Formula One - One Shots

𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐛𝐚𝐧 ~~ ropes are the devil's jewellery

cw: explicit work, Esteban fully consents on being tied up.

<~>

Este doesn't let himself enjoy the feeling of being helpless, even if he loves it maybe as much as racing. After 2019, it just feels wrong to enjoy something that reminds him of a time when he though the grass under his feet might be cut shirt. And yet, more often than not, in the lonely nights when his right hand is his mistress, he lets the left one creep up his torso, elegantly get around his throat, but not applying any pressure.

It's during those midnight sessions he gets off the hardest.

But it's been days, weeks, since Este fully relished in the feeling, fully gave control to someone else, trusting them to know what would be te best to pleasure him. There is nobody he can trust that much, and somehow, he keeps greeting disturbed right when he wants to take the edge off.

"What's making you so cranky," Pierre asks, during one of their media day, filming for the team. "You can't even get a smile out."

The other Frenchman isn't wrong. Frustration has crawled under Este's skin, making a home there. He is restless. Can't stop for two seconds to think. Can't stop for to seconds to calm down. Can't stop wanting for someone to make him calm down.

"Nothing," he replies too quickly, too harsh. "This day is just long, that's all."

Pierre looks at him, unimpressed. Even Este isn't convinced by his own lie. But the other driver doesn't push the issue, just shrugs it away. After all, they aren't friends anymore. will probably never be again, it's not Pierre's problem to worry about Este's wellbeing anymore.

The day stretches and stretches, until it's already late and Este's just coming back to his hotel room. His TV-less, cellular reception-less, boring as fuck room. He sits on the bed, wanting to watch some, uhhh, plus 18 video.

« Putain de bordel de merde ! » He screams as even the Google page won't load.

He phone inadvertently gets out of his hand, hitting the wall he shares with Pierre. Because oh yeah, management thought it would be funny to put them closer, the fucking wankers.

As Este pics up his phone, someone knocks at the door. He swears under his breath. It's 22:34 for fuck's sake! Who wants to see him now?

« Esteban ? Tout va bien ? »

Of fucking course it had to be Pierre, of all the people on this floor, to come and check up on him. Este wants to laugh in despair, but forces himself to keep composure. He gets up, and opens the door just a little, just enough for Pierre to see his face.

"Everything's alright, just accidentally threw my phone, that's all."

His normand accent is stronger, always somehow is when he talks to Pierre. The words come out of his mouth more slowly, and he feels his tongue moving like it used to, when he was just a little kid growing up in the vicinity of Rouen. He cringes at how he sounds, but he can't relish in that feeling for too long, nor when Pierre seems ready to pursue the conversation they had early.

"Really? You expect me to believe that? I've seen five years olds lie more convincingly than you, Esteban."

His name is harsh in Pierre's mouth. Este wonders how it would sound if Pierre was getting a blowjob from Este.

"I... hum..."

The idea goes as fast as it came. Este can feel his checks burn up, can feel Pierre's confusion growing.

"Are you sure you are ok?" He asks again, much to Este's dismay. "You aren't catching a cold, aren't you?"

The other driver just nods, saying no. Pierre seems satisfied, more or less, by Este's answer, so he leaves. It could have ended here, this long and awkward conversation. Yet, Este just had to faintly smell Pierre's cologne, and his mind is tortured again. His lips let out a small groan. His frustration was coming back. Fast.