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#like who are you? pierre?

carlandhoe · 19 days

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Hilarious combo when I opened insta after just waking up (5minutes ago) and the first thing I saw was this :

And the following was this :

#😭😭😭#gremlin #they do be cute tho #carlos sainz #lando norris #wag #also now i understand why Lando came to paris #bc yesterday i was like “paris?? i dont think ive ever seen this man be in paris”#like who are you? pierre?#but turns out it was for football

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lovings4turn · 1 month

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Charles Leclerc's skin is criminally perfect and glowing. Thinking about having a little spa night before media days. Face masks, hair masks, maybe giving each other manicures, you have a photo of him with heart shaped pimple patches all over his cheeks. You also spend that time gossiping about anything you've heard and what to watch for in the paddock (you cannot convince me he doesn't love to gossip).

OHHH YOU'RE SO RIGHT AND YOU SHOULD SAY IT !!! he always shows up to media looking so refreshed and is practically glowing ,, so the fact he can look good AND spend time w you too ?? he loves it sm n it quickly becomes a ritual for you both . so loves to watch your focused expression as you try to make his face mask absolutely perfect

and there's SO MUCH GOSSIP LIKE— charles is such a little shit for remembering every lil piece of gossip he overhears so he can unpack everything to you in your lil debrief sessions as you're delicately placing the pimple patches onto his cheeks and chin ...

#୭ 🧷 ✧˚. becca's musings #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #like have you seen that video of him pierre n kika #he's a messy bitch who LIVES for drama (affectionate)

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miamierre · 7 months

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some half-assed copium after today's dumb ass race - with a twist!

At least it’s better than last year.

It’s the first thing that Pierre thinks as Charles slips into his hotel room the way he always does, looking soft and rumpled in his post-race sweatshirt and joggers. It’s better than last year because at least they’re both safe, and there’s no egregious FIA decision looming over their heads. It’s better than last year because Charles, stepping out of his sneakers in the doorway, doesn’t have red-rimmed eyes when he looks up from his socks and right into Pierre’s face.

He looks good, the way he always does. Pierre is thankful that they’ve practiced this dance for long enough that it can play out unspoken now.

“Hi,” Charles says with a quiet little smile. He doesn’t give Pierre a chance to greet him in return before he’s wrapped around him, face buried in the crook of Pierre’s neck. “Missed you.”

It’s not like they haven’t seen each other—hell, they’d seen each other during the pre-race parade lineup, a quick fist bump shared before heading to their separate cars—but Pierre feels his best friend’s sentiment all the same. “Missed you too,” he echoes, lips brushing against the shell of Charles’ ear. Charles shivers a little against him, arms squeezing him just the slightest bit tighter, and for a moment Pierre forgets just how angry he’s been since he walked out of today’s debrief: Charles is warm and soft and here, so full of love and desire and so clearly ready to share it.

But the thing is, today was bad. Bad, even finishing in the points. Bad because it’s been a long time since he’d gotten so fucked over by his team. Bad because Esteban is being Esteban, in a way he’d apparently been able to mask for the whole season up until now. Bad because even if it’s only a difference in a single point, it’d been Pierre’s race they’d chosen to sacrifice, even with fresher tires and better pace and a better track record through the back half of this season.

So today, for as easy as it is for Charles’ presence to loosen the frustration knotted in Pierre’s chest, it’s just as easy for things to snap back into place. He’s mad. He’s mad and not even Charles can fix it, not really.

Charles can feel it. “Do you want to talk about it?” He’s still tucked close against Pierre’s skin, lips brushing at his neck vein with each softly-murmured syllable. One arm slides up his back so that he can rest a gentle hand at the back of Pierre’s head.

Truthfully, Pierre’s not sure he can put it all into words. “Not really,” is his mumbled response.

Charles hums. When he finally peels back, Pierre can see the understanding and hurt reflected in his eyes. Of course he knows how this feels. Ferrari has been doing this to him all year. Pierre, selfishly, hates that he now understands exactly what his best friend has been struggling with all season. It’s much easier to speak from a place of not knowing. “Do you want to fuck about it?”

The question comes out blunt—Pierre snorts at the sound of it, Charles’ kindness blending with his bottomless hunger. He ducks forward, bumps his forehead on Charles’ shoulder for a moment before straightening back out. Do you want to fuck about it. Of course he does. They’ve been doing this just about every weekend that they’ve been in Formula 1. Pierre doesn’t know how to move on to the next race weekend before Charles’ hands are somewhere on his body.

But he’s mad. Today, he’s mad, and he doesn’t want to take that out on Charles, who seems outwardly pleased enough with P4. “Charlie,” he warns quietly. “I don’t know if you want me to bed you right now.” There’s a time and a place for bruising and teeth, and somehow, Pierre doesn’t think that’s here and now. “I will be better tomorrow—”

“What if I bed you.” Charles is quiet this close to him, but his voice is determined—not quite demanding, but certainly dug-in. Stubborn, almost. Pierre would protest it on any other day: he’ll never get enough of having the deepest parts of Charles, will never deny himself the opportunity to burrow inside and stay there until the rest of the world quiets down. Charles is often the one who needs to be spread out like this after a tough race. But something about his words register with the part of Pierre grappling with the hurt of today—something he can’t deny.

“You hate doing the work,” is the response he musters after a beat. Not a denial, but a reminder.

Charles just smiles at him. “Pierrot,” he says simply. Reaches out, presses his palm into the scruff of Pierre’s beard. “How can I hate anything when it comes to you?” His other hand comes up to properly cradle Pierre’s head, thumbs brushing gently at Pierre’s cheeks. They don’t say anything for a long moment before Charles closes the distance between them for a slow, careful kiss.

He’s smart. He’s so fucking smart. Pierre kisses him back easily, lazily, and then hungrily as silent agreement. Charles knows him—better than just about anyone in his life, and especially like this. He knows how to ramp them up, how to draw them back to bed; Pierre strips and doesn’t leave his orbit for a second, balling up his Alpine shirt and throwing it as far across the room as he can muster before Charles is on him again, warm from the sun and his sweats as he tugs Pierre down with him onto the mattress.

“It’s been a while,” he mutters between kisses, nosing at the line of Pierre’s beard and earning a breathless chuckle. “You might want to loosen up if you’re going to fit me.”

Cocky in the stupidest way. Pierre laughs again, voice strangled with the complicated mix of emotions swirling in him. “That’s your job,” he retorts, grabbing a handful of hair to tug him close for a half-formed kiss. “It really has been a while, if you’ve forgotten that.” Charles nips at his bottom lip in petulant reply, and Pierre can feel it—the black hole of desire that’s beginning to swallow everything inside him, race forgotten entirely. Charles squeezes his hip hard enough for his nails to get a good dig in, and the memory of their last time together like this comes rushing back in a wave of heady pleasure. Charles is almost as good at giving as he is at taking.

The first finger is so slick with lube that Pierre can hear the squelch of each movement like it’s playing in his ear. It feels good, albeit a little wet—Charles has never been great at the lube-to-finger ratio, considering he likes it wet, but it doesn’t change how the first crook of his finger sucks the breath right out of Pierre.

“Fuck,” Charles grits, pressing in further, “I forget how tight you are—” he eases out and presses back in and Pierre gasps again, all but swallowing his tongue as Charles goes knuckle-deep once more.

Two fingers feel even better.

It gets even wetter by the time Charles gets to three, and Pierre can’t even protest because it feels like his body needs this—something to cling to, something to ground him to the bed instead of keeping him free-floating in his frustration that’s now been jostled loose from deep in his chest. He’s entirely out of his own head at this point; flat on his back with his arms hooked under his knees, Pierre barely has a sense of himself. All he can feel is Charles and the press of his body, warm and insistent and hungry as he stretches Pierre open. Between gasping kisses and clumsy bumps of the head, he glances down at one point towards his cock, which is rock-hard and dripping with precum, leaving a damning patch of it pooled at his belly that he’d be much more conscious of were Charles not trying to sink a fourth finger inside.

“Charlie—” the thought breaks off in a moan as the fourth finger breaches him, delicious and yet not enough. “Now, want you now, please.” He knows Charles will protest that three fingers isn’t enough, knows that the stretch of his cock after all this time will burn and maybe even hurt, but it’s—it’s what he wants, what he needs.

Charles, smart as he is, knows this. He doesn’t protest. Instead, he presses a kiss to Pierre’s knee, nods once, and then does it: slides the lube-slick head of his cock into Pierre’s waiting body with a gentle kind of force.

Charles likes it like this, whenever they take the time to switch things. Where Pierre prefers the clutch of Charles’ body on his hands and knees and a hungry, rough, filthy pace, Charles likes Pierre on his back and fully visible, slow and tender. Not always, of course, but often—including here and now, as he bottoms out and settles his weight carefully over Pierre, catching his lust-parted mouth in a half-kiss as Pierre shudders and breathes around the feeling of something so big burrowed so deep in him. The muscles in his knees twitch with misuse from where they’re almost hooked over Charles’ shoulders.

“Tell me when,” Charles mumbles against his mouth. He’s so good, so good: perfectly still as he waits for Pierre to adjust, affection pouring off him in waves that Pierre is choking on. He loves Charles—loves him more than he hates anything else. It’s not even a realization as much as it’s a reminder: nothing is stronger than this, than them. Not team strategists, not ridiculous battles, not defeat—nothing.

“Now,” Pierre groans. Please, he doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. Charles is smart. Charles knows.

#the twist is bottom!pierre.#women who dont feel like writing entire smut sequences are valid you heard it here FIRST #piarles #10 x 16 #fic #<- ''fic'' it's not even really fic as much as it's A Moment

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gooperts-gunk · 3 months

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imagining cucurucho as a pathetic little guy crawling to any of his favorite islanders and going "they took my managerial job from me. im just doing contracted work now. i owe them nothing but i won't tell you anything confidential. they could take me around back and shoot me any second but i have plans to finish." but he showed up normal today so nevermind, skull emoji LUL

is it too late to make him be a little upset like in a silent way. like he lingers around a person they ask "wtf is up with you why aren't you leaving". i want q!bbh comforting him like "it's ok to lose ur purpose cucurucho! i lost my purpose when the federation brought me to this island! imagine what my boss will think when he finds out my soul quota is down... i think what's happening to you is called karma! :)"

okay maybe i just miss q!bbh and cucurucho interacting and i miss special guest crumbs but that's besides the point i want bearfailure cringeflop cucurucho, just sopping wet bear, the rabbits leave him out in the rain. living out of a dirt house with 1 cyan sofa in it.

#goopert talks qsmp #you know q!bbh's love life is bad when ur genuinely considering making him kiss a bear that's kidnapped his children and nephews and nieces #me w/ cucurucho is so i hate you but i love you but i hate you #because like the feds and census bureau are sooo misleading and manipulative and grrr i hate you i hate you #but like... they have so much personality like why is cucurucho better than some of his workers AGENT 18 i mean what who said that #i feel the same hate love hate with agent 18 because he's funny but SUCH AN ASSHOLE!!! i want u DEAD!!! but also ur funny.#anyway maxo come back so q!bbh can have a polyamorous relationship with u and q!pierre. u can get back together it will be ok #don't make me slash srs ship cucuhalo man don't do this to me please whoever the new players are woo q!bbh put up with him and love him

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jamesvowles · 23 days

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going to be very careful with my language because the last thing i want to do is discourage people from talking and having fun etc. etc. buuuuuuuuut why why why why is everybody tagging guys in text posts/art/writing that do not come up at all in the thing? seems really weird like i do NOOOOTTTT go to tags to see things adjacent to my guy i want to see MY SPECIAL GUY!!!! stop trying to SEO those tags your people will find you don't worry!!!

#and also even if you were doing what basically is search engine optimization its highly discouraged to also just...put inaccurate info its #SEO 101 #but also like ur pookie post didnt even mention alex why is it tagged alex like i laugh bc the guy im talking about is small (u wuldnt gues #who) but like..........ITS KINDA ANNOYING #da mind prison #literally seeing da nh tag have pierre fics i dont think the cross is that big to tag!!!!

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ilovefredjones · 2 years

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something about the same actor playing bolkonsky AND andrey. it makes the audience question how much of andrey’s cruelty is inherited from his father, and how much of it is a result from the war.

both are mentioned in the only song andrey physically appears in: ‘there’s a war going on’ andrey says, a callback to the prologue. in that song, the characters sing ‘the war can’t touch us here’ — an ironic statement, now. and pierre says that andrey ‘smiled just like his father / coldly, maliciously.’

andrey is malicious, and wary, and exhausted. there’s a war going on. his cruelty is echoed in the way the son is playing his father. his father is playing his son. words and notes are sung with similar cadence and emphasis. how justified is andrey? how much did the war change him, or how much can the war excuse his maliciousness? andrey does not break the cycle of his father’s cruelty, but how much of it is his fault? there’s a war going on, after all.

#andrey is SUCH a character like he’s only physically in one song #and yet the entire story of great comet is shaped around him #would natasha try to run away with anatole if andrey was here?#the entire prologue we are reminded that ‘andrey isn’t here’. he isn’t here. there’s a hole in this story #and the entire plot caves in around it #anyway i love you intricacies of character #i love you grey morals #i was watching a boot & dude the bit where andrey says #‘if you wish to be my friend...’ etc and the way he almost LUNGES as pierre who has to stumble back. MAN #like oh you threaten your best friend now?#something about andrey not being able to break the cycle. but is it his fault? there’s a war going on after all #the great comet of 1812 #andrey bolkonsky #EDIT yes i did put my tags in the post they were just really good and summed it up better #OHHHHH and the way andrey literally can’t break the cycle. the same man is always going to play him AND his father. something about+#narratives and time loops and the inescapability of theatre

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