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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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icarustypicalfall · 1 month

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Commander's last love

masterlist • ao3 • fic masterlist • part 4

summary: Training till draining, where tears spill and pride kills. He just wants peace.

Warnings: bad self image, self sabotage, scars, sparring, wounds.

note: i hate u tumblr for deleting the first one >:(. also if y'all want to be added to the tag list tell me :3

tags: @unicorngirly1

"Dis moi, est-ce-que tu m'aime? Je suis emprisonné de tes yeux, de ta douce voix. Dis moi la vérité."

Mission [A2626]

Location: [CLASSIFIED]

Time: 15:20:34 - 24/10/2022

What on earth could have prompted Shadow's esteemed company and revered member of the military to rise at such ungodly hours and become the sidekick to two young people?

Well...

After yesterday's meeting (Phillip might start following them from bed) he was certain of two things: the mission was progressing smoothly despite numerous obstacles, and he had a strong urge to push that Sky Diver out of the helicopter at the earliest opportunity. He might even consider pulling off the Gaz move in this unit.

As he sat beside you and Sky on the way back to the base (a logistical oversight), all he wanted was to return home and rest. However, you and Sky seemed to be engaged in playful banter and meaningless arguments out of nowhere. Pardon Phillip's manners, but he couldn't find his blanket and had only managed to sleep for less than five hours. He was on the verge of losing his temper with Martin.

Phillip groaned as the unusual noise grew louder. He snapped, "Is there anything the two of you are better at than opening your mouths?" It wasn't like him to be snarky or mean, as he usually preferred playful taunting. But in that moment, he couldn't deny that he felt... jealous?

Yes, absolutely.

He was also sleep-deprived and in need of a hug. Apart from that, he was perfectly fine.

He had been here for over two weeks, yet he felt as if there was now more distance between you and him than there was between his own shadows and logic.

You stared at him, your brows furrowing over your usual mask.

He wished you would feel safe around him, or at least trust him enough to reveal the hidden beauty that you chose to veil from him. You often let your guard down around your colonel and her husband, as well as some of the other soldiers. Even Sky got to see you. Why couldn't Phil?

It was like a precious pearl locked away in a chest, afraid of thieves. But he wasn't a thief; he would never dare to steal you away from your life, from where you truly belonged. The only thing he wanted to steal was your heart, but apparently, that was as difficult as cupping the surface of the moon and sealing it with a kiss.

Nevertheless, he was determined. He wouldn't give up, even if it meant getting hurt along the way. Even if it meant facing the failure of his broken heart shattering. He didn't want to creep you out; he just wanted to understand the reason for your disdain.

You interrupted, squinting your eyes with what he assumed was a smirk, "Yes, Commander, we train to ensure our joints don't start cracking at 30."

Oh, wrong move.

He glared at you, crossing his arms as he spoke with an air of confidence, as if your remark hadn't affected him at all. "No, doll, I certainly train as well. But what I've seen from the two of you is pathetic. I highly doubt you would have passed boot camp."

Push, prod, bait... anything to leave a lasting mark. A constant reminder of your rejection.

Sky chimed in, his carefree spirit making Phillip want to throw himself off the moving van. "What if you give us proper training, Commander?"

Phillip, providing you and Sky with training? Making you sweat and curse at him? Supporting you as you struggled through your reps? Sparring with you?

His prayers had finally been answered. He tried to hide the grin spreading across his face with his usual proud smirk. "You won't last a single minute."

You laughed, and his heart fluttered. Phillip wasn't exactly old; he was in his thirties, but he still possessed the spirit of a young man. You made him rejoice in those moments of familiarity.

Since childhood, Phillip had always been left out, hated, and bullied. Even his own family favored his sibling, leaving him to live in their shadow. He had thought that joining the army and fulfilling his father's wishes would earn him a modicum of respect. But he was wrong.

That's why he had severed ties with his family, only visiting on rare occasions. He would watch as his brother basked in the limelight. His brother, a renowned lawyer with a beautiful wife and a young son. Phillip grew distant after his mother's death, burying with her the last remnants of affection.

Phillip looked at Sky and felt a pang in his heart. The young man had everything: success, friends, money... and you. The way you shared laughter and giggles made him envious of that connection.

He longed for love, acceptance, friendship, anything. But he had never been good at being vulnerable. All he could do was watch and pray for a miracle to happen. Maybe one day, or perhaps never.

This was the bitter reality that Phillip had to swallow since the day he came into this world.

Later on, the three of you convened in the training facility, finding it empty. It was evident that Phillip had discreetly dismissed the three rookies who were miserably failing at their sparing session. He stood alone, anxiously waiting as the clock's ticking intensified his nerves. To drown out the demons of his loneliness, he turned up his headphones. The reminders of his solitude were silenced.

Having arrived, you entered the room dressed entirely in black. A nod of acknowledgement was exchanged between you and Phillip before you began your warm-up routine. Shortly after, Sky joined the group, offering a brief excuse for his delay. Phillip's gaze lingered on you for a moment, admiring your strength and the flawless execution of your moves, which he doubted he could ever replicate. Caught staring, he coughed nervously before uttering, "Well, sweetheart, care to show me what you're capable of?"

Your laughter filled the room, a soft giggle that felt like the first rays of sunlight in winter. Approaching Phillip, you positioned yourself in the sparing section. He followed shortly while Sky cheered from the sidelines.

Phillip was about to make a snarky remark, but before he could, your fist swiftly found its mark on his chest with a forceful punch that stole his breath away.

Coughing, he grabbed hold of your arm and threw you onto your back. Pinning you down with his knee on your stomach, he lifted your chin, locking eyes with you. "Told ya, sweetheart. No chance," he declared.

Your laughter only caused his heart to ache once again. The grip of your bare fingertips on his bicep burned, torturing his soul.

"No, Commander, she was going easy on you," Sky interjected, causing Phillip to frown.

Easy on him? Was he this old?

Releasing his hold on you, he stood up, attempting to conceal the pain etched on his face as he took a sip of water. Finding a spot to rest, he watched as Sky and other soldiers showcased their impressive moves shirtless. A sigh escaped his lips as he cursed his aging body and the unsightly scars that adorned it. He leaned back, contemplating removing his shirt but ultimately opted to clutch his water bottle tightly till his knuckles turned white.

After the intense training session, you found yourself drenched in sweat, ravenous, and above all, exhausted.

Deciding it was time for a quick bath followed by a well-deserved nap, your eyes roamed the room, landing on Commander Graves who was venting his frustration by pummeling a boxing bag.

To your surprise, your prejudices faded away as you observed him. The man wasn't half bad, and you could even acknowledge some of his positive attributes. However, whenever you caught a glimpse of him, memories of a past life, someone you despised with every fiber of your being, resurfaced.

Driven by curiosity, you approached him, addressing him gently by his rank. "Commander?"

He stared at you in shock, perplexed as to why you were there and not with the rest of the group. Letting out a sigh, he forced a smile and replied.

“Yes, sweetheart? Anything else you want from this old man?”

In that moment, something within you shifted, causing you to abandon your animosity towards him. Without hesitation, you found yourself standing before him, gently holding his bruised hand and carefully bandaging it. He looked at you, feeling defeated yet momentarily at peace. Your cold hands cradled his, softly tending to his wounds as you reassured him, "No need to be upset, Commander. Everyone admires your abilities." Vulnerable to the core, he gazed at you, his guard lowered.

Before turning away and heading towards your room, you whispered, "Oh, and Phill, comparison is the thief of joy."

Phil?

If anything, this encounter healed every doubt he had. He couldn't believe that his name had left your lips. As he watched you walk away, he pondered what had just transpired.

Later that night, as Phillip prepared for bed, a smile adorned his face. However, his happiness quickly dissipated when he received a call from General Shepard. The weight of despair settled upon him as he listened in silence, absorbing the General's words.

No.

Not again.

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