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silverstonesainz-archive · 1 year

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just a little bit of your heart

─── i heard a little love is better than none

pairing: pierre gasly x fem!reader warnings: google translate french; profanity

There is a bit of comfortability in the love you share with Pierre. It’s simple, it’s cohesive, it just works. Though it does beg the question of how? How does it work so well? Better yet: why does it work so well? He spends most of his days strapped in his car or up in the air moving from city to city, continent to continent, while you stay just outside of Paris wrapped up in your own work. How can you love a man who spends more time away from you than in your arms?

You don’t have an answer, just that it does.

It works because he calls you every night to hear about your day. He sends selfies and photos of the world he sees, and buys you snowglobes because he knows how much you love to collect them. He calls you beautiful, tells the world he’s the luckiest guy in the world to be loved by an ‘ange comme toi’. Tu es mon ange, he says. Always calling you angel, his angel. He had his way of making you feel so wanted and loved, even from a thousand miles away.

In the quiet time between race weekends, Pierre always finds his way back to you. It was always on a Tuesday when he’d let himself in with his spare key, dropping his bags in the hallway by the door. He would call out for you and you’d come running. His smile was always wide, crinkled by his eyes as he held his arms out ready to catch you. And when you’re finally in them, god did it feel like home.

He’d hold your hand when he drives you into Paris, taking you to your favorite restaurant. He orders for you because he knows what you like. He lets you drink as much white wine as you’d like, even if he knows he’d have to carry you up the stairs when you get home. But he doesn’t mind, because when he’s holding you up you like to touch his face. You pepper wet kisses along his jaw and make him laugh when you give him grief for not growing out his mustache. You make his heart warm when you touch him sweetly.

Pierre knows your nighttime routine like the back of his hand. He sits you by the sink, hand securely resting on your hip to steady you. He knows to use the cleansing balm first, and then after taking off all your makeup, he picks the serums in the order you usually use them in. He knows nothing of the names, but the different sizes and colored labels are enough to help him figure it out. You’ll have your arms slung over his shoulders lazily as he gently rubs your moisturizer into your skin. You smile lazily, eyes hooded with alcohol as you hum softly.

"Tu m'aimes?" You slur. You love me?

He smiles, nodding. "Bien sûr que je t'aime." Of course I love you.

"Dis-le." Say it.

"Je t'aime, mon ange." I love you angel.

He loves you. He loves you. He does. Right?

Tuesdays grow to be your favorite day, because that means he comes home. It means that sometime in the afternoon, there would be an echo of him throughout your home. The familiar smell of his Valiant cologne would fill the air, it will wrap you up, and once again you’ll feel complete.

You sit on the couch and you wait. The hours tick by, the afternoon comes and goes, and soon the sun is setting and the sky shifts to pitch black.

Pierre arrives at eleven that night, bag dropping onto the floor and far too preoccupied on his phone to announce that he’s home. You hear his steps, heart anticipating his voice calling out for you. But instead you watch him walk into the room, eyes glued to his screen, stopping by you on the other side of the couch. He types and types and types, while you patiently wait for his attention. You can’t deny the way your heart aches, this overwhelming feeling of self-pity that takes over you as you keep your eyes on the man you love with every part of you. You’ve never felt more pathetic.

But he finally looks back at you, and those blue eyes convince you to forget that he was late, convince you not to ask him where he’d been, and to be happy he showed up at all.

The past Sunday doesn’t end how either of you would hope, with Pierre having to retire with only five laps to go. You were sitting at home the whole time, throw pillow clutched to your chest as you watched your boyfriend climb from P13 to P5, only to have all that hard work shattered by a collision with a Williams. You send him a text, reminding him how much you love him and how sorry you are that the race turned out the way it did. He doesn’t respond, but you chuck it to media duties and post-race meetings. You expect a response before you to go to bed, maybe even in the form of a phone call. But it was radio silent. Not a peep, not an update. One second he was in the car and just over forty-eight hours later, he’s standing before you.

At least he’s here, right?

“Pourquoi n'as-tu pas appelé?” Why didn’t you call?

He sighs softly, taking the hand that was just reaching out to you to rub his face– clearly frustrated.

“J'étais occupé mon amour.” I was busy, love.

Mon amour rolls off his tongue like it tasted bitter. It hurt.

His phone pings and Pierre is quick to unlock and read whatever it is that is on his screen. You watch the way his face breaks out into a grin, the way his fingers are quick to type a response, lip tucked between his teeth. You wonder if he ever looks at his phone like when you text him.

“Qu'est-ce?” Who is it?

“Personne. Qu'y a-t-il pour le dîner?” No one. What’s for dinner?

You sit with him at the dinner table while he eats, and he pays no mind to you. He stares at his phone, taking call after call from his team, and answering texts close to his chest. You watch Pierre like a movie, one you seemed to not be a part of. Insecurity is a weed, flourishes without needing to be nurtured and can only be rid of with proper care. But no one seems to care, not even you. You sit patiently, letting vines of self-doubt bury you while you hope the man before you would notice.

But he doesn’t. He never seems to notice you these days, too occupied with his phone and the car. He’d leave with a chaste kiss to your cheek and then he’s rushing out the door. No more invites to see him drive, no more plans of grandeur spent together. More Tuesdays are spent alone in your apartment, while you hold yourself and believe the lies that he’d be coming soon. You watch Pierre’s life unfold through a screen, no longer a part of his story even if you considered yourself to be.

You grow to hate Tuesdays. It means he’s home, that there would be an echo of him moving about your space. Tuesday means it’s the restart of a game you play with yourself. The one where you swear you’re done, that you’ll leave, that you deserve better. And when you think you find the courage to do so, he’s waltzing through the door and planting a kiss on your forehead. Nevermind the lack of twinkle and adoration in his ocean blue eyes when he sees you, nevermind that he kisses you and retreats to the bedroom. The smell of his Valiant cologne suffocates you, drowns in you in a false sense of hope that at least he came home to you.

This Tuesday comes like it does, with your chest puffed out and chin tilted to the sky until you see him and he gives you a passive smile you mistaken for affection. You let him hold your face as he presses a brief kiss against your lips before walking into the bedroom. You follow in his footsteps, leaning against the doorframe and watch as Pierre sets his phone down next to him– screen down. He looks up at you with a questioning stare.

“Allons dîner. Nous n'avons pas été à notre place depuis un moment.” Let's go to dinner. We haven't been to our spot in a while.

“Je ne sais pas... Je me sens fatigué.” I don’t know… I’m feeling tired.

You frown, a lump in your throat suddenly growing as you find it in you to beg him for just a piece of his time– time that seemed too precious to share with you.

“S'il te plaît? Tu me manques.” Please? I miss you.

He sighs, like he’d been burdened with something. Tears begin to gloss over your eyes, shaking your head.

“Pas grave. C'est stupide.” Nevermind. It’s stupid.

You walk away, shielding yourself and frailty, hiding your tears as you scurry down the hall to the bathroom. You splash cold water on your face, a poor attempt at distracting yourself from the ache in your chest. You try to forget that look on your boyfriend’s face, the rejection given in the form of a frustrated stare. Running water hides his footsteps to you, you don’t hear him shuffling behind you. You don’t even realize he’s in the room until you look up from the sink and see him behind you in the mirror.

“Ne sois pas en colère contre moi mon ange. Je suis vraiment fatigué.” Don't be upset with me angel. I’m just really tired.

No words, just a slow nod.

“Je t'emmènerai demain. Nous irons à Paris. D'accord?” I'll take you tomorrow. We'll drive into Paris. Okay?

You nod again, this time hard enough for a tear to fall onto your cheek. Pierre’s expression falls, a sad exhale coming from him as he takes a step closer to you, wrapping his arms around your frame as he leans down to press a kiss against your cheek. He whispers in your ear, asking you not to cry. Repeats his promise of taking you into the city and to your favorite spot. You want to ask him if he still loves you, asking him to say it to you over and over again ‘til you believe it.

But you were afraid of the answer.

So you take his affections for love. You allow it to mend the ache in your heart even if you know deep down it’s temporary.

He keeps his promise, he drives you into Paris. He takes you to his favorite restaurant, and you’re seated in the same spot you sit at since you both started coming here. He orders for you, because he knows what you like. But you eat in silence. He taps away on his phone while you nurse glass after glass, until the white wine has your head swirling. Your cheeks feel hot, and the room seems to tip left to right ever so slightly.

“Ralentir.” Slow down.

Pierre’s request makes you feel guilty. It makes you put the nearly empty glass down and eat your dinner quietly. You watch as he smiles at his screen, twirling pasta in his fork with no intention of eating it. It’s busy work, doing what he can to pass the time.

You’ve developed a sort of jealousy to the world around you, most especially to the phone in his hand. You envy the smile it gets, one you hadn’t seen directed to you in god only knows how long. You wonder who is so lucky to see it, to receive its warmth.

He doesn’t hold your hand on the ride back, doesn’t carry you up the stairs like he used to. He walks several steps ahead of you, only gracious enough to hold the door open for you. You flop onto the bed, undoing your jewelry and slipping off your shoes. You watch Pierre do the same, trading the dressier ensemble for jeans and a t-shirt.

“Où vas-tu?” Where are you going?

“Je vais rencontrer des amis. N'attendez pas, d'accord?” Going to meet some friends. Don't wait up, okay?

You nod wordlessly, watching as he slips his shoes back on before he walks back over to you and presses a kiss on your forehead. It lacks a spark, a warmth that you used to feel.

"Tu m'aimes?" You love me?

He stops in the doorway of the room, looking back at you with a soft sigh.

"Bien sur que oui." Of course I do.

"Dis-le." Say it.

The air is thick. You wait for him to say it, for sweet words to reassure you the way they used to.

“Tu sais que je fais. Pourquoi dois-je le dire?” You know I do. Why do I have to say it?

You nod, gaze moving down to your lap. He loves you. He loves you. He does. Right?

“D'accord. Fais attention. Je te verrai plus tard.” Okay. Be safe. I'll see you later.

You watch him walk out, listen to his footsteps move further and further away from you until they disappear behind the front door shutting. When you’re sure he’s gone, you pull yourself off the bed and stumble into the kitchen to grab a half empty bottle of wine. You don’t bother with a glass, making your way back to bed as you turn on the TV and drink straight from the bottle.

Some time in the night, the wine lulls you to sleep. It’s dreamless. Your body feels heavy, sinking into the mattress. The alcohol numbs you, helps you forget the impending despair and self-loathing waiting to settle in your bones when Pierre comes home– if he comes home.

He does, the door slamming shut, pulling you from your sleep. You take a quick peek at the time. 3:08am. You squeeze your eyes shut when his footsteps come closer, and the door to the bedroom squeaks open. Your heart beats quickly, listening to Pierre attempt to move quietly around the small room. Rustling, padded footsteps, fabric falling to the floor. It isn’t long until the bed is dipping behind you, and you can feel his body heat against you. But you don’t feel his arms, no kiss, no form of affection. It’s cold as he slips into bed with you, facing the wall instead of you. His soft snores fill the space in no time, and you allow yourself to open your eyes. You quietly slip out of bed, eyes scanning the now messy bedroom. Clothes are strewn across the floor, shoes kicked against the wall. You shuffle quietly, cleaning up after him as he sleeps in your bed.

It’s when you pick up his shirt do you catch a whiff of a sweet rose scent that’s not yours. You hate the smell of roses.

You spend the rest of the night on the floor of your bathroom, his shirt balled in your fist as you cry angrily but quietly.

There’s a bit of fear in leaving the only love you truly ever known. A fear in confronting the fact he was no longer yours alone, and that he had likely found someone else. How do you choose to tiptoe around him, to allow yourself to fall into a false sense of security time and time again? How can you love a man who has fallen for another? How does loving him work?

He spends most of his days strapped in his car or up in the air moving from city to city anyway. He was never truly there to begin with, even on your best day. Maybe your love never truly worked to begin with.

But you both stay, even if you know how much it breaks you.

It’s complicated. An age-old term to describe the limbo between friends and something more, between I love you and I’m sorry, between love and its end. It’s used to describe two stubborn people unwilling to let go of the other out of their own selfishness. Because that’s the truth. You stay, selfishly taking what he has to offer as enough, lie to yourself and say the very little he gives is enough to sustain your heart even as it cracks under your chest. You both lie through your teeth when you say you’re happy together, when you face friends and family who see the loveless stares you exchange at the dinner table. But no one has the heart to call you on it. They take a page from your book, and stand idly by. They watch quietly as you lose pieces of yourself everytime Pierre walks out the door without you.

The fact of the matter is that neither of you wanted to be alone. You’d rather sit in a room with ‘complicated’ than to be alone. But you love him, you really do. And you think that maybe he does too, because why else would he stay… right? There was at least a bit of comfort in the fact that a bit of love exists in the space. And sometimes a little love is better than none.

NOTE: i kinda fast tracked this one bc i got a surge of inspiration. so sorry if it doesn't make any sense. i tried to proof read it but im a dud when it comes to my own work. yes, sorta almost based off 'just a little bit of your heart' by ariana grande. hope u like this one & as always, feedback is always greatly appreciated.

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#pierre gasly #pierre gasly x reader #pierre gasly one shot #pierre gasly imagine #pierre gasly angst #pierre gasly fanfic #sad song series #track 02

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silverstonesainz-archive · 1 year

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ceilings

─── lovely to sit between comfort & chaos

pairing: carlos sainz x fem!reader warnings: alludes to sexual themes; google translate spanish

his touch is soft.

his fingers dance on your skin, gentle and never haste. he takes his time tracing every dip and curve. you like the way his touch feels against you, the way it spreads warmth and love all throughout you.

his voice is kind.

it is never loud in anger. his words are genuine, always sweet to you. it makes you feel whole, makes you feel like the only girl in the world. the roll of his tongue naturally, like honey dripping from his lips.

he loves with every nerve ending, shows it in all he does. whether it’s in what he says to your or how he holds you, it’s always love. he makes you feel secure while he paints a picture of your future together in your mind.

he is your dream come true, all yours.

your eyes slip open, sore from the light peeking through half closed blinds. the ceiling is plain, watching you wake up from a long night. you rub your eyes with the back of your hand before stretching them upward. soft snores are beside you, and you smile to yourself. you turn your head to find your boyfriend sleeping soundly, face half buried in the pillow with his arm slung over your torso. his lips are parted slightly, bottom lip plump and pink against the white sheets. he is golden, beautiful under the morning light. he twitches slightly, eyebrows furrowing for split second before relaxing. you turn slowly under his hold, admiring the way he looks in his slumber. peaceful, relaxed, like an angel. you didn’t want to touch, to disturb him. he’s like a piece of art in a museum, you were just there to admire.

carlos stirs not too long after, his snores quieting all too quickly and his hold on you suddenly tightening. he pulls you to him, your fronts nearly touching. he doesn’t open his eyes, just hums softly with his lips upturned.

“estás mirando fijamente.” you’re staring

his voice is thick with sleep, raspy and an octave lower than normal. you blush, a giddy smile on your face as you shake your head. he hums a little louder, more amused at the sound of your head moving against the pillow.

“te gusta lo que ves?” do you like what you see?

“si.”

he chuckles softly, finally showing you his amber brown eyes. his lids are still heavy, but he does his best to hold them open to look at you. it’s quiet as he studies your face, admires the way you look in his arms under the the sunlight peaking through the blinds.

“i forgot to close the curtains.” he finally says.

“that’s okay. you look pretty under this light anyways.”

carlos sits across from you quietly, fingers wrapping around the handle of his mug as he lifts its up to his lips. he sips his coffee quietly, fingers scrolling through whatever is on his screen. breakfast is quiet, comfortable. it’s hot coffee, waffles, and blueberries. he loves blueberries in the morning. he reads and you sit and watch, falling for the way his bottom lip is jutted outwards and the little crease between his thick brows. he pays no mind to you, just reading and sipping his coffee.

“quieres más café?” do you want more coffee?

he shakes his head, setting his now empty mug down. he clicks his phone lock and looks up at you across the table.

“estás muy lejos. ven aquí, cariño.” you’re so far away. come over here, lover.

carlos reaches for your hand on the table, tugging you gently off your seat. you cave easily, taking quick steps around the table and onto his lap. his hands wrap around your waist, holding you securely against him. you hook one arm around the back oh his neck, while your other hand rests on his jaw. quiet stares, sweet smiles, two lovers admiring the other. it’s a moment you would sear into your mind. the look in his eyes is unmistakeable, it’s love in it’s purest form. his eyes glow, they are accompanied by a toothy smile. his cheeks are round, rosy, nose leaning in to nudge yours. your heart skips a beat the close proximity, the way the ghost of his lips tickle yours. you try to close the space, but he leans his head back before you can kiss him.

you whine softly, “bésame.”

he chuckles, chest rumbling under your touch. he leans in again, nose nudging and lips hovering over yours. it’s still for a moment, his eyes flickering up and down to gage your reaction. neither of you breathe, not a single muscle moves.

you whine again, but he kisses you quiet this time. he tastes of coffee and mint toothpaste. carlos’s lips are soft against your own, they move slowly, sensually. it lights every single nerve ending of yours ablaze. one of his hands slide down your thigh, squeezing softly, while the other rests on the curve of your bum. you hold his face, pulling him even closer as you kiss him. his tongue is soft, gentle as it draws a line along your bottom lip, beckoning to be let in. your lips part, tongues dancing. nothing is urgent, no hurry, just enjoying the feeling kissing the other person.

there is no rush to peel clothes off the other, no rush to be as near as you could be. his touches— his movements— are slow. it’s an outpour of love, a reminder of how well he knows every tick and every move to quicken your pulse. your lips sing praises of him, his favorite song, saved for his ears only.

in a mess of sheets, clammy skin pressed against the other, you can’t help but stare at the man next you. his eyes are closed, lips parted, chest rising and falling as he pants softly. you press a kiss to his chest, and you feel him vibrate under you.

“te amo.” you mumble.

“te amo más.” he utters back.

“imposible.”

you grin, looking up at him. he cranes his neck, trying to get a view of you sprawled over him. his smile is your favorite thing in the world, the way it pulls your heart further and further into him.

“en qué estás pensando?” what are you thinking about?

you think of waking up to him in ten years. and in twenty years. thirty years too. you picture kids jumping into bed with you, and grandkids giggling all through out the house. you imagine carlos with salt and pepper hair, thick and long, crows feet and smile lines because he’s just so happy with the life he’s led.

you shake your head instead, “nada. solo estoy feliz.” nothing. i’m just happy.

carlos slips your shirt over your head, holding the shirt wide so you have room to slip your arms through the sleeves. lunch is an afterthought when he drives you through madrid with his hand on your thigh. the radio hums softly in the background, accompanying light hearted conversation. carlos talks, rambles on and on over something you don’t understand. he’d lift his hand off your thigh for a moment to make a gesture, because he always talks with his hand. but he’d always put it back like it belonged there. and he kisses you at red lights, between conversation. his tone fluctuates with excitement, giggles between rushed and stumbled words. you could listen to him forever. you want to listen to him forever.

there’s a park on the opposite side of town from where you stay. it’s small, but there’s a bench that faces the expanse of land, a perfect view to watch people move about their day while you sit idly by. you and carlos let the hours tick by, fingers intertwined and resting in your lap. you fill the air with stories, some of which he had missed while being on the road. you make him laugh every now and again. the kind that’s pitched, soft ha’s, with the bridge of his nose scrunched up because his smile is so wide. and every time he does, you look up at him. you wonder if he sees the same look in your eyes that you see in his. the same glow of adoration, the same warmth, a sense of welcoming and home.

there is a moment of quiet, when all the stories are shared and the laughter subsides. your head rests on his shoulder as the two of you watch kids run in the grass and couples stroll by. you watch the way the world pays no mind to two lovers who spend their time sitting in silence. the world keeps spinning, people keep walking, and you and carlos sit and watch it all.

dinner is takeout eaten at home. carlos complains while you pick at his sushi, but he makes no effort to stop you. and when dinner is done, you wash dishes quietly while he takes out the trash. it is domestic bliss as the two of you bring the house together, ready for you to whisk through it all over again tomorrow. you shower together. he scrubs your back with a loofa, and you rub suds on his chest. it’s intimate, sweet, chaste kisses between bubbles and water. he squeezes toothpaste from the middle of the tube, and you scold him for it.

he climbs into bed first, pulling back the covers for you to join him. he waits patiently, watching as you switch all the lights off, but leave the blinds open. the moon coats your room in blue, giving you enough light to find your way to bed. carlos pulls the covers over you, pulling you close so that your chest is against his own.

“te amo,” he whispers.

“will you tell me again in the morning?”

“siempre. por el resto de mi vida..” always. for the rest of my life.

his fingers comb through your hair, rubbing against your scalp. his scent, his touch, his soft hums lull you to sleep. it’s dreamless, dark, an endless world of empty. you feel your heart fall apart in your slumber. piece by piece, it breaks beneath your chest as you slowly slip back into your reality.

your eyes slip open, sore from the tears you shed the night before. the ceiling is plain, it mocks you and your dreams of a man who hasn't been in your bed in months. you squeeze your eyes shut, hoping that you could slip back into a false sense of security painted by your imagination. but you’re only met with darkness. your eyes spring open, tears blur your vision again. you cry softly, pulling the blanket up to your chin as you turn over in your empty bed. the curtains are drawn shut, not a sliver of the day behind it slipping through. you lay broken, crying quietly with your four walls and ceiling listening to the tune of your sadness. it’s a song you play all alone, lyrics written by the man who broke you.

you cry until your tears run dry and it’s just your soft whimpers. you liked crying sometimes, because if you’re lucky enough you are lulled back to sleep and into a world where carlos was still with you. it doesn’t happen this time though. instead you stare at the space once occupied by the man you loved, imagining he was still snoring softly beside you.

breakfast is at noon. it’s half drunk coffee and blueberries you push around with a fork. you don’t like blueberries all that much anymore. they were never your favorite to begin with, but you had yet to break the habit of buying them.

you sit on the couch until the sunsets, mind trying to piece together the dream you had the night before. you try to remember his smile, the way his eyes light up when they are looking at you. you try to hear his laughter, his soft voice while telling a story you can’t even recall. you desperately try to remember him, and it leaves you in a mess of tears. memories slip through your grasp, like grains of sand in a tightly wound fist. the tighter you hold, the more it slips away. you try to place the last touch, the last kiss, the last kind word, but nothing comes to you. it’s a mess of agony and heartbreak, with only the memory of the end of your relationship at the forefront of it all. it’s only touches that were sparse, words laced in regret, and the image of him walking away from you. nothing else seemed to take precedent, just a torturous nightmare playing over and over.

you slip into bed with curtains still drawn tightly after brushing your teeth. a tube of toothpaste squeezed in the middle rests by your sink.

your mind wanders to carlos, wondering how he moves on in the world while you lay idly by in your sadness. you stare at the ceiling and it stares back. it watches your pain, the way it’s etched itself into every nerve in your body. pain doesn’t become you, it dulls you down, but it is all consuming. it’s a weed that wraps around you, hides your from the world and keeps you in your wallowing.

tears fall down your face, breaths broken by your cries as you slip into another stream of sobs. you mourn your broken heart that lays in your chest, for a love lost and no longer yours. you cry at the ceiling, and it listens.

NOTE: this idea has been rotting away in my mind for a while and i finally found it in me to write it. semi based on ceilings by lizzy mcalpine bc i can't get the song out of my head. i hope you enjoyed this on & as always, feedback is always appreciated.

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#carlos sainz #carlos sainz jr #carlos sainz x reader #carlos sainz one shot #carlos sainz imagine #carlos sainz angst #carlos sainz fanfic #carlos sainz jr x reader #carlos sainz jr one shot #carlos sainz jr imagine #carlos sainz jr angst #carlos sainz jr fanfic #sad song series #track 01

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