?”

“Yer think I can't smell ya? When ya left the gym few hours ago I was meetin’ with Saunders about some performance data. Could smell ya from the otherside of the corridor.”

“Weren’t that fockin’ bad…”

“T’ normal man, no.”

There was an edge in Price's voice. Simon knew his secondary sex was a sore spot. If Price could have chosen, he would have been born an alpha. He despised everything about what he viewed as his ‘condition’. No one else knew, of course. The captain played his personal life close to his chest. Most of the time people assumed he was an alpha and didn’t look any closer. He was six foot two, built like a soldier should be; there was no reason to assume otherwise.

Perfect in every way, Simon's mind offered unhelpfully. Followed by an intrusive thought about how strong and intelligent their pups would be. Fuckin’ ‘ell.

“Was’the plan?”

Because there was always a plan and Simon would follow Price into hellfire if he asked. 

“Thought about sending you away, reassigning you,” Price said, his gaze flicking up to level Simon with a pensive look. “Bu’ I couldn't. Need ya. 141 needs ya.” 

Simon realised he could breathe again. The mere idea that Price would send him away - to fuckin’ where? No reasonable officer would take him on - left him frozen, every muscle seizing like he'd been turned to stone. Need ya.

Not just the 141. But Price. Price needed him.

“Then wot? Wot we doin’ ‘ere?” Simon’s voice crackled, the words cloying in his throat.

That grimace was back. A pinched look of regret pulled Price’s lips back, his eyes squinting. He scrubbed a hand over his beard and breathed in a deep breath through his nose. “Gonna ask ya sommin’. Ya can say no. S’your right t’ say no. Ya’understand?”

Simon’s fingers clenched into his palms, and he dipped his chin in a barely perceptible nod. 

“This… whatever it is. Could put ‘em danger, Johnny, Gaz, any soldier we have with us. It's foggin’ our minds, distractin’ us. I can't afford that in the field,” Price spoke slowly, like he was trying to reason with himself as well as Simon. “Way I see it is we need t’ nip it in the bud. Best way to do that is give it what it needs. A bond.”

An errant gust of wind could have knocked Simon to the floor at that moment. Like a giant rotten oak tree barely clinging on in the soil. His mouth went dry, huffing in another deep lungful of Price's scent as his heart accelerated in his chest. 

“I know ‘m askin’ a lot of ya. More an’ I ever have. But what we do, the greater good we fight for, s’too important t’--”

“Yeah.”

“Wot?”

“Yeah, I'll do it. I wan’ it. Wan’ you.” The confession tripped out of Simon's mouth before he could stop it. He stepped up to the desk, his hands planting on the surface, which, in hindsight, had probably been a poor choice. He watched Price tense in his chair briefly, before he slowly rose to his feet, weathered palms planting opposite Simon's to level him with a stern look.

“That's the hormones talkin’. Ya need t’ think it through.”

“Naw, I don’t,” Simon said, studying the freckles on Price's face, the sun damage on his forehead, the wrinkles around bright blue eyes, strong jaw framed by his uneven beard. A face he linked with safety and certainty and leadership. “S'you, s’always been you.”

Price dropped his eyes away, his head hanging for a moment, the sigh that followed sounded dog tired. When he looked up, those blue eyes had hardened, the light dulled.. “Simon, ya committin’ to a bond. S’for life. And ya not gettin’ a sweet thing that’ll fawn over ya. I'm not gonna give ya a pup, no family of yer own, ‘m not gonna kneel for ya, not gonna walk barefoot round yer kitchen, do ya laundry. ‘m not some pretty arm piece, Simon. Few years of lookin’, ya might find yerself a proper mate.”

“Don't care ‘bout any of that. Never have.” 

“Because ya never gave yerself a chance,” Price growled, rubbing at his face again. “Take a day. Think about it. Fer…” he swallowed, “...fer me, if not for yerself.”

Simon could smell something new. It was bitter on the back of his tongue. Distress. He lifted one of his hands without thinking, reaching for Price's face, but the captain flinched back. It was an involuntary response and Simon hated himself for causing it. “Sorry,” he grunted, fingers curling into his palm. 

“S’fine, jus’...” Price stood up straight, adjusting his t-shirt, thumbs hooking in his belt. Recovering himself, “...go, fink it over, don't give me an answer ‘til tomorrow after work.” 

“Right.” Simon stepped back from the desk even though every instinct was screaming at him to protect Price from whatever was causing that smell. There was no immediate threat so he couldn't even fight something; his entire skill set rendered useless in the face of whatever battle was going on inside Price's head. “See you for mornin’ briefing, sir.”

Price nodded. Simon left.

He didn't sleep that night. He stared up into the gloomy grey above his bed, wholly fixated on the parting image of Price, his face pinched, his scent riddled with distress and misery. He didn't want this, did he? Didn't want Simon like Simon wanted him. But what was new? Simon was perpetually unwanted. It was the story of his life. 

This was the right thing though. For the 141 and, Simon knew, for him. A mate like Price was more than he could have ever aspired to in normal circumstances. He had resigned himself to dying unbonded, to never experiencing what it felt like to be one with another person, to hear their voice and feel peace, to smell their scent and feel joy, to taste their skin, hold them, and feel whole. 

He had given himself to Price in all but bond anyway. This was a natural next step, even if Price himself seemed conflicted. It was an imperfect solution, riddled with grey, the cracks in the facade papered over, but that was them through and through.

The following day went by slower than a slug crawling across a salt flat. Price was nowhere to be found, sequestered away in his office while he tried to tidy up urgent matters before his three days of booked leave. Simon ran courses with the new batch of rookies up for selection and sparred with Johnny in the gym. The opportunity to exercise his physicality was welcome. His body was strong, capable, the best part of him. The part of him that would serve Price loyally. 

After dinner, Simon headed back to Price's office and tapped the door. The voice from the other side sounded even more exhausted than it had the night before. “Simon,” Price said, not looking up from the form in front of him. “Got yer answer then?”

“Yeah,” Simon said, “it's a yes. I accept. I… wan’ to bond with ya.”

Price placed his pen down slowly and leaned back in his chair. There was sweat on his temples and Simon could smell him even stronger than the day before. Fuckin’ delicious. “Right,” Price said. “Simon, you, uh… you need to know my heat, it's uhm… I find it difficult. Never shared it with anyone before.”

Simon could see Price's discomfort. How much he hated exposing this vulnerability. He sniffed, scratched his chin, and finally looked up at Simon's masked face. Simon blinked slowly. “S’ok. We’ll take it at your pace. You headin’ off tonight?”

Price glanced at the duffel bag on the chair by the window and nodded. “Yeah. You, uh… we can wait ‘til next time if you were savin’ yer leave for somethin’ special.”

“Naw, I'm good. You alright to put it through so I can go shove some pants in a bag?”

Price huffed. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, not only approvin’ your leave requests but now I'm fillin’ ‘em in for you lazy bastards.” He tapped at his keyboard and jutted his chin at the door. “G'won. Leavin’ base at nine. Don't be late.”

Simon left Price to do his paperwork and headed back to his quarters. He grabbed some underwear, some clean t-shirts and a pair of flannel shorts, his headphones and the Asimov paperwork he was chewing through at the average pace of a single page every three days. Omegas needed to sleep at some point, right? 

The final hour for departure sped by and soon Simon was heading out into the base car park to find Price's old Land Rover chugging away on the tarmac. Price sat in the driver's seat, wrapped in his coat and scarf, beanie pulled low over his ears, breathing into his hands.

“All good?” Price asked as Simon climbed into the passenger seat.

“Yeah. You… uh, you ok to drive?”

Price’s jaw twitched and Simon regretted opening his stupid fucking mouth. “Yeah. Fine. Stupor will set in later. Once I'm…” his voice dropped, “nesting.” He said it like it was an embarrassing admission, not a natural part of his instincts and cycle. Simon didn't probe any further and sat in silence as Price pushed the Landie into first and pulled away. The drive into town was quiet. Price turned on the radio once they'd pulled off base and they listened to the latest chart on BBC Hereford & Worcester. 

Price had a little one bedroom flat in Leominster that he commuted from most days. Sometimes he kipped over in the barracks after a long shift and it wasn't unusual to find him asleep in the rec room if a briefing had over run and he was too tired to drive back. The 141 knew it well as they had spent their ruts there since they'd joined the task force. It was cozy, clean, with traces of their captain as a man rather than a legend. 

When Simon stepped through the front door, the Land Rover tucked up for the night in the carport, he drew in a deep breath and felt his eyes flutter. He shed his coat and kicked his boots off and watched with no small amount of affection as Price grabbed them immediately to stack next to his, before slipping into a pair of well trodden slippers. “Brew?” Price asked as they headed into the open plan living room.

“Yeah, gaspin’,” Simon said, placing his duffel down by the arm of the couch before slumping into the middle of it. The material was a well worn brushed cotton, with two tartan fleece blankets thrown over the back. Simon pulled his mask over his head and ruffled a hand through his flattened hair, before burying his newly naked face into the scent of Price soaked into the soft material. He could picture him here in the evenings, wrapped up and snoozing, probably snoring his bloody head off like he did on op. But relaxed, at home, nested.

“Yer like a fuckin’ bloodhound,” Price grumbled as he walked over, a steaming mug of tea clutched in each hand. 

“I ain't drinkin’ outta that Liverpool mug.”

“Ahh, wind yer neck in, it's mine.” Price dumped the other mug on the coffee table in front of Simon, and then fell into the armchair. Still keeping a slight distance. This was different from when they met to weather Simon's rut. Simon was the vulnerable one in that and he trusted Price implicitly, but now their roles were reversed, and Price wasn’t used to not holding the leash. 

Simon slurped a mouthful of tea - perfect brew, strong, two sugars - and glanced at the telly when Price switched it on. The ten o’clock news, a slew of reports about how the world was going to shit and the rich were benefiting from it. Simon was only half paying attention, maybe not even half, because from the corner of his eye he was observing Price. 

He was slumped low in the chair, his lips parted, his eyes misty. The scent rolling off of him was saccharin, deeply appealing, and Simon's fingers twitched against the warm ceramic of his mug. Price managed to finish his before his eyes slid closed, his breathing growing a little ragged as his fingers kneaded at the arms of his chair. “Captain?” Simon prompted, his mug landing softly on a coaster. 

“Yeah, I'm good…”

“D’ya need anythin’?”

Price swallowed, observing Simon from beneath low lashes. A grimace passed over his face, his thighs pushing together. “Gonna shower… there's scran in the fridge, help yasel’.” His accent thickened briefly as his mind struggled to find purchase, and Simon watched him head into the bedroom with a faint smile. He listened to Price move around his bedroom through the wall, and then the rush of water as he turned the shower on. 

How long did he wait? Did he coax? It was usually easier than this. Price led the way, tugging Simon's clothes off, praising him in that rough, no-nonsense way he had; stable, certain. This Price was different. He was distant, anxious, even. Simon waited until the stream of water was disrupted, sloshing against the glass and tiles, before he rolled to his feet.

Maybe it was a shitty thing to do, but he knew he needed to do something. Price was clearly struggling. Limping through the last few hours before his heat settled in and dreading every moment of it. Simon pulled his clothes off, folding them over the laundry basket near the bedroom door, before he walked into the bathroom. He found Price panting in the steam, his hands against the wall as the water streamed down his freckled back, head bowed low between his shoulders.

He wasn't quiet as he slid the glass shower door to the side and slipped into the cubicle, his palm sliding over Price's ribs to glide up his chest. Price startled with a snarl, twisting around to latch a hand around Simon's throat as the other snatched his wrist. “Easy,” Simon whispered, airways restricted as Price squeezed. “Lemme help. Not gonna hurt ya, John.”

Price's shoulders heaved, blue eyes bright and feverish. Simon leaned into the palm at his throat and realised Price’s arm gave. He was shaking. Simon slid a palm up the tiles and eased Price back against his forearm as he pushed further, closer, until his lips slotted to Price’s and his tongue swept into his mouth. Simon used his greater height and bulk to his advantage, enveloping Price in his arms and drawing him into the warmth of his body, hand sliding down his back to his arse to bring their hips together.

Price was skittish, he wanted the kiss but kept drawing back before licking forward again, like he was clinging onto the cliff edge by his fingernails. His hands scrambled over Simon's chest, pushing him, gripping him, uncertain how to respond to the alpha swamping him. Price wasn't small, not by any standard, but Simon had a little extra, enough to cradle him, make him feel safe. Where Price was athletic and lean in his height and strength, Simon was bulky. Lots for a hungry omega to sink his teeth into.

“Simon…” Price grunted, tensing up as Simon's mouth kissed down his throat to the slope of his neck where his gland sat beneath his skin. His nails bit into Simon's shoulders, lips peeling back in a low growl. “Don't… not… not ready, can't…”

“S’ok, I know,” Simon murmured. “Relax. Need ya t’ trust me. Not gonna hurt ya.”

“‘m… don't judge me, for…”

“Not gonna. None o’ this will make me think anythin’ less of you, sir. S’a gift.”

Price flinched. “S’a curse. I… I fuckin’ hate it.”

“I know,” Simon murmured, opening his mouth to suckle on Price’s neck as he caressed up and down his body. Every pass of his palms over flushed skin seemed to be easing the tension, gentling him into his heat. His touch only paused to grab the soap and shampoo, washing Price tenderly, encouraged by the way he arched and writhed beneath the smooth glide of skin on skin. Simon worshipped every scar, every mole, every dip and curve of muscle. Those ragged pants broke around soft whimpers and soon the steam was saturated with the scent of an aroused omega’s heat. 

When his fingers slipped over the full curve of Price’s arse to the crease of his thigh, Price’s foot shifted out, inviting Simon's caress between his legs. Simon gladly provided, fingertips stroking gently over slick folds, pressing a little firmer with each pass until he was teasing Price's hole, tight muscles fluttering at Simon's finger in eager anticipation. “Fuck… you're wet…”

“‘m.. in the shower..” Price rasped, sounding dazed, and Simon smiled against his neck. Tentative hands began to explore Simon’s body, following familiar paths around his full tits and down his stomach to the thick, hot length of his erection pressing into Price’s hips. Simon shifted his own until his shaft could slide between Price's thighs. Spread as they were, it was just a tease, the ridge of his crown drawing back and forth over Price's slit, glans catching across the swell of his own small cock and making him stutter. 

Simon moaned into Price’s neck, the scent, the heat, the feeling of Price's strong body yielding to him inch by inch, it was a heady mix that was teasing him higher into feverish excitement. But he couldn't knot Price here. The first one took a while to go down and he didn't fancy keeping six foot plus of omega pinned to cold tiles while they waited for the tie to end. 

Simon drew Price out of the water and wrapped him in the warm towel from the radiator. The bedroom was warm, the bed even warmer as Simon lowered Price into it, tugging the towel into the floor, and nudging his thighs apart as he leaned down for a kiss. Simon ground his cock through Price's folds, smearing slick and precum over flushed hot skin. Price arched, opening his hips and hitching his legs high up Simon's sides. 

Simon gathered one of Price’s hands and wound their fingers together, pressing them into the mattress above Price's head as he reached down to guide his cock. He held it steady as he thrust his tip into the tight clutch of Price's body, teasing back and forth. It was sweet, sweet torture.

“Simon, hnn, ahh… please…”

“Tell me ya wan’ this.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck… ahh, please…”

“Yer fuckin’ gorgeous, sir. Look at you.”

Simon kissed him, sucking his lips, his tongue, but drew back when he began to thrust in deeper. He wanted to watch Price’s face as he was taken for the first time. The way it relaxed in bewildered pleasure, blue eyes rolling; glistening, kiss-swollen lips parting as a low moan trembled from his chest. Simon bottomed out, his balls pressed to the underside of Price's arse, full and heavy in the heat. 

He had never wanted to knot and breed so much in his life. Not even in the chokehold of rut did the urge feel this strong. The scent of heat soaked his tongue, cloyed in his throat, and as Simon began to thrust deep into Price's body, the snug, warm grip of it sucking so eagerly on the thick girth of his prick, Price finally relaxed, his head tilting back as he panted and moaned. 

The sheets dampened beneath his arched back, Simon's hand slipping beneath him, encouraging the curve of his spine as Simon sat up on his knees, drawing Price up onto his lap to bounce him down onto his cock with his furred chest pressed up and open, letting Simon suck and kiss his full tits, his dusky nipples pebbled hard in arousal as tongue and teeth swept over them.

Price clenched a hand in Simon’s hair, the other dropping behind him to support his weight against the mattress so he had agency in the roll of his hips, meeting each of Simon’s thrusts over his sweet spot. Now that he didn't need both hands to support Price’s body, Simon snuck one between them, thumb rubbing the swell of Price’s leaking cock.  Price got loud, more than the stifled pants of their usual trysts. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck–”

Price's thighs pushed wide as his orgasm curled through him, sinking down until every inch of Simon’s thick cock was inside him. Simon ground in, growling low in his chest as he felt Price pulse and throb around his cock, slick dripping down his balls and thighs. Price was completely lost in pleasure, fockin’ beautiful, flushed and euphoric. He didn't fight when Simon shifted him onto his front and raised his hips, mounting him while on his feet, two big hands pressing down on his waist. Price dropped his chest to the bed and spread his knees wide, cocking his hips so that Simon could thrust deep. It was a natural breeding position and Simon's arousal intensified, cock rock hard as his omega presented. 

Watching Price's back muscles flex, his arse cheeks ripple under the force of Simon's thrusts, hearing his blissed out noises as they were punched from his chest, soon teased Simon's knot out of him. It swelled just as Price's second orgasm tightened his hole, and Simon ground forward, circling his hips until it popped inside clenching muscle. 

Price cried out, his orgasm intensifying as his body pulsed, instinctually milking Simon for every drop as he came. It was intense; mind-fuckingly good. Simon scrunched his eyes closed and saw lights behind his lids, and he listened as Price’s gravelly voice broke and whimpered through the swells of pleasure rolling through him.

When the aftershocks calmed, Simon eased them onto their sides, wrapping Price in his arms as his knot stayed snug inside his body. He pressed kisses into his damp hair, teased sensitive skin, and whispered praise. They dozed like that, surfacing to exchange lazy kisses before drifting off again. When Simon's knot went down, he drew out gently, only to replace his cock with his fingers. Price's hole was sloppy, loose and relaxed, and Simon groaned low in his throat. “Gonna breed you, love. Gonna make you mine.”

Price chuffed softly in response, thighs flopping open so that Simon could caress him properly, pushing his leaking seed back inside. Simon didn't need asking twice.

They mated throughout the night into the early morning. Simon left the bed long enough to get some food and water, and helped Price with both as the haze of heat made his movements sluggish. After a few hours of sleep, Simon woke him with another knot, holding him back to chest as he slid into him from behind. Each knot was a thorough breeding, their hormones, their scents, their bodies mixing until Price was ready to be bonded. 

Simon was hilt deep when he finally sank his teeth into Price's gland. His omega draped over him, back to chest, strong body arched in submission. Simon cupped beneath a thigh, thrusting into him with a semi-inflated knot that was making his eyes roll in overwhelming bliss. He tilted his head away under the guidance of Simon's hand at his chin, and Simon finally claimed the object of his desire, knot swelling inside him and triggering an intense wave of pleasure that made Price's body seize up.

The wound stopped bleeding as Simon licked it. He remembered vaguely reading something about alpha's having a clotting agent in their saliva sparked by the process of mating. Price’s pained huffs faded into softer sighs, and Simon held him as his body adjusted to the sudden surge of hormones in his bloodstream. Simon slid his palm over Price’s belly and cupped beneath its slight swell. 

“I know ‘m not your first choice,” Simon whispered in the quiet, his throat hoarse. “But…”

“Simon,” Price murmured, soft, wistful. “You're it. Jus’... always thought ya deserved better ‘an me.”

Simon's heart clenched in his chest, his nose burying in Price's hair. “Ain't nothin’ better ‘an you.”

“Got… bad taste in clothing and men, that bloody bally…”

“Olrigh’ boonie hat,” Simon chuckled, rocking his hips up a little in revenge. Price groaned, his body bearing down around Simon’s knot in a sudden throb of pleasure. “Heard bonded mating is a whole new level, but this… fuck, the noises you make.”

Price huffed softly. “Gettin’ a big head, Riley…”

“Naw, reckon I'm on the money, maybe I need t’ remind you again.” Simon slid a hand down Price's body to stroke his cock, rolling his hips slowly to grind his knot over Price's sweet spot, the stretch just the right side of too much. Price gasped, his back arching, and Simon clamped an arm around his chest to keep him still, giving him no choice but to endure the heated pleasure curling through his hips.

They had another day and a half to secure their bond before they had to return to work, and in that time, Simon would make sure Price never had a reason to dread his heat again. 

[serpentface]

WARDI WRITTEN LANGUAGE (BASICS).

Couya's full name (properly 'Haidamane Couya') written formally and with common handwriting conventions.

The Wardi written language derives from earlier proto-language systems consisting exclusively of logograms without direct phonetic meaning or grammatical structure. These symbols gradually became simplified and abstracted to the point of many having little intrinsic clarity, and combined to communicate abstract concepts.

The development of a full written language did not occur independently (as very few written languages do), and its phonetic elements (namely its use of syllabograms) were largely derived the 'ancient' Burri writing system, gradually synthesized with native writing conventions, and in the contemporary forms a wholly distinct system. The language's Relatively universalized form is a very recent phenomena, developing within the past two centuries with the region's conquering/unification into a single entity.

The contemporary written language is a mixture of logograms and syllabograms. It is read from right to left and arranged in horizontal columns. The most formal variant of this system contains each character within a square outline, usually separated by a small space. This outline confers little phonetic or symbolic information beyond making distinction between syllables exceptionally clear, and can be (and often is) omitted in handwriting. The separation of words is conveyed through a narrow rectangle or line in formal contexts, and again often omitted in handwriting (instead indicated instead by a wider blank space).

The pure logograms that have been retained in this writing system tend to be those of very common words or specific concepts (most logogram characters for types of livestock, key crops, water, major body parts, etc are widely recognized and in common use). There has not yet been any attempts to fully 'formalize' the language and omit potentially unnecessary logograms, and they remain frequently used as shorthand while conveying the same semantic information.

Many of the syllabogram characters are directly derived from logograms that depicted monosyllabic words. For example, the spoken word 'gan' means 'cow', and the character for the syllable 'gan' is identical to the common logogram for 'cow'.

The name Gantoche (literally "cow-eye") could be written either fully with syllabograms as:

or through logograms as:

Both ultimately communicate the same meaning, but the former clarifies pronunciation (the words gan and atoche are contracted, it's gantoche and not gan-atoche).

It is a relatively easy written language to learn, as the pure syllabogram characters indicate their own pronunciation with little ambiguity and often have consistency to their construction (ie the character for the syllable 'man' contains most of the same elements as that for the syllable 'wan'- the dot placement in particular has indication of the vowel sounds).

The inclusion of logograms in general and many of the syllabic characters being directly imported From logograms complicates matters. These characters lack visual consistency, and can be confusing to the large swath of the public who know common logograms but not the full written language itself. Ie: the word 'ungande' meaning 'liver' will be composed of logogram-derived syllable characters for 'un' (which alone means 'hand') and 'gan' (which alone means 'cow'). Someone who is only semi-literate in common logograms may be confused at the meaning, especially since these same exact same characters may be used elsewhere on their own to indicate 'hand' or 'cow'.

One major exception to this tendency is that current religious doctrine requires established logogram characters describing God to be used in place of syllabic characters. The word for god is 'Od', and has its own unique character (as do each of the Faces, the capital F 'Face', and Its deified pronoun). The syllable 'od' [oʊd] is very common in the Wardi language, and a wholly separate character is used for the phonetic sound when it is not a reference to the deity (ie 'lion' (odo [oʊdoʊ]) does not contain the same character for God in spite of its first syllable having the exact same pronunciation). Names are a bit of a gray area (ie: the name 'Odabi' is very common and carries the meaning of 'gift/blessing from God'). Religious leadership is currently experiencing a mild schism on whether the written character for God is separated due to being wholly sacrosanct (and thus inappropriate to include in the written form of a personal name) or as more of a functional delineation of the sacred and mundane.

[apticho]

my hope, my star

[marlynnofmany]

First typo of the day: "crowcar" instead of "crowbar."

I will not get distracted by the idea of a crow steering with its beak. I won't. I will be strong.

[holoska]

my brother made me the best birthday card of all time ✨

the inside is just normal greeting card wording, but it has this on the back:

[kirby-the-gorb]

[pinep-ne]

i'm so normal guys i'm so

[the---hermit]

oral exam tips

I have at least one other post on exam tips, but they were mainly focused on giving tips on history exams. To me oral exams in academia have been the norm since high school, but I know that in other countries that might no be the case, so I decided to write down a list of advices coming from someone who is quite used to this kind of tests.

If you aren't used to having oral exams, you might need to change your study method, or at least add a few steps. I recently made a post entirely dedicated to my study method, which might be useful for this, but what I suggest is to add a step in which you review things out loud. What I would do is to just sit down with your notes or your materials and pretend to give a lecture on everything. Even better if you have a friend or family member to listen to you, because by having an active listener you will be forced to not skip stuff and have clear explainations, and they might ask you questions or clarifications. Those are always good because that might happen during the exam as well, but also it will help you memorizing those things. I recommend reviewing out loud multiple times. This way you will get more comfortable with the exposition of the topics you will be tested on, and you'll have a chance to find your own "voice".

by finding your own voice I mean finding a good compromise between using your own words to explain things, while still using the correct specific vocabulary of whatever topic you'll be tested on. This is fundamental. You are not there to recite a poem by heart, you are there to show you have understood the topic, that you sat with it and made it yours. You have to show you know how to clearly explain things but also reflect on it, making links with other things, and so on. At the same time there's some academic and specific vocabulary you want to include, because you are not in fact discussing the topic with a friend. So practicing out loud before the exam is good to find a good compromise between these two things.

I kind of mentioned it already, but it is absolutely fundamental to show that you understood the topic and not just memorized it. Whatever you do do not learn things by heart. It's better to be slightly insicure about a specific date, than to repeat your book word by word. And if you practice enough, and are comfortable enough with the informations in general believe me you can work around those things you can't remember perfectly well as you are being tested. Moreover your mark on the exam will be much higher than if you just learn things by heart.

on the very delicate topic of not remembering something specific you have been asked. Don't panic, you can still kind of save it. Whatever happens do not stay silent. There are several things you can do depending on whatever the question is, and I will later tell you a very specific example of something that happened to me. As I said do not panic, surely you will remember about some context on the topic so start by talking about that. As you are giving the context you might start to remember additionals informations, or you might build up enough informations to be able to logically guess whatever you are not remembering correctly. If you are half sure about something go for it, even if it's the wrong info if you contextualise it well enough you'll show you knew about that and it might just be read as a slip of you confusing two things. Now there might be situations in which the question is so direct that you can't do much, it happened to me once during my Greek history exam. I was asked the specific date of an event, and I could not for the love of the gods remember it. You know what I did? I told the professor, I cann't rememebr the exact date, but giving certain informations (that I then explained) I can tell you it was more or less in this half of this century. What I did was admit a fault, but while doing that I showed her that I knew what we were talking about it, I had enough informations on the matter to logically place it on the chronological line and contextualize it, and showed her that I can in fact work with the informations I studied. And at the end of my exam the professor complimented me on those exact things, saying she appreciated seeing me use my brain instead of midlessly memorizing informations I didn't understand.

So whatever happens do not stay silent. Anything is better than that.

Another potentially bad thing that might happen, and believe me it happened to me multiple times, is panicking so bad that you cannot get the words out, or confuse things. You know what happened everytime I found myself in that situation? The professor clearly saw me panicking, and told me to calm down, wait a couple of minutes, get my ideas in order and try again. And I got good grrades despite that in the end. You are under a lot of pressure, because you are giving an exam, and you have to be quick and ready instead of being able to reflect like with a written exam. Professors know that, and they keep it in mind, and they can tell when you are mixing things up because you are nervous, and not because you don't know things. I once had a professor look at me in the eye after i mixed up numbers on two dates twice in a row, and told me I know you know them take two deep breaths and try again. And I did. I have so many personal stories from my previous degree in which professors saw I was nervous and told me that it was okay I just needed to take a minute and breathe, and honestly that was exactly it. It was okay and I really needed to breathe, and then the exam when well.

The best tip I can give on answering questions is to balance the actual answer of the question with additional informations. You want to give context and add more infos to whatever has been asked to you, but you should also try not to lose focus on what was being asked. My personal way of doing this is to structure the answer in three parts: 1. general context that works as an introduction to the actual direct answer 2. the actual answer 3. further additions like more context, comparaisons and links with other topics or informations you had to study. This way you show off you know things, you make sure to show the professor you are not just rambling because you don't know the answer, and finally show you are comfortable enough with the informations to reflect on them and link them to other things. Ideally the professor will stop you while you are speaking, that in my experience is the best possible sign, because they are satisfied with your exposition and want to move onto other things.

So always build up on the answer to the question you have been asked. Never stop at just the information that serves as an aswer. You studied, it's your time to shine and make yourself proud.

Contextualizing your informations is absolutely fundamental no matter what, again because it shows you have a clear idea about what you are talking about. This can mean making a small introduction on the time and place, if you are an historian like me, or maybe give an introduction on the person you are talking about (whether they are an historical figure or a scholar you are talking about). Adding the little informations you weren't asked about is great. You are briefly mentioning an even and know the date? Add it in. Everything is a good addition.

Again I have definitely already mentioned in previous points but showing you are capable of reflect on the topics you are talking about is always a bonus. Make sure that when you are giving personal options or personal reflections you are stating this is your thought, but that is usually appreciated. After a good exposition of a topic you might even get the professor asking you your opinion on certain things. It happened to me multiple times, often I was asked to give an opinion of books I had to study for the exam, and that always prooved as an oportunity to add more informations and as I said show that I could make reflections of my own.

Last thing, that again kind of came out from other points, is that you want to show you are comfortable enough with the topic to be able to jump from one point to the other while reflecting on things or making comparaisons.

I am pretty sure I have forgotten something, but once again if you have specific questions I am happy to help, my inbox is always open. I know people who aren't used to oral exams are very scared of them, but as long as you try to approach it like a normal conversation on the topics you had to study, and you have practiced, things will be fine. To be quite honest with you after years of experience I'd say I very much prefer oral exams to written ones, because you can in a way shape the conversation and bring it to the topics you liked the most, know best. I hope this post was somewhat helpful to someone out there, and good luck if you are about to take an exam!

[pix-writes]

So, I'm going to answer these two requests in the same post, because I feel if I did them seperately I'd probably end up repeating myself. Hope that's okay! (NSFW will be at the end of the post under a banner, so 18+ below!)

I think both the stan twins have a complicated relationship to the idea of being parents, whilst they are fond of their memories together as kids, they otherwise had an awful upbringing, whilst stan got kicked out as a teen, I don't think Ford would have had the greatest time either in still being in contact with his family, in fact I have a lot of theories that he more or less cut off contact with them by a certain point in his early adult life when conducting his research in the Falls.

I think their expeirences with how their parents got together and how Filbrick treated his sons as either means to an end or dead weight in his life, meant that they were never keen to start a family early on in their lives and 'settle down', stan more out of circumstances/ wanting to travel the world, and Ford out of wanting to focus on his career/ acheiving greatly in the fields he wished to pursue. However, they were raised around the 60's and would have faced at least some societal pressures and influence (even from their parents) that at some point they had to find a girl to marry and have children with. Whilst neither of the twins really exhibit a desire to fit into the norms of society, I think they definitely considered and probably even fantasised about their future as a parent, regardless if they truly wanted that future or not.

Ford I think would have the narrative of "Of course, once I've done x and researched x, then hopefully I'll find a woman that actually wants to talk to me and then maybe we'll get married and settle down once I'm x age..." and then, satisfied with his internal answer to those societal pressures get's on with his studies. I'm sure Ford has thought about it a lot and ruminated anxiously over the fact that he can't seem to connect with anyone on a deeper level, I mean its practically part of what drives him to study the abnormal in the first place! He's fantasised about meeting someone, who like him is strange and unusual in some way and as driven to seek out intellectual, academic pursuits. He thinks maybe they could focus on their careers together and settle down once you both get to a certain age. You may be 'older' parents by his parent's/generation's standards, but he's never really cared for that and it makes sense for him to focus on his career first and foremost, anyway. He's not putting anything off, not at all!

They both love their family still and love the twins deeply with all of that said, though! Ford in seeing them realises all that he has missed from his time in the portal, even though he feels its silly after all this time to regret the past, it does make him wonder the 'what ifs?' - if he had been more in the twins' lives up to this point, or if things had gone differently, would he have even learnt the lessons he needed to; or would he have been as absorbed into his career as he had been and not had them in his life?

Ford loves being around the twins, they're the most loveable pair of kids AND they're his family <3 Once he's starting to get over all that has happened he starts to really enjoy their precocious natures - it gives him a glimpse of what may have been, however small, into what it would be like to have children. I think he does think it over and considers if it would've made him happy. After all, he isn't his father, maybe he would've been better at raising them than his father had been with them...

So for the sake of one of these requests, let's say that he does want to be a father! HCs for dad!Ford and pregnant S/O:

Ford is going to put his all into reasearching potentially EVERYTHING there is to know about pregnancy, concieving (if you're purposefully putting effort into having kids, that is) and child rearing as he can before you do get pregnant/concieve. It's what he does best and he'll even be trying to research what the best parenting methods are and calculate the possibilities of what can go wrong for the baby, you, etc etc. I mean you can't go into anything unless you're 100% certain you're willing & ready to undergo any of the potential outcomes, right?

He has the best intentions, but if you really don't want to know all the freaky/dangerous outcomes that could happen to you and the future baby/babies, then you might need to have a firm conversation with him. Might have to also remind him that you need to be a team in this, parenting is one of the things with endless amounts of advice and not all of them are going to work or be ones you want to make, part of being a parent is finding out/knowing your style and not overthinking it (or at least trying to).

Will certainly do his own 'check-ups' on you in addition to you going for your regular doctors/hospital ones. Enrolls you both in a class for new parents, but ends up criticising it and is convinced that you can learn everything you need to know at home anyway (finally he sees the value of the internet!)

The fact that he is a lighter sleeper is both a blessing and a curse, he won't mind waking up for the baby any time day or night but when you're in the last trimester and you're uncomfortable he's likely not getting much sleep either! Will be incredibly attentive in trying to solve it though, and that goes for the rest of your pregnancy too! He's there to put oil over stretch marks, set out your vitamins, help you get the most comfortable positions, fetch whatever food you're craving and so on.

Never got to be at the twins' birth and so is absoluely not going to miss the birth of his children for anything! He does fear about things going wrong, though, doesn't think so at first but does have a few nightmares about it. Is anxious about your pregnancy being high risk, since multiples clarly run in his family and being an older parent. Wonders if the baby will have any 'abnormalities' like his polydactly and whilst he will accept his child 1 million percent, he is already worrying over how they will be recieved by others.

In labour, he's definitely in tune with you, he's not one of those lazy, unconcerned husbands that you see annoying/ignoring their pregnant wives in hospital. Is incredibly good at rolling with the punches in an emergency situation. Absolutely sobs when he gets to hold them for the first time. Eventually manages to relieve hold of them when Stan comes over after the birth by convincing him that you need him for something so he can get to hold is nibling, haha.

Loves to smooth his hands over your belly, is excited to feel the baby move and talks to them <3 Definitely the dad who plays them classical music as well!

I think that his S/O being pregnant he just gains a different, deeper appreciation for you! The fact that you're bringing life into the world is incredible and he's there when its wonderful and when its difficult, he knows it's not all rainbows and sunshine and will often tell you that if he could find a way to alleivate your pains or carry the baby himself he would!

Is very protective of you when you're pregnant, more so than he normally is in public. Hates when people cross boundaries and make you uncomfortable, gets especially mad at strangers wanting to touch you and will not let that happen if he's with you.

Ford as a dad would be amazing, he's not perfect by any means, but whatever his children are curious about he has a ready answer! Is actually good at getting to the root of the loop of 'why' questions into what they really want to know/do. You can often see him with his kids, looking up at him like he hung the stars because he has an answer for almost anything they can think of.

Whilst he has to very carefully shut away his lab and make sure it's under tighter security for the kids when they're younger, he now gets to do all sorts of nerdy things with them. Even runs his own smaller, simpler version of D&D&MD for them, ends up becoming a family tradition to have a 'games night' because of this.

Schooling is something he takes very seriously, and he can be a firm parent when he needs to, though debates on whether they should be homeschooled or not and for how long - whatever you settle on, he's going to make sure his kids have all the help they need with homework and will encourage them to take any extra curricular activities/hobbies they may want to do. Your kid shows an interest in music? He'd be showing them all the different instruments that they could maybe play! They want to join a sport, he'll be at every game!

Ford will be there to celebrate their acheivements in life, whatever they may do, I think he'd be a very supportive dad after the events of the show especially. And he'll be incredibly protective of them of course, no one is going to hurt them and get away with it lightly!

Not to mention these kids will have the most fun-loving chaotic uncle in the world! Ready to regale them with tales of all the adventures he and their dad have gone on ("please make it more G-rated, Stanley"), and when they're older cover for them when they want to do more rebellious things - Stan is going to make sure they get back home safe!

Now for the NSFW:

I think like I said, Ford generally isn't much into the idea of having kids --> but that doesn't mean you can't have a breeding kink!

The element of this kink that is so appealing to him is the 'claiming', the need to mark you in some way. He finds it hot to think about you being filled with his cum.

In the back of his mind he has a little voice that says he should feel some sort of shame for the dark, possessive nature of his thoughts around this kink, for wanting you to be 'mine' (his). Its almost like a ritual to him, to combine his cum with yours, to fill you; you are his and he is yours. He's not really religious, but I think in an intimate relationship he feels like he wants to be as close to you as possible, your his to worship and his to protect and keep safe and to pleasure. If he could find a way to meld souls and minds with you he'd be tempted to do it (but on the other side of things, especially ford post-bill betrayal, I think he's too independent to really do that haha).

It's practically filthy the amount of times he's imagined you pressed into the 'mating press' position, legs hiked up onto his shoulders.

When he finishes, wants you to hold his cum in, presses it back in with his fingers or gets you to raise your hips, legs crossed.

Surely thinks about the possibility of you getting pregnant from it. It sometimes creeps into his mind when he sees you interacting with the twins or other kids/babies. It makes him feel feral. Likes to think about what it would be like to see you pregnant, even if he doesn't actually want kids.

[jamietwat]

Jamie and Roy spending ridiculous amounts of time together and Phoebe knowing about it definitely means that Jamie’s around Phoebe a lot more in the off-season when she’s off school and Roy’s off work but still being Jamie’s personal trainer for free (and she definitely likes bossing Jamie around just as much as Roy does and finds the ridiculous shit Roy makes him do hilarious)

And you know that thing where kids love to randomly go watch this, I can do a somersault or want to see me do a cartwheel? and then you just have to awkwardly stand there and be like wow whether they actually can do them or not (and sometimes several times in a row have to try to think of something new to say the fifth time they do the exact same thing and then look to you for a reaction)

I’m just saying at some point they’re in some park and Phoebe definitely pulls a look how good I’m getting at cart wheels, Uncle Roy! around Jamie at some point and while Roy just stands there like 🧍‍♂️ and gives compliments that gradually get more and more deadpan and debates turning it into saying how much more impressive that is than anything Jamie’s done all morning but he doesn’t because he’s 90% sure that would just lead to Jamie getting all indignant and competitive and proving he can cartwheel too as if Roy isn’t already annoyingly aware of that from when he was dying trying to keep up with Jamie in Amsterdam while he was cartwheeling and practically skipping

But obviously Roy not saying anything doesn’t matter anyway and Jamie turns it into being like watch this to Phoebe and cartwheeling too and turning to Roy after like well go on, tell me how good I am at that too

Roy deadpans somehow it’s far less impressive watching a grown man cartwheel for attention. It’s just sad, really

But Jamie isn’t offended at all and just shoots Roy an obnoxious smirk and insists you’re just saying that because you know you couldn’t do one. Even trying would probably end with you needing a hip replacement or something

But before Roy can even properly argue or say something bitchy back, Jamie’s turning back to Phoebe with a how about this then? But even though it’s her he asks, it’s Roy he looks to the moment he finishes running a few steps and doing a one-handed cartwheel

And Jamie’s like well now are you impressed??? And god, Roy resents that he is and he could make a dig about how useless of a skill it was as an adult and how that wouldn’t accomplish anything on the pitch and he’d just look like one of the kids that picks flowers on the pitch instead of playing or even paying attention to where the ball is, but instead he rolls his eyes and says yeah okay

And Jamie beams but he doesn’t have time to properly gloat and give Roy shit because Phoebe’s already bossing him around telling him that he has to teach her how to do that too

[whatlurksbean]

question: is the plural of daisy in the comic "daisies" or "daisys"? I believe I have only seen the latter and I'm very curious!

Daisy’s refers to the cats, daisies are flowers!

[bluenerdtastemaker]

We Miss You.

Esteban Ocon x Pierre Gasly x Charles Leclerc | G-rated | 8.9K

--

warning: none except Esteban name typos. I am sorry and proceed with caution cause I have lost my soul re-edit this fic already. 😭

--

One would say "Don’t give up because your dream will become reality!". But for some, they would say "Don’t give up, because everything will work out someday, even if your dream is forever dream."

--

--

Life does not always go your way, does it? Especially when your dream suddenly becomes just that—a dream, forever out of reach.

“Mr. Ocon, this is Mr. Gasly. He will be the man you will manage for the future.”

And it hurts even more when your best friend, your childhood partner-in-crime, is the one living that dream, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces.

My name is Esteban Ocon. I’m 28 years old, and I am my childhood rival's manager.

--

Esteban had long since perfected the art of masking his emotions. His handshake with Pierre was firm, professional—barely trembling.

Pierre’s familiar blue eyes sparkled, as if to say, Can you believe this? But Esteban could only force a tight smile. He already knew what Pierre would say. It was the same thing he used to say when they were kids, sitting in the stands at Le Mans, dreaming of a future together in F1.

We made it.

Except we hadn’t made it. Only one of them had.

Toto Wolff had saved Esteban. At fifteen, when his family’s caravan leaked in the rain, when his shoes had holes he couldn’t afford to patch, Toto swooped in with a promise: funding, education, a future. But even Toto couldn’t work miracles. Mercedes had no seat for him, no chance to race.

Instead, Toto gave him a job: managing Nico Rosberg. Esteban had never dreamed of this life—lugging schedules, fixing PR disasters, standing on the sidelines as others raced his dream—but it was work. It was steady. His family had a house now. His mother didn’t have to worry about dinner. For the first time, life didn’t feel like a struggle to survive.

And yet, no amount of success in his career could fill the gnawing void inside. He hated himself for the resentment that still festered, for the late nights when he stared at Pierre and Charles’s photos in their race suits, for the way their podiums felt like knives.

By 2024, Esteban Ocon was no stranger to the paddock. He wasn’t the scrappy, desperate teenager Toto Wolff had taken under his wing nearly a decade ago. He was one of the most respected managers in Formula 1, known for his sharp mind, calm demeanor, and ability to handle the most chaotic personalities.

“Gasly,” Esteban murmured, the name catching on his tongue like a thorn. His voice didn’t waver, but inwardly, his chest tightened. Of all the drivers, of all the possibilities—why Pierre?

Pierre Gasly, his childhood best friend turned distant memory. Pierre, who was supposed to be his partner in chasing their shared dream of F1. Pierre, who had made it while Esteban had been left behind, scrambling to make a name for himself in the shadows of the sport.

--

Pierre froze, champagne flute halfway to his lips, the confident smirk he wore like armor slipping just slightly. Of course, he’d heard about Esteban Ocon over the years—how could he not? The man had become one of the most sought-after managers in Formula 1. But Pierre had never imagined, not for a second, that their paths would cross like this.

And yet, here they were.

Esteban didn’t flinch, his expression betraying nothing as he shook hands with Alpine’s team principal. “Looking forward to it,” he said smoothly, his tone professional, as if Pierre wasn’t standing right there, staring at him.

“Gasly,” Esteban said finally, turning to him with a polite smile. It was sharp enough to feel like a slap.

“Ocon,” Pierre replied, his voice tight.

They shook hands, the grip firm but cold. Pierre couldn’t stop himself from looking for cracks in Esteban’s carefully composed façade. There were none. The man in front of him wasn’t the boy Pierre had known—his childhood best friend, his karting partner, the one he’d competed with and against for everything. This Esteban was polished, distant, untouchable.

--

The tension between them was impossible to ignore, though Esteban acted like nothing was out of the ordinary.

“I’ll be in touch with your PR team tomorrow,” Esteban told Pierre after their first meeting, his tone clipped, professional. “I’ll need a detailed schedule and—”

“You’re really going to do this?” Pierre interrupted, his voice low.

Esteban raised an eyebrow. “Do what?”

“Act like we don’t have... history,” Pierre said, his jaw tightening.

Esteban’s expression didn’t change. “We’re professionals, Gasly. That’s all that matters.”

Pierre tried not to let it get to him. He was a driver, after all. His focus was on the car, the track, the next race. But Esteban’s presence was a constant reminder of everything they’d been—and everything they’d lost.

They hadn’t spoken in years, not since their friendship had disintegrated into rivalry. Pierre had gone on to F1, and Esteban... Esteban had disappeared, only to resurface as a rising star in the world of management.

“Never thought you’d end up here,” Pierre said one evening, cornering Esteban after a team briefing.

“And where’s ‘here,’ exactly?” Esteban asked, his voice calm but his eyes hard.

“Managing me,” Pierre said. “After everything.”

Esteban’s lips twitched into something that might have been a smirk. “Trust me, Gasly, I didn’t ask for this. But I’m here to do a job, and I’ll do it well. What you think about it doesn’t matter.”

--

Esteban buried himself in work. It was what he did best—organize, strategize, keep things moving. He worked late into the night, assembling Pierre’s media schedule, reviewing footage from past races, and liaising with Alpine’s engineers. Every meeting with Pierre was curt and professional.

There were moments when the awkwardness was almost tangible, like the way Pierre hesitated before signing off on a document or how Esteban carefully avoided making eye contact for too long. But they both kept their distance, unwilling—or unable—to confront what lingered between them.

The paddock wasn’t kind to sentimentality, and Esteban had learned long ago how to suppress his own.

--

By the end of the week, Esteban had just started to find a rhythm. Then Charles Leclerc showed up.

Esteban saw him first, striding down the corridor toward Alpine’s hospitality suite. Charles looked the same as always—bright-eyed and effortlessly charming, his Ferrari-red uniform a stark contrast to the muted blue of Alpine. His smile widened when his gaze landed on Esteban.

“Estie!” Charles exclaimed, his voice cutting through the noise.

Esteban blinked. No one had called him that in years—not since karting days, when Charles, Pierre, and Esteban were inseparable.

Charles didn’t hesitate, pulling Esteban into a quick, warm hug before stepping back. “It’s so good to see you again!”

Esteban froze for a moment, unsure of how to respond. The kindness in Charles’s voice, the familiarity of his nickname—it stirred something he thought he’d buried.

“Leclerc,” he said finally, his tone neutral.

Charles rolled his eyes, unimpressed. “Don’t give me that. We’re not strangers.”

“I’m surprised you remember,” Esteban replied, a touch of bitterness slipping through before he could stop it.

Charles frowned, his smile fading slightly. “Of course, I remember. You, me, and Pierre—we were a team once.”

“That was a long time ago,” Esteban said quietly, glancing away.

“Doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten,” Charles replied, his voice softer now. “I always wondered what happened to you.”

Esteban opened his mouth to respond, but Pierre appeared then, stepping into the suite and interrupting the moment. His gaze flicked between them, his expression unreadable.

“Am I interrupting something?” Pierre asked, his tone casual but sharp enough to cut.

Charles turned to him, his smile returning. “Just catching up with Estie.”

Pierre’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “It’s what I’ve always called him.”

Esteban straightened, slipping back into his professional demeanor. “We should get going, Gasly. You’ve got media duties.”

Pierre didn’t move right away. His eyes lingered on Esteban, something unspoken passing between them before he nodded. “Lead the way.”

--

Later, as Esteban reviewed notes in his temporary office, he couldn’t shake the memory of Charles’s words.

I always wondered what happened to you.

It wasn’t like anyone else had asked. He knew Pierre never had, even after they’d drifted apart. And maybe that hurt more than he cared to admit.

Charles had always been the heart of their trio—the glue that held them together when competition and ambition threatened to tear them apart. And even now, years later, he still had a way of making Esteban feel like the kid he used to be: hopeful, determined, unbroken.

For the first time in years, Esteban allowed himself a moment of relief. Maybe he hadn’t completely disappeared from their lives after all.

--

The night was quiet, the Alpine paddock deserted except for a few staff tidying up after the day’s chaos. Charles and Pierre sat in a corner of the hospitality suite, away from prying eyes and listening ears. A bottle of wine sat between them, half-empty, their glasses untouched for the past few minutes.

Pierre stared at the floor, his mind tangled with memories of the past he tried so hard to bury. He hadn’t meant to bring Esteban up, but the mere sight of him—composed and polished—had stirred something. Something complicated.

Charles, always perceptive, broke the silence.

“Esteban’s working with you now, isn’t he?”

Pierre flinched, caught off guard. He swirled the wine in his glass but didn’t drink it. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice low. “Surprise of the season, huh?”

Charles tilted his head, studying Pierre carefully. “You didn’t know?”

“Of course, I didn’t know.” Pierre let out a humorless laugh. “You think they consulted me before assigning him?”

Charles shrugged. “I thought maybe you two had… patched things up.”

Pierre snorted, shaking his head. “Patched things up? I don’t even know what we are anymore, Charles. Best friends? Rivals? Strangers?”

“You tell me.”

Pierre’s hand tightened around his glass. “We haven’t spoken in years. Not since…” He trailed off, his jaw tightening. “Not since he left.”

Charles hummed softly, leaning back in his chair. “You mean since he didn’t make it to F1 and you did.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. Pierre didn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the wine swirling in his glass.

“You still care about him, don’t you?” Charles asked, his tone gentle but direct.

Pierre’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Charles gave him a knowing look, the kind only someone who’d grown up alongside him could pull off. “Come on, Pierre. You’ve been on edge all week. You keep glancing at him during meetings, avoiding him after. And when I mentioned him earlier, you didn’t even deny it.”

Pierre opened his mouth to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. He hated how easily Charles could see through him, how he always seemed to know what Pierre was feeling before Pierre himself did.

“It’s complicated,” Pierre said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You used to be inseparable. You, me, and Esteban—always together, always looking out for each other. What happened?”

“Rivalry happened,” Pierre muttered. “We were kids, Charles. Kids who wanted the same thing. And when I got it, and he didn’t…” He trailed off, his throat tightening. “We stopped talking. I didn’t know how to face him, and he didn’t want to be around me.”

Charles nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “And now he’s back in your life, whether you like it or not.”

Pierre let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “He’s different now. He’s… cold. Professional. Like he’s built this wall around himself, and I don’t know how to get past it.”

“Maybe he’s protecting himself,” Charles suggested. “From you, from the sport, from everything that hurt him.”

Pierre looked away, his chest tightening. He hated how much sense that made.

“You still care,” Charles said again, softer this time. “Admit it.”

Pierre didn’t answer, but the silence was enough. Charles smiled faintly, leaning back in his chair.

“Maybe it’s time to stop being rivals,” he said. “And start being friends again.”

Pierre let out a bitter laugh. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” Charles admitted. “But if anyone can figure it out, it’s you two.”

Pierre didn’t respond, but deep down, he knew Charles was right.

The weeks turned into months, and the dynamic between Esteban and Pierre remained frustratingly professional. Their work together at Alpine HQ was smooth, efficient, and seamless. Pierre was delivering consistent results on track, and Esteban’s reputation as a sharp, effective manager only grew.

But despite their outward success, there was no warmth between them. Their conversations rarely strayed beyond racing strategies or PR obligations, and the unspoken tension between them hung like a heavy curtain.

It wasn’t until a quiet evening at Alpine’s headquarters in Enstone that something unexpected happened.

Esteban was sitting in his office, a neat, minimalist space filled with the hum of his computer. The long hours were nothing new to him; they kept his mind occupied and his emotions at bay. He was reviewing Pierre’s schedule for the upcoming week when the door opened without a knock.

Pierre stepped in, dressed casually in a hoodie and jeans, his usual confident demeanor intact. Without saying a word, he placed a small bag on Esteban’s desk.

Esteban glanced up, surprised. “What’s this?”

Pierre shrugged, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Just take it.”

Frowning, Esteban set his laptop aside and opened the bag. Inside was a brightly colored wrapper, unmistakable even after all these years. His breath caught.

The candy.

It was the same candy Pierre had always shared with him when they were kids—back when Esteban couldn’t afford luxuries like this, living out of a leaking caravan with his family. Pierre had never made a big deal of it, always slipping him a piece with a grin as if it were nothing.

“Why are you giving me this?” Esteban asked, his voice carefully neutral.

Pierre’s smirk softened into something more genuine, almost hesitant. “Saw it at a shop the other day. Thought of you.”

Esteban stared at the candy, his chest tightening with a mix of nostalgia and something heavier. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Pierre said quietly. “But I wanted to.”

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken words.

“Do you remember?” Pierre asked, his voice softer now. “How much you loved those? You’d always save them, make them last as long as possible.”

Esteban’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though he kept his gaze on the wrapper. “Yeah, I remember.”

Pierre took a step closer, his tone gentle. “You don’t have to act like we’re strangers, Ocon. Not here. Not with me.”

Esteban’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

Pierre sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “This whole... thing. Acting like we don’t know each other when we used to be—” He cut himself off, his expression tightening. “Look, I know things went wrong between us. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Esteban clenched his jaw, his eyes dropping back to the candy. “We’re professionals, Gasly. That’s all that matters.”

“You really believe that?” Pierre asked, his voice low, almost sad. “That it’s all just about the job?”

Esteban didn’t answer. The candy in his hand felt heavier than it should have, the memories it carried weighing down on him.

Finally, he unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. The familiar sweetness hit him instantly, the taste unchanged after all these years. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting himself savor the memory.

“Still good?” Pierre asked, his voice lighter now.

“Still good,” Esteban admitted quietly, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.

For the first time in years, the tension between them seemed to ease, just a little. And as Pierre turned to leave, he hesitated at the door. “You’re not as hard to figure out as you think, Esteban,” he said softly before disappearing down the hall.

Esteban sat in his quiet office, the candy melting on his tongue. And for the first time in a long while, the ache in his chest didn’t feel quite so unbearable. Wait, did he said Estaben?

The dynamic between Esteban and Pierre shifted in subtle, almost imperceptible ways over the following weeks. They still called each other "Ocon" and "Gasly," but there was a softness to their interactions now, a lingering in their conversations that hadn't been there before.

Esteban noticed it most in the way Pierre looked at him—how his eyes lingered a little too long during meetings, how his gaze softened when he thought Esteban wasn’t paying attention. It made Esteban’s chest tighten, though he told himself it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing.

He caught himself looking back just as often, his professional mask slipping more and more with every shared glance. There was something in Pierre’s expression that felt familiar yet foreign, a warmth Esteban hadn’t dared to hope for in years. Longing, maybe? Or was that just wishful thinking?

--

It was during a particularly chaotic weekend at the Austrian Grand Prix that things took another unexpected turn. Esteban had just finished coordinating media obligations for Pierre and was taking a rare moment to breathe in the Alpine hospitality suite when Charles Leclerc walked in, all effortless charm and boyish smiles.

“Estie!” Charles greeted, his voice warm as ever, the nickname slipping out as easily as it had years ago.

Esteban stiffened, glancing around to see if anyone had overheard. Charles didn’t care—he never had—and it was one of the reasons Esteban had always liked him, even if his openness could be overwhelming.

“Charles,” Esteban said, nodding politely.

“I was looking for you,” Charles said, ignoring the stiff formality. He leaned casually against the table, glancing over at Pierre, who was talking to some engineers a few feet away. “We’re flying back to Monaco tonight on my jet. You should join us.”

Esteban blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“My jet,” Charles repeated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “You and Pierre can come. There’s plenty of space.”

Esteban hesitated, his mind racing. For months, he’d taken regular commercial flights after races, returning to his modest routine while Pierre occasionally joined Charles on his private jet. The two of them had always been close, their friendship easy and unshakable in a way Esteban could never quite relate to.

“I don’t know...” Esteban began, but Charles cut him off with a laugh.

“Oh, come on, Estie. It’s about time you joined us. You work too hard. Besides, I already told Pierre, and he didn’t object.”

Esteban glanced over at Pierre, who had finished his conversation and was now walking toward them. His expression was unreadable, but when Charles brought up the jet again, Pierre simply shrugged. “It’s up to you, Ocon.”

The way Pierre said it—calm, almost indifferent—grated on Esteban’s nerves. But there was something else in his tone, something subtle, like he was daring Esteban to say yes.

“Fine,” Esteban said before he could overthink it.

Charles beamed, clapping him on the back. “That’s the spirit!”

--

The flight back to Monaco was calm at first, the soft hum of the engines filling the luxurious cabin. Esteban sat by the window, his eyes fixed on the darkening sky, while Charles and Pierre exchanged light banter across the aisle. It was peaceful—too peaceful.

“Do you remember that karting race in Lyon?” Charles asked suddenly, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “The one where you crashed into me?”

Pierre groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You always bring that up! It wasn’t my fault—you cut the corner!”

“I won that race, didn’t I?” Charles shot back, his tone smug.

“Barely.”

Esteban couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. For months, he had observed them from a distance—behind glass walls in Alpine HQ, in the paddock, during debriefs. They always seemed so natural together, their banter easy and familiar. Now, up close, it was even more intense.

“You were so smug that day,” Pierre added, pointing at Charles. “You couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks.”

Charles laughed, a genuine, infectious sound that made Esteban’s chest ache. “Because I beat both of you. Admit it, Ocon, you were pissed.”

Esteban blinked, startled to be brought into the conversation. He glanced at Charles, whose smile was warm and teasing.

“I was annoyed,” Esteban admitted. “But only because you wouldn’t shut up about it.”

“See?” Pierre said, gesturing to Esteban like he’d just proved a point. “He gets it!”

Charles grinned, his eyes sparkling. “And yet, you still came back the next weekend, ready to lose again.”

“Bold words,” Esteban shot back, surprising even himself with the sharpness in his tone.

Pierre laughed, low and genuine, and something in Esteban’s chest twisted. He looked away, trying to steady himself, but then Charles leaned closer, his elbow brushing against Esteban’s arm.

The three of them fell into a rhythm, their conversation flowing naturally for the first time in years. Esteban was cautious at first, unsure of where he fit between them, but Pierre and Charles were persistent, pulling him into their memories, their jokes, their world.

And that’s when it hit him.

It wasn’t just the way they spoke to each other, the easy back-and-forth that came from years of familiarity. It was the way they looked at each other—Pierre’s gaze softening when Charles laughed, the subtle brush of Charles’s hand against Pierre’s arm as he made a point. It was in the way they existed together, a quiet intimacy that Esteban had tried not to notice for months.

But now he couldn’t ignore it.

Oh, Esteban thought, his stomach sinking.

Oh, no.

He shifted in his seat, suddenly hyper-aware of everything. Of Charles’s arm still resting against his. Of the way Pierre’s gaze flicked to him every so often, like he was checking to make sure Esteban was still part of the conversation.

Oh, no.

It wasn’t just them. It was him, too.

He’d caught himself staring before, watching them through the glass walls of the paddock, wondering what it would feel like to step into their world. He’d told himself it was just envy—that he missed the camaraderie, the closeness they used to share. But now, with Charles laughing beside him and Pierre’s eyes lingering on his, Esteban felt the weight of something far more complicated.

Oh, shit.

The realization hit him like a freight train. He had feelings for them. Both of them.

Esteban swallowed hard, his throat dry. He forced himself to focus on the conversation, but his mind was racing. How long had this been building? How had he not noticed?

“And what about you, Estie?” Charles asked suddenly, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Esteban blinked, his heart pounding. “What?”

“What was your favorite karting memory?” Charles asked, tilting his head. His smile was soft now, more curious than teasing.

Esteban hesitated, glancing between them. Pierre’s expression was unreadable, but there was a quiet intensity in his gaze that made Esteban’s pulse quicken.

“I don’t know,” Esteban said finally, his voice quieter than he intended. “Probably the time I managed to beat both of you.”

Pierre snorted. “That happened once.”

“And I made sure to savor it,” Esteban shot back, his lips twitching despite himself.

Charles laughed, and for a moment, the tension in Esteban’s chest eased. But as the conversation continued, he couldn’t stop himself from noticing the way his heart ached every time they looked at each other—or at him.

--

At some point, Charles got up to grab a drink, leaving Esteban and Pierre alone.

“Comfortable?” Pierre asked, his voice low.

Esteban glanced at him, surprised. “It’s fine.”

Pierre’s lips twitched, but he didn’t press. Instead, he leaned back in his seat, his eyes lingering on Esteban a little too long.

Esteban looked away, his heart pounding. What was he supposed to do with that? With Pierre looking at him like... like he mattered?

“Thanks for coming,” Pierre said suddenly, his tone softer.

Esteban frowned, turning back to him. “Why are you thanking me? It was Charles who invited me.”

Pierre shrugged, his gaze steady. “Yeah, but you didn’t have to say yes.”

Esteban opened his mouth to respond, but Charles returned, plopping down at his seat and breaking the moment.

As the jet continued its journey, Esteban couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted again—something he wasn’t sure he was ready for. But as Pierre’s, and now Charles's gaze met his across the cabin, that unspoken warmth still there, Esteban wondered if he was already in too deep to stop it.

By the time the jet landed in Monaco, Esteban felt like he was coming apart at the seams. Whatever this was—this tangled mess of old friendships, rivalry, and newfound feelings—it was going to destroy him.

--

The days after the flight were brutal. Esteban tried to convince himself he was overreacting, that this was just a passing phase of misguided longing. But every time he saw Pierre and Charles together, laughing in a way that felt too intimate, too familiar, the knot in his chest tightened.

And then he saw it—confirmation, the thing he had tried to avoid acknowledging.

It was a quiet moment in the Alpine hospitality, long after most of the team had gone home for the night. Esteban had returned to grab a document he’d forgotten, only to pause when he saw them through the glass wall of Pierre’s office.

Charles was leaning against Pierre’s desk, his arms crossed, a soft smile on his face as Pierre spoke. The air between them was charged in a way that wasn’t platonic, their body language closer, more comfortable than friends typically allowed. And then, just as Esteban told himself to look away, Charles reached out, brushing a hand against Pierre’s cheek, and Pierre leaned into the touch.

Oh, they’re together.

The realization hit him harder than he expected, an ache settling deep in his chest. Of course, they were together. It made sense. They fit. They understood each other in ways Esteban would never fully grasp.

He turned and walked away before they could notice him, the tightness in his chest growing heavier with every step.

--

The following weeks were hell. Esteban threw himself into his work, keeping interactions with Pierre as brief and professional as possible. He stopped lingering in Alpine’s hospitality and made excuses to avoid any gatherings where Charles might be present. It was easier to stay away, easier to keep his feelings locked up tight where they couldn’t hurt anyone.

But Pierre noticed.

“Ocon, you’ve been avoiding me,” Pierre said one afternoon, cornering him after a debrief.

“I’ve been busy,” Esteban replied curtly, not meeting his eyes.

Pierre frowned, crossing his arms. “Too busy to even grab a coffee? We used to talk, you know. What’s going on?”

Esteban clenched his jaw, keeping his gaze firmly on the floor. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t let Pierre see the cracks in his armor.

“Nothing’s going on,” he said stiffly. “I’m here to do a job, Gasly. That’s all.”

Pierre’s eyes narrowed, the frustration evident on his face, but he didn’t press further. Esteban left before he could say something he’d regret.

The worst part wasn’t the avoidance or the guilt; it was the way his feelings refused to go away, no matter how hard he tried to bury them. Every time he saw Pierre smile, every time Charles laughed, every time they stood too close, the ache in his chest grew sharper.

He felt like a homewrecker, even though he’d done nothing to act on his feelings. Just the knowledge that he felt this way was enough to make him hate himself.

And yet, despite everything, he couldn’t bring himself to fully pull away. Some part of him still craved their presence, still wanted to be part of their world, even if it meant tearing himself apart from the inside out.

--

One night, after another long day at the paddock, Esteban found himself sitting alone in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling. The thoughts he’d been avoiding all day came rushing in, hitting him like a tidal wave.

You’re ruining this.

You’re going to destroy what they have.

They’re happy. You don’t belong in this.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the spiral. He needed to get over this. He needed to move on.

But how could he, when every interaction with them—every stolen glance, every accidental brush of hands—only made his feelings stronger?

--

The weeks after the realization were suffocating. Esteban’s attempts to distance himself were starting to feel like living in a glass box—he could see them, but they were untouchable, unreachable. Every time Pierre looked at him, it was with an unspoken question, but Esteban couldn’t meet his gaze. Every time Charles smiled at him, it felt like a dagger wrapped in warmth.

He couldn’t stand it. The tension had thickened between them like an unspoken barrier, and Esteban had built walls around himself that even he couldn’t break down. It wasn’t just avoidance anymore; it was an inability to be in the same space without feeling like he was suffocating. He couldn’t look at Pierre without remembering their shared past, the way they’d been inseparable—until they weren’t. He couldn’t look at Charles without knowing that the warmth he once felt for him was now something unrecognizable, a twisted version of what used to be friendship.

His life felt like a delicate balance between duty and overwhelming pain. He tried to focus on work, but his mind would inevitably wander to the same thoughts, the same unanswered questions. Could he keep going like this? Could he really continue managing Pierre, knowing how deeply he cared? Could he continue watching the dynamic between the two of them, knowing that he was now the outsider?

As the summer break rolled around, Esteban couldn't help but feel like he could finally exhale. The constant tension that had plagued him for months seemed to lift with the final race before the break. The distant walls he’d put up between himself, Pierre, and Charles felt almost suffocating at times. But now, he had a rare opportunity to escape. The relentless pressure, the unspoken words, the weight of emotions he'd been avoiding—it all seemed to fade as soon as the words "summer break" were uttered.

For the first time in months, Esteban felt free. He was finally going home. Back to the place where everything felt simpler. He’d booked a flight using his Air France star points, splurging on a business class seat, a luxury he rarely allowed himself. He needed the space, the comfort, and the time to think.

The hum of the plane, the smooth motion as they soared above the clouds, was a welcome relief. Esteban leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, letting the cool air of the cabin wash over him. He'd be home soon, surrounded by familiar faces, by his family. A place where no one expected him to be anyone other than Esteban—no complex relationships, no overwhelming dynamics to navigate. For once, he could just be.

--

Little did he know that the demons of his life—Pierre and Charles—weren’t done with him.

--

Two days had passed since Esteban had arrived back home, and the familiar scent of his childhood home, the sound of the ticking clock in the living room, and the quiet hum of his parents' house felt like a much-needed breath of fresh air. His parents were still away for work, so he had the entire place to himself. For the first time in months, Esteban allowed himself to relax, truly unwind. The pressure of the season had lifted, and for now, he was just Esteban—no racing, no drama, no complicated relationships.

That is, until the bell at the door rang.

Esteban jolted, his body frozen in the middle of a bite from his breakfast cereal. He hadn’t expected visitors. Not today. He had expected the quiet of his hometown, where he could sleep in late and not worry about anyone showing up unannounced. He wasn’t expecting to see anyone, especially not Pierre and Charles. Not in this quiet little town where everyone knew everyone, and he wore his panda pajamas for the first time in months—those soft, fuzzy, ridiculous pajamas his mom bought him when he was a kid. They were so embarrassing that only his parents ever saw him in them, but today, Esteban didn’t care. They were comfortable, and he needed that comfort more than anything.

As he stood up, the doorbell rang again, and he cursed under his breath. He could hear the faint voices outside, and before he could even prepare himself, he heard footsteps approaching the door.

He quickly threw down his spoon, still in disbelief at the situation, before looking around the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do. But there was nothing he could do. His heart sank.

He quickly padded to the front door in his panda pajamas, knowing full well who stood on the other side. His gut twisted. There was no way. His attempt at isolation was over, and in the most inner Esteban way possible, it was his childhood pajamas that would be his undoing.

Taking a deep breath, he swung the door open.

And there they were.

Pierre stood there, looking as casual as always, but there was something different in the way his eyes narrowed at Esteban’s appearance. Charles, on the other hand, had a grin that spoke volumes. It was that grin. The one Esteban used to see every time they both cornered him into a conversation about things they never fully said out loud.

Esteban felt like he was about to combust from the sheer awkwardness of the moment, his cheeks burning, his mind scrambling for something to say.

--

Pierre stood at the door, his hand still resting lightly on the handle. He had expected many things when he arrived in Esteban's hometown—he hadn’t expected to be greeted by this.

Esteban opened the door, looking somewhat disheveled, but what caught Pierre off guard was the sight of him standing there in panda pajamas. The fuzzy black-and-white onesie, complete with little ears and a tail, was the kind of thing Esteban would only ever wear when he thought no one would see him. And apparently, he was right—no one was supposed to see him dressed like that.

Pierre blinked, his mind briefly short-circuiting as he stared at his manager in total disbelief. He’d always known Esteban was a bit of a dork, but this? This was something else entirely.

His lips twitched, fighting against the grin that was threatening to break free. His first instinct was to tease Esteban, but he couldn't help but let out a soft laugh before quickly catching himself.

“Well, that’s... a look,” Pierre finally said, raising an eyebrow with a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Nice pajamas, Ocon.”

Esteban, clearly embarrassed, shifted awkwardly, his cheeks flushing. "I—uh, it's just for at home," he muttered, clearly uncomfortable under the weight of Pierre’s gaze. "Not for public consumption."

Charles, standing beside Pierre, let out a quiet chuckle, clearly enjoying the situation. "Should’ve known."

Pierre couldn’t hold it in any longer. He chuckled fully, his eyes sparkling with amusement. Esteban just stood there, mortified, tugging at the sleeves of the onesie as though he could make it disappear. Pierre couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Esteban look so utterly flustered, and honestly, it was adorable.

But as much as he wanted to tease Esteban more, something in his expression changed. There was a tension behind those wide eyes, something deeper than just embarrassment. Pierre took a step forward, feeling that familiar weight settle in his chest. They weren’t just here to poke fun at Esteban’s pajamas. This was something else.

Pierre sobered up, his playful grin softening as he met Esteban’s gaze, still standing there in the doorway. "We came to talk, Esteban," he said, his voice quieter now, his usual teasing edge replaced with something a little more serious.

Esteban blinked at him, clearly thrown off by the sudden change in tone. "What do you want, Gasly?"

But Pierre didn’t break eye contact, sensing the walls Esteban had put up. "About you," he said simply. "About everything."

Charles, meanwhile, leaned casually against the doorframe, his grin more subdued now. “We’ve been patient, Estie, but you’ve been avoiding us long enough.”

Pierre could tell that Esteban was trying to keep it together, but the way his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the way his gaze flickered nervously, told Pierre all he needed to know. They had pushed him too far, and now there was no turning back.

“You’re not getting away from this,” Pierre added softly, his voice almost too gentle.

Esteban’s face tightened. Pierre couldn’t tell if it was frustration, guilt, or something else entirely, but it was there—clear as day. And in that moment, Pierre realized that all the time they’d spent together, all the moments they’d shared, had led to this. To this conversation, in the doorway of Esteban’s childhood home, with the most ridiculous, adorable pajamas on display for both of them to see.

Pierre didn’t want to be the one to break Esteban, but he knew they couldn’t go on pretending anymore. Not after everything they’d been through. Not after everything that had been left unsaid.

Finally, Esteban sighed, his posture sagging, as if he’d given up on fighting it. He stepped back, letting them inside. "Fine," he muttered. "Come in, then. But you better not make fun of my pajamas."

Pierre and Charles exchanged a quick look, both holding back grins at the same time, and then stepped inside, closing the door behind them. The tension still hung in the air, thick and heavy, but it was clear now: the conversation had started, and there was no going back.

--

Esteban stood in the kitchen, the kettle whistling softly as he poured the hot water into the teapot. He could hear the quiet shuffle of footsteps behind him, the sound of Pierre’s voice low and soft as he explored the house, and Charles’ occasional laughter as he flipped through an old album.

He stole a glance at the rearview mirror in his home (don’t ask why it is in the house), his gaze unintentionally drifting to the living room. He saw Pierre standing in front of a photo on the wall, one that featured the three of them, years ago—young, naive, and full of promise. A picture from before everything fell apart. Before he lost everything that mattered, before he became a shadow of the person he once was.

He watched Pierre’s fingers hover over the frame, almost as if he was tracing the contours of their past with his eyes. The picture had always been a reminder of how far they had come, of how much had changed, but now it felt like a dagger to Esteban’s heart. It wasn’t the first time Pierre had seen this photo, but it was the first time in this home—the one they had never visited, the one that had come after everything.

Esteban closed his eyes, letting out a deep sigh. How long had it been since they all last spoke in home? Years? He couldn’t even remember anymore. The whole thing—the crash, the collapse of his career, the split from everything—had become a blur. And now, here they were, standing in his new home, a far cry from the days when they’d been inseparable, when everything had seemed possible.

His parents were away, working like they always were, and Esteban couldn’t help but feel a bit lost. He needed them right now, more than ever. But instead, he was left alone with his thoughts, with Pierre and Charles in the next room. And he couldn't shake the feeling that they were about to turn his world upside down.

As he busied himself with making tea, his mind raced. He wanted this to be a quiet, easy evening. A simple summer break where he could curl up on the couch, binge-watch Netflix, and forget about everything for a while. But instead, he was about to confront the wreckage of his past, the things he had avoided for so long.

His hands shook slightly as he poured the tea, trying to keep himself calm. God, he wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. He just wanted to bury his head in the sand, but he knew that wasn’t going to work. They were here for a reason. They had come to settle things, to talk about everything they had avoided.

Finally, he walked back into the living room, setting the tray of tea down on the table. Pierre and Charles were both sitting on the couch now, looking at him with quiet, expectant gazes. They were so calm, so collected, and it made Esteban feel even more nervous. He took his seat, his eyes darting nervously between them, before finally settling on Pierre.

“Tea,” Esteban muttered, his voice soft, as he sat down. “It’s not much, but it’s... it’s something.”

Pierre’s gaze softened as he accepted the cup, but Esteban could see the concern lingering in his eyes. There was something different about him now—something that made Esteban feel small and vulnerable. He had been through so much, and yet, Pierre was here, looking at him like he still mattered.

“So,” Charles started, breaking the silence. “We’ve... been thinking about you a lot, Esteban. You know that, right?”

Esteban swallowed hard, his throat dry. He nodded, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He wasn’t sure he could.

“You’ve been kind of... absent, you know?” Pierre continued, his voice gentle but firm. “Not just in work, but in our lives. We’ve missed you.”

Esteban bit his lip, his heart racing in his chest. The words they were saying were sinking in slowly, but he couldn’t let himself believe them. Not yet. He was afraid to.

“We didn’t just know you as a manager,” Pierre said, his voice growing softer, more vulnerable. “We knew you more than that. You were always there for us.”

Esteban felt his chest tighten, the words slicing through him like a blade. The lump in his throat grew bigger, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. He was just Esteban Ocon, the guy who had been left behind. The guy who had nothing.

“We tried to make it right,” Charles said, his voice full of guilt. “We wanted to... we wanted to be with you again, back in our lives. We couldn’t... we couldn’t just leave it like this.”

Pierre nodded, his eyes intense and full of something Esteban couldn’t quite name. “We even thought about going to Mercedes, just for you. We didn’t care about anything. We just wanted to see you again.”

Esteban’s heart stopped. Mercedes. He had been so far removed from everything that he hadn’t even realized that they had thought of him like that. They had come so close, and yet... And yet they were still here. Still, somehow, a part of his life.

“You became a manager, Esteban,” Pierre continued, his voice now tinged with warmth. “And when we found out you were working with me, it was like... like everything came full circle. We wanted you back in our lives, not just as a manager, but as... as... As someone we care about.”

Esteban could feel the tears starting to well up in his eyes, his face flushing as he struggled to keep himself together. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not like this. He hadn’t expected any of this, especially not from Pierre and Charles. But there they were, telling him that they still cared.

That they missed him.

Esteban’s chest tightened as the tears continued to flow, his heart racing with the overwhelming flood of emotions. He could feel Pierre and Charles surrounding him, their arms comforting, their presence grounding him, but there was an unspoken tension that lingered in the room—one that made his throat constrict even more.

As Pierre’s hand gently rubbed his back, Esteban felt a strange heat in his chest, a mix of longing, guilt, and confusion. The warmth of their embrace felt too familiar, yet too foreign all at once. His mind was racing—too many thoughts were fighting for attention. His feelings for both of them, for what they had shared, for the spaces they once occupied in his life—it was all so much to process.

“I—” Esteban’s voice cracked as he pulled away slightly, wiping his eyes, still not trusting himself to meet their gazes directly. “I didn’t think... I didn’t know you two were—”

Pierre’s hand, still resting on his back, paused for a moment before he spoke softly, his tone steady but tender. “We’re together, Esteban. We’ve been together for a while now.”

Esteban’s heart skipped a beat, and the weight of their words hit him like a ton of bricks. He’d suspected something had been different between Pierre and Charles, especially lately—something had shifted in their dynamic. But hearing it, hearing it confirmed out loud, left him momentarily breathless. His stomach churned with a mixture of disbelief and something deeper—something he was still too scared to face.

Charles, sensing Esteban’s hesitation, leaned in a little closer, his voice gentle. “We know you’ve been... distant. And we’ve seen the way you look at us, Esteban. The way your gaze lingers when we’re together. We’re not blind.”

Esteban’s face flushed crimson, his mind reeling. He had thought he had been subtle, or at least that his feelings for them had remained unspoken. But clearly, he had been wrong. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his hands trembling slightly as he clutched the edges of his tea cup.

“You don’t have to be scared or hide it, Esteban,” Pierre added quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “We know you have feelings. We know what you’ve been going through. And we... we want you to be with us, too. We want you to be a part of this.”

Esteban’s heart skipped again, and he swallowed hard, trying to process their words. He had always felt a pull toward them—both of them, in different ways—but he had never allowed himself to acknowledge it. He had buried those feelings, buried the longing that he thought could never be reciprocated. But now, sitting there with Pierre and Charles, he realized that maybe he had been wrong.

“But—” Esteban started, struggling to find the right words. “But I don’t... I don’t want to ruin anything. I don’t want to... make things complicated. You two are already together, and I don’t know if... if I could—”

“You wouldn’t ruin anything, Esteban,” Charles interrupted softly, his hand gently brushing against Esteban’s. “We’ve missed you so much. And we care about you—more than just as a friend. We always have. This isn’t about complicating things. It’s about us, together, and wanting you to be a part of it.”

Pierre nodded, his eyes softening. “We want you, Esteban. We want all of you. We always have. Don’t you see? It’s not just about us being a couple. It’s about us, the three of us. The bond we had. The one we’ve always shared. It’s still there. And we want to bring you back into that. We’re ready if you are.”

Esteban’s heart raced, a sudden wave of dizziness sweeping over him. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected them to want him, to want this. The idea of being with Pierre and Charles, the men he had spent years with, the men who had become his family despite everything that had happened... it was almost too much to process.

He stared down at his hands, still trembling. His mind felt foggy, his thoughts swirling. He couldn’t tell if he was dreaming, or if this was real. But in the pit of his stomach, he knew that this was more than just an offer to be close again—it was an invitation. An invitation to love, to trust, to share something deeper than just a friendship.

“I—” Esteban’s voice faltered. “I don’t know what to say... I never thought this... I never thought you would—”

“We are saying it,” Pierre interrupted gently, his thumb brushing Esteban’s knuckles. “We want you, Esteban. We’ve always wanted you.”

And just like that, the walls Esteban had carefully constructed around his heart seemed to crumble. His tears, which had started as a quiet flow, began to pour out again, this time with a sense of release. It wasn’t just the weight of his fears anymore—it was the weight of everything he had held back, everything he had kept from them.

The love they spoke of, the love they shared, was so much bigger than he had imagined. It was a love that wasn’t confined by the boundaries of their past, by the pain or the distance. It was a love that could embrace all three of them, if they let it.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, Esteban allowed himself to believe it. To believe that maybe, just maybe, they weren’t too far gone. That the three of them—Pierre, Charles, and Esteban—could find a way back to each other. That they could rebuild what had been broken and make something even more beautiful from it.

As Esteban finally nodded, allowing himself to believe in the possibility of something more, Pierre and Charles both reached out, their hands hovering for a moment as if unsure. The air between them was heavy with unspoken words, but there was a softness now, a tentative understanding. Then, without another word, they both moved in, their arms wrapping around Esteban in a tight, almost protective hug.

Esteban, still unsure whether this was real, melted into the embrace. His heart raced, but in a way that felt comforting, not anxious. He was squeezed gently between the two athletes, their bodies solid and warm, contrasting sharply with his own smaller frame. His panda onesie, the one he had worn for years to seek comfort, suddenly felt even more absurd, but also oddly perfect in the moment. It was soft, worn, and innocent—a stark contrast to the rough callouses of Pierre and Charles' hands. The feeling of their hands pressing against the fabric, the roughness of their skin against the softness of the onesie, made him feel vulnerable in a way that was strangely reassuring.

As they pulled him into the hug, Esteban felt how small he was in comparison to them. Pierre’s broad chest and Charles’ muscular frame dwarfed him. He felt the difference in their heights, the way his own thin neck seemed to disappear between the two, his body feeling smaller, almost fragile between their strength. Pierre’s head rested just above his, the heat from his body radiating into Esteban’s, while Charles’ chin was nearly on top of Esteban’s head. Their bodies framed his, and in that space, Esteban felt like he was both insignificant and the most important person in the world at the same time.

He tried to bury his face into the softness of Pierre’s shoulder, but even then, he could feel the contrast between his thin neck and the solid muscle of Pierre’s, and then the roughness of Charles' collarbone against his cheek. The physical distance that had once felt so insurmountable now felt like a comfortable, solid presence, as if they had closed the gap that had stretched between them for years.

"Esteban," Pierre murmured, his voice muffled but tender as his hand gently cupped the back of Esteban’s head. "You’re not alone anymore."

Charles, his voice soft but steady, added, "We’re here. All of us. Together."

Esteban closed his eyes, letting their warmth seep into him, the once-hidden fears slowly starting to dissipate in the embrace. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to feel cared for, loved, and maybe—just maybe—he felt like he finally belonged.

His voice cracked as he spoke, barely above a whisper. "I never thought I could have this again... not after everything."

Pierre squeezed him tighter, his other hand brushing lightly against Esteban’s back in reassurance. "We’ve always had this, Esteban. We just didn’t know how to see it."

And for that moment, with the soft warmth of the hug enveloping him, Esteban allowed himself to believe in it—the love, the possibility, the future they could share. Even as the weight of the past hung heavy in his chest, the three of them, standing together in his small, humble home, felt like the beginning of something new.

The contrast between Esteban’s smaller, slender frame and their sturdy, muscular bodies felt strangely fitting. As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the bond that had always been there between them seemed stronger than ever before. In the safety of this moment, the outside world seemed so far away, and all that mattered was the connection between the three of them.

For the first time in a long while, Esteban didn’t feel like he was running away from anything anymore. He was finally home.

[sarenderpity]

Vote your FAVORITE (not necessarily your opinion on most mythologically accurate, though that can and should contribute) pop culture Hermes depiction

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EDIT! BLOOD OF ZEUS! THE NETFLIX SERIES! MY BAD (cannot edit poll block)