SUMMARY: You just wanted to try a harmless Halloween spell to discover your boyfriend’s spirit animal but instead of answers, you got a very clingy koala and less than an hour before FP1.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x witch!reader
W.C: 1.4K
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It all started because you got bored.
Which, in your defense, tends to happen when your boyfriend is a Formula 1 driver and he’s been in debrief for over an hour while you sit in his driver room.
Halloween at the track was… weird.
Some engineers had witch hats on, a couple of mechanics wore vampire fangs, and Lando had been walking around in a half-hearted Dracula cape for the last twenty minutes, claiming he was “in character.”
You, on the other hand, were trying very hard not to accidentally make anything explode.
Oscar had left his phone on the table when he went to his engineering meeting, and you’d been absent-mindedly flipping through your grandmother’s tiny pocket spellbook. Just small spells. Nothing dangerous.
Lately, your magic had been… acting weird. Small things. The candles flickering when you sneezed. Your hair randomly changing color mid-argument. The last time you tried to do a simple levitation spell, your entire drawer floated for three hours straight and refused to come down until Oscar bribed it with a cookie.
So yeah, you weren’t exactly in control.
Still, something about today felt different. Maybe it was the Halloween energy in the air.
You shouldn’t have touched the spellbook.
You definitely shouldn’t have said that one spell out loud.
But in your defense… you were curious.
You found one called “Animus familiaris.”
“Reveal the true familiar of one bound by affection.”
You didn’t mean to cast it.
You just kind of… whispered the words under your breath, curious what Oscar’s “spirit form” would be.
Except… apparently, the universe took that as a full-power command.
Because ten seconds later, the air around you shimmered ... and poof.
Oscar’s hoodie, cap, and radio earpiece all fell neatly onto the chair.
And in their place sat a fluffy gray koala, blinking up at you with the most confused expression you’d ever seen.
You stared at it.
It stared back.
“No,” you whispered.
“Absolutely not.”
The koala tilted its head. And then in a way that was so painfully Oscar it let out the tiniest grumble and reached for your sleeve.
“Oh my god,” you gasped. “Osc?”
The koala blinked slowly. Then, with the smallest squeak, it crawled up your arm and attached itself to you like a fuzzy backpack.
“Oscar Piastri, get off me right now, oh my god, you’re clinging. You’re actually clinging—”
That’s when you heard it.
Footsteps.
Lando’s voice.
“Hey, have you seen Osc—”
He froze in the doorway. “What the hell is that?”
Your brain short-circuited.
You were holding a koala.
“This?” you said weakly. “Uh… mascot.”
Lando blinked. “Mascot?”
“Yeah! New team mascot! Surprise!”
Lando squinted. “Where did you get it?”
You glanced down at the koala, who, of course, chose that exact moment to nuzzle against your neck and make a small, satisfied noise.
You wanted to die.
Right there. Instantly.
“It’s… a rescue,” you said quickly. “Wildlife… thing. You know. Nature.”
Lando just stared at you like you’d grown two heads. “Right. And where’s Oscar? Zak’s been asking for him. FP1 starts in forty-five minutes.”
Your pulse spiked. “Oh! He’s… uh… not feeling great. But he’ll be here! Soon! Just a little jet lag. Weird breakfast. Gluten or something.”
“Right,” Lando said slowly.
His eyes narrowed at the koala now halfway buried in your jacket. “That thing looks disturbingly attached to you.”
You forced a laugh. “Yeah, it’s, uh...affectionate. Emotional support marsupial.”
“Okay…” Lando dragged the word out, looking entirely unconvinced. “If Oscar doesn’t show up in half an hour, Andrea’s gonna kill me. So maybe… check on him?”
You nodded way too fast. “Totally! Will do! He’s fine, everything’s fine!”
Lando opened his mouth like he wanted to say something else, but then the koala grabbed your left boob.
You froze.
He froze.
Lando blinked. “…did that koala just—”
“Yeah” you said immediately, clutching it tighter and turning away. “he’s just...um...friendly. Very tactile species.”
The koala (aka your very confused boyfriend) blinked innocently, still holding on like his life depended on it.
“Okay,” Lando muttered, slowly backing away. “I’ve seen enough. You and your emotional support koala whatever. I’ll check the garage.”
You plastered on the fakest smile known to mankind. “Perfect! See you in a bit!”
He left.
You collapsed into the nearest chair, koala still glued to you.
“Oh my god, Oscar,” you groaned, whispering into his soft fur. “Of all animals. Why. A koala?”
The koala just blinked up at you again, slow and calm, like he was offended by your tone.
***
You were kneeling in the middle of the floor, hair messy, eyes wide, holding a half-open spellbook that looked like it had given up on life.
Across from you, the koala, a very unimpressed koala, blinked slowly.
“I swear this time it’ll work,” you said, voice shaky.
Oscar tilted his fuzzy head, eyes saying you said that seven times ago.
You bit your lip. “Don’t look at me like that.”
The air shimmered again, you murmured the words, and… BOOM.
When the smoke cleared, he was still a koala.
But now wearing his McLaren hoodie.
You sighed so hard you nearly cried. “Great. Now you’re cozy.”
“Okay, okay, I think I got it this time,” you whispered after twenty more failed tries.
You lit a candle, focused all your energy, and recited the spell as carefully as you could.
And this time the glow was stronger. The room shook a little.
Then… poof!
Where the koala had been sitting, now stood Oscar, barefoot, hair messy, eyes wide open.
He blinked. “Please tell me I didn’t just spend three hours in a tree.”
You froze. “Technically… just half an hour”
“Unbelievable,” he groaned, running a hand through his hair. “You really need a manual or something.”
You couldn’t help laughing, even though you were shaking from relief. “I’m happy your spirit animal isn’t a kangaroo. If anyone saw that in your driver room…”
He shot you a half-smile. “Don’t even joke about that.”
You barely had time to celebrate because a loud knock echoed through the door.
“Oi! You guys alive in there?”
It was Lando.
You froze, eyes widening. “Crap, crap, crap act normal!”
Oscar mouthed, “I am normal,” but you both knew that was debatable.
You opened the door, trying to look casual while Oscar pretended like he hadn’t just been reincarnated.
Lando looked from you to Oscar, then back to you, eyebrows raised.
“Where’s your mascot, mate? The little koala? Everyone was obsessed with it.”
You blinked too fast. “Oh! Uhm, yeah— he… he’s sleeping! In, uh, in the eucalyptus section of the hospitality garden.”
Lando frowned. “There’s no eucalyptus section.”
“There is now! …I planted it. As a surprise.”
Oscar facepalmed behind you, muttering, “She means metaphorically.”
Lando squinted suspiciously, then shrugged. “Weirdest couple ever, I swear.” And he walked off.
The moment the door shut, you exhaled dramatically and fell back against it.
Oscar crossed his arms, trying not to laugh. “You planted a eucalyptus section?”
“Shut up. You’re lucky I didn’t turn him into a koala too.”
He chuckled, leaning closer. “Next time you try a spell on me, maybe tell me first?”
summary: A car accident leaves you disoriented and hurt in the hospital. When the paramedics call your emergency contact, Oscar drops everything to be there.
warnings: descriptions of injuries and shock
word count: 5.2k
Everything was too quiet. That was the first thing that felt wrong.
Your ears rang, high-pitched and insistent, and underneath that there was nothing. No music. The radio had cut out. You'd been listening to something, but you couldn't remember what.
The airbag smelled like chemicals and something burnt. You couldn't quite remember why your face was pressed against it, or why your hands shook so badly when you tried to push yourself back.
Your door was open, though you hadn't opened it. Someone was talking to you, their face swimming in your peripheral vision, but the words didn't land right. They slid past you like water.
"—kay? Miss? Can you hear me?"
You turned your head. It hurt.
Everything hurt in this distant, muffled way, like your body hadn't quite caught up to what happened. There was a woman crouched by your door, and you were fairly certain that her mouth was moving. You should probably answer.
"M'fine," you managed to get out. Your voice sounded wrong, thin. "I'm okay."
In reality, you weren't sure if that was true. When you looked down at your hands, still braced against the deflating airbag, they were shaking so hard you couldn't make them stop. There was blood on your right hand – not a lot, just some smeared across your knuckles like you'd scraped them against something.
The woman was still talking, it seemed. By now, she appeared to have her phone out too.
You should focus. You should listen.
"—n’ ambulance is coming, okay? Just stay still. Don't try to move yet."
Ambulance?
That word stuck. You didn't need an ambulance. You were fine. You tried to say so, but when you opened your mouth, nothing came out right. Your tongue suddenly felt thick. The ringing in your ears got louder.
You closed your eyes.
Just for a second. Just to make the spinning stop.
When you opened them again, there were more people.
Paramedics?
One of them was shining a light in your eyes and you flinched back, but there was nowhere to go. Your seatbelt was still on. You hadn't even realized.
"Can you tell me your name?"
You told them. You thought you told them. Everything felt like it was happening underwater.
"Do you know where you are?"
You looked through the windshield. The glass was cracked, spiderwebbing out from a point you didn't remember hitting.
There was another car. That was why you'd stopped. That was why—
"There was… a car," you slurred, but the words sounded muffled to even your own ears. Your voice cracked when you spoke up again.
"I didn'— I tried to stop. Is everyone—?"
"Everyone's okay," the paramedic replied, cutting her off before you could continue to worry about that. He had kind eyes. You focused on that.
"You were in a minor collision, miss. You took most of the impact. We're gonna get you out now, alright?"
You nodded. That hurt too.
They eased you out of the car slowly, and the world tilted sideways. Your legs didn't quite hold you. Someone caught your elbow, guided you to the back of an ambulance. You sat. The doors were open and you could see your car from here, crumpled on the passenger side where the other car had hit you.
It didn't look real.
None of this felt real.
The paramedic was asking you questions. Your address, your birthday, if anything hurt. Everything hurt, but you couldn't pinpoint where. It was all just… noise.
"Is there someone we can call?" he tried to ask..
You blinked at him for a moment. Your phone. You should have your phone. You patted your pockets automatically, but one of the paramedics was already holding it out to you. The screen was cracked because of course it was.
"We need an emergency contact," he attempted again, even more gently this time. "Someone who can meet you at the hospital?"
Hospital?
You were going to the hospital.
No, no, no. That felt like too much. You opened your mouth to argue, but instead you let your head fall back against the inside of the ambulance and closed your eyes – just for a second, just until the world stopped tilting.
Somewhere far away, you thought you might’ve heard someone say your name before it all faded to black.
The hospital lights were way too bright.
You were in a bed now, though somehow, you didn't really remember getting into it. Someone had apparently taken your shoes off for you. Beside you, there was a blood pressure cuff on your arm that kept tightening and releasing, tightening and releasing. It was annoying. You wanted to take it off, but when you tried, your hands simply wouldn't cooperate.
A nurse came in, wearing purple scrubs with little dogs on them. You stared at the dogs while she asked you questions. Most of them were the same ones from before – your name, your birthday, what day it was.
You answered.
Probably.
She seemed satisfied enough.
"Alright, hun, we're gonna do a CT scan, just to be safe, okay?" she told her sweetly. "Looks like you hit your head pretty hard. Any nausea? Vision problems?"
"S’ blurry, a bit," you admitted. "Everything's kind of blurry."
The nurse wrote something down on her clipboard before looking up at her with a kind smile. "That's normal. You're doing fine, sweetheart. Just try to stay awake for me, okay?"
You nodded. Staying awake felt harder than it should.
She left.
You closed your eyes anyway.
Spoon enough, someone else came in – a doctor, maybe. He pressed on your ribs and you sucked in a breath because that actually hurt, sharp and specific. He muttered something about possible bruising, told you to try to breathe normally.
You tried.
That was, of course, followed up by more tests. They wheeled you somewhere for the CT scan and the machine was loud and you had to hold still and you just wanted to go home. You wanted your bed. You wanted to stop feeling like your brain was three steps behind your body.
When they brought you back to the room, there was a different nurse checking something on the monitor by your bed.
"Your contact is on his way," she stated without really looking up. "Should be here soon."
You blinked at her. "Who?" you asked.
She glanced at the chart, flipping a couple pages up before she found what she was looking for. "You file says the person we were successfully able to contact was Oscar Piastri? That's what we have listed."
Oh.
Of course it was Oscar. You'd forgotten he was listed as one of your emergency contacts. You'd meant to update that months ago, add your parents or something, but you'd never gotten around to it. And now he was coming here. He was probably in the middle of something. Training or a meeting or really anything that had to do with having a life of his own.
You should text him, tell him not to come. You fumbled for your phone but it wasn't on the bed, and when you tried to sit up, the room spun.
"Easy," the nurse said. She put a hand on your shoulder and gently guided you back down. "Just rest. He'll be here soon."
You let your head fall back against the pillow. There was a tightness in your chest, you noted. However, you weren't entirely sure if it was a side effect from the accident or the thought of Oscar seeing you like this—banged up and foggy and basically useless.
It didn’t take a genius to know he was going to worry. That was Oscar – you could get a splinter and he would always be worried.
The thought sat heavy in your chest. You closed your eyes and tried to breathe through it, but everything still felt wrong, tilted, like you weren't quite connected to your body. Time did something weird then, making you unsure how long you’d really been laying there. It could have been minutes, could’ve been longer.
It was easy to drift off with the help of the pain medication flowing through your IV until there was a commotion outside your room — not loud, just voices, someone talking fast—and then the door swung open.
Oscar.
He was still in his pajamas, some comfortable looking joggers and a well-loved sweatshirt you could vaguely recall having seen somewhere before. His hair was even more of a mess than usual, like he'd been running his fingers through it in an unsuccessful attempt to tame his bedhead. Your eyes followed the shape of him as he stopped just inside the doorway, and his eyes went wide when he saw you.
When his eyes met yours, you tried to smile, but you had a feeling it wasn’t half as convincing and you’d thought it was.
"Hey," you greeted tentatively, trying to hide the way your voice cracked. Rather than responding, Oscar quickly crossed the room in approximately three strides.
"Hey," you tried again, a bit louder this time because he wasn't saying anything – just staring at you. Perhaps he hadn’t heard you.
He dropped into the chair beside the bed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. His mouth was moving but you realized then that the ringing in your ears hadn't fully stopped and you caught maybe half of it.
"— okay? They said—"
You shook your head and tried harder to focus. "Can't, um, can’t hear you that well."
Oscar stilled stopping before he started and tried again – slower, louder this time. "Are you okay?"
"Oh. M’fine." The words came out automatically, unfiltered and unscripted. From where Oscar was standing, you seemed totally at ease, giving his face a lazy once-over before a thought occurred to her. "Wait, what're you doing here?"
His eyebrows pulled together. "What? What d'you mean what am I doing here? The hospital called me."
"They—" You blinked at him. Right now, thinking felt a lot like your brain was moving through mud. "Why would they call you?"
Oscar sighed, though there was no frustration in his expression. In fact, despite the clear tiredness written across his face, he still smiled at you with what looked like an unending well of patience. "...Because I'm your emergency contact?" he tried, still speaking slower so it’d be easier for you to understand.
Emergency contact.
Right. You'd forgotten about that.
"You're supposed to be sleeping," you blurted out, and you weren't sure why that was the thing you landed on, but it was. "Don't you have, uh— wasn't it race week or something?"
"Singapore's done," he answered. "And do you think I'm just gonna sleep when—"
He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his face. When he looked back at you his jaw was tight, but it was the furrow of his brows that gave away his worry.
"What happened?"
"Car accident." Your tongue still felt thick. "Someone ran a light… I think? Sorry, s’kind of blurry."
"Jesus." He ran a hand through his hair once again, exhaling deeply. You briefly wondered how soft his hair was – it certainly looked quite floofy, especially when he’d run his hand through it a couple of times, like now.
"Are you hurt? What'd they say?"
"I dunno yet. CT scan." You tried to gesture vaguely at your head but your arm weighed about a thousand pounds. "A nurse said maybe I hit my head, ‘cuz everything's really loud and really quiet at the same time."
He didn't say anything for a second. Instead, Oscar simply looked at you, and despite all the years you’d known him, there was something in his face you couldn't quite read. Worry, maybe? Or perhaps anger, though it didn’t exactly seem to be directed at you.
"Osc, you didn't have to come. I'm okay."
"Stop saying that."
It came out harder than you expected, and you flinched. He noticed. His expression shifted, softening.
"Sorry. I just— you're obviously not okay. Like, just look at you."
Something about the way he said it made you look down at yourself instead of at him. For the first time, you noticed that there was blood on your shirt. It wasn’t enough to ruin the shirt forever, but there was still enough to make you consider sending it to the cleaners. When you opened your palms and stretched out your fingers, you squinted at the scrapes there too. There was also a bandage on your forearm that you didn't remember getting.
"It's not that bad," you tried.
Oscar made a breathy, smiling sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "You're in a hospital, Y/N."
You blinked.
"It’s precautionary."
"Right. Precautionary."
Oscar slipped into one of the weird plastic chairs that hospitals always had. He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, silent. When his eyes met yours again, he spoke again, his voice quieter.
"You scared the shit out of me."
"I didn't mean to."
"I know."
He reached out like he was going to touch your hand, then hesitated. His fingers hovered just over yours for a second before he pulled back.
"Did they, uh, say when you could leave?"
"No. Waiting on the scan results." You were so tired. Your eyes kept trying to close. "You don't have to stay."
"I'm staying."
"Oscar—"
"I'm staying," he repeated, firmer this time, and there was no room for argument in it.
Now that you thought about it, you didn't have the energy to argue anyway.
You must've drifted off at some point because when you opened your eyes, Oscar was scrolling through his phone, and the fluorescent lights were giving him a halo you didn't remember being there before.
"You look stupid."
He glanced up, eyebrows scrunched in confusion. "What?"
"The lighting. Makes your head look… weird. Thought you should know."
His mouth twitched, almost smiling, almost fond. "Ah, of course. Thank you."
"You're welcome."
Already tired of your current position, you tried to shift only for your ribs to protest immediately.
"Ow."
"Don't– Don’t move. Here"
He was out of his chair before you could blink, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch you. It was funny, really, considering the time Oscar literally threw you over his shoulder that one time he’d finally convinced you to join him on his run only for you to complain until he carried you the rest of the way back.
"Hey, hey. Can you tell me what hurts?"
"Everything? Nothing? I dunno."
Even though you really were trying to answer his question, your head was still doing that thing where thoughts took too long to form. It felt more like pulling cotton from a thornbush rather than just answering a simple question.
"Osc?”
“Yeah?”
“Why're you still here?"
"Uh, because you're still here."
"That's… That’s circular logic."
He couldn’t help but shake his head at that, laughing. "Okay."
Once he was content that you weren’t actively having a heart attack or bleeding to your death or in any form of excruciating pain, Oscar finally sat back down in the seat beside you. Each blink still felt slow, languid, but when you looked up at him you noticed that he was watching you like you might disappear. Before you could really think about it, however, he was already interrupting your thoughts with another gentle question.
"How's your head?"
For a moment, you mulled over the words, conducting a thorough analysis before delivering your eloquent answer. "Fuzzy. Like static."
You paused then, and Oscar opened his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it.
"D'you ever think about how static isn't, like, really a thing anymore? Like, TVs don't do that now. It's just… black."
Oscar blinked at you. Maybe it was the big brown eyes, but in that moment, he looked a lot like an owl when he did.
"I think that you have a concussion."
"Hmm, probably."
"You should go home."
Oscar only rolled his eyes, going back to read whatever nerdy cricket article he’d probably been reading. "Already said I'm not doing that."
You made a face. "You're annoying."
"Mhmm," he acknowledged, leaning back in the chair as he crossed his arms. "You've mentioned that once or twice."
Of course, you’d probably said that a lot more than once or twice, but you couldn’t remember all the details all that clearly at the moment and the truth was that that’s just how Oscar was – nice, funny, easy in a way that made you not think twice about whatever came out of your mouth around him. Maybe he’d always been like that, you thought to yourself. You couldn’t imagine a moment where being around Oscar wasn’t as easy as breathing.
The room went quiet except for the machines beeping. At some point, you found yourself trying to count the beeps, but it was difficult to keep up. You ended up losing track around fourteen.
"I crashed the car," you announced suddenly.
Oscar looked at you, his face the picture of calm. "I know."
"No, I—"
You tried to get the right words out, but your throat went tight.
"I crashed it, Oscar. It's—the whole side is smashed. I saw it. I don't think it's drivable."
"That's what insurance is for," he soothed, the ghost of a hand coming to rest on the plastic bedframe right beside where your hand was. But all you could focus on was those few seconds, playing over in your mind like flashes, stills in your memory.
"But I—"
You could feel your breath going weird, shallow. It didn’t feel good.
"I wasn't paying attention. Or I was? But, like, not enough, and now the car's wrecked and I have to— Shit, I dunno how I'm getting to work tomorrow. Or– Or how much it's gonna cost. And I just got it serviced last month, and—"
"Hey. Hey."
He leaned forward again, and this time he did touch you, fingers careful around your wrist.
"Breathe."
"I– I am breathing," you replied, a bit dumbly.
He only smiled, ever gentle. "Slower, hm?"
You tried. It didn't really work.
"The car—"
"Is just a car, I promise."
His voice was steady, calm.
"It kept you alive. That's all it needed to do. That car is replaceable, but you are not."
"But—"
"But nothing. You're here. You're okay."
He squeezed your wrist gently. Oddly enough, it helped – like it was somehow a signal to your body to pause, to match the pulse, to give up the panic and just let the thrum of his pulse against yours dictate your heartrate instead.
"The rest is just.. stuff. We'll figure it out."
"We?"
"Yeah. We."
He said it like it was obvious, like there was never another option. His eyes shone with you could only describe as an ocean of sincerity, refracting the lights of the room in a way that reminded you of the open sea – steady and still.
Your eyes were burning. You blinked hard. Even your voice felt more raw, more exposed.
"I don't wanna figure it out. I wanna go home."
"I know."
"M’ tired."
"I know," he said again, softer.
A beat later, you closed your eyes. His hand was still on your wrist, warm and solid, and you focused on that instead of the beeping or the lights or the way your head felt like it was full of cotton.
"Osc?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for coming."
There was a pause, a sound almost like a faint hitch in his breathing. When he answered, his voice sounded strange, tight.
"F’course. Always."
You believed him.
The waiting was worse than the tests.
As both of you learned over this vast stretch of time, you could not sit still. Every position you tried felt wrong, no matter how creative — lying flat made your head pound, sitting up made you dizzy. You shifted again and Oscar glanced over from where he'd been pretending to read an infographic on flu shots, which would have been convincing had the entire thing not been written in French.
The moment the bed squeaked from you shifting for the umpteenth time, his attention was on you. "Hey, you alright?"
"I just wanna leave," you huffed, but it came out sharper than you meant it to. "How long does a CT scan take to read?"
"I dunno,” he mused, actually thinking about it. “A while, I guess?"
"It's already been a while."
"It's been, like, forty minutes, actually."
You slumped back against the pillow in defeat, and maybe also exhaustion from being so exhausted. Everything ached.
"That’s stupid. Feels longer."
He didn't argue with that.
You closed your eyes then and tried to sleep. You couldn't. So you opened them again. The ceiling tiles had little dots all over them. You started counting those instead, lost track, and even started over.
It was clear you were unhappy about having to wait so long – Oscar couldn’t imagine a mattress made of that much plastic could be too comfortable, especially for someone who wanted nothing more than to just be able to go home and rest in their own bed. If it were up to him, the two of you would have likely been out of here ages ago, but unfortunately, he actually cared about making sure you were well enough to go home. What he could do, however, was make sure you were as comfortable as you could be in the meantime.
"D'you need anything?" Oscar tried.
"A time machine."
Oscar shook his head, clicking his tongue in mock disappointment.
"Fresh out, m’afraid."
You turned your head to look at him. He was still in the same position, elbows precariously balanced on the thin bars of metal acting as the arms of the sad hospital chair, his phone set down on his lap. He looked… tired.
You'd done that.
"Sorry," you mumbled, looking genuinely remorseful. You hated inconveniencing him for something minor like this, especially in the middle of the night.
"Sorry? What? For what?"
"Y’know. Making you sit here."
"You didn't make me do anything," he chuckled, like the mere idea was laughable. He tilted his head at you, the curve of his mouth terribly fond, soft.
"Seriously. What d'you need?"
You opened your mouth to say nothing, but what came out was, "I'm bored. And my head hurts. And I can't stop thinking about the car, and—"
Finally, your brain caught up with your mouth and you cut yourself off.
"Never mind."
"No, no. C’mon, what?"
"It's stupid."
"That’s never stopped you,” he smirked, before his gaze shifted to something gentler. “Tell me anyway."
You hesitated. "D'they have anything to watch? Like on the TV or something?"
Oscar looked around the room. There was no TV. He checked his phone, scrolled for a second.
"Hospital wifi's quite terrible actually, but I've, uh, got some stuff downloaded?” He thought for a moment, before grimacing. “Probably shouldn't though, right? Screen time with a concussion?"
In return, he received a deadpan glare. "I don't care."
You sounded petulant. You were petulant.
"I just need— I can't just sit here."
He studied you for a moment, then seemed to make a decision.
"Fine, alright. But if a nurse yells at us, you're taking the blame."
You grinned, wide and truly happy. "Deal."
He pulled his chair closer to the bed and angled his phone so you could both see it.
"What d'you want?"
"That depends. What've you got?"
He scrolled through his downloads. There were a couple of race replays from well before his time, some documentary thing that was either about tennis or classical European architecture, a few episodes of a show you didn't recognize. And then a familiar title screen whizzed by.
"Wait, wait, wait. Go back, go back up."
Obediently, he scrolled up.
"There!" You pointed, and your chest did something complicated at the same time. "You have Finding Nemo downloaded?"
Oscar’s ears went slightly pink. "Yeah, well... You kept watching it when you had the flu a couple months ago, and then on the plane to Singapore you fell asleep to it, so I just..."
He shrugged, not quite looking at you.
"Figured it was, like, a good background thing to have. Just in case, or whatever."
Something warm unfurled behind your ribs, despite everything.
"Can we watch that?"
"You sure? We don’t have to, we can always watch something else if you—"
"Nope. I want that one."
Oscar sighed, pretending to be annoyed, but still didn't argue. He just hit play and adjusted the angle so you could see without having to strain your neck.
He really did think of everything.
Once the Pixar logo filled the screen, the music started. Every note was familiar, nostalgic, like the comfort of a favorite blanket.
Oscar too settled back in his chair, his phone propped carefully on the tray table attached to the side your bed, perfectly between the two of you. You let your head sink into the pillow and watched Marlin and Coral on the reef, and for the first time since the accident, something in your chest loosened.
"Can you hear it okay?" Oscar asked quietly, whispering like anything louder would ruin the sanctity of a movie as important as this one. The thought made you giggle.
"Yeah," you murmured, your eyelids already starting to get heavier. “‘S perfect."
He didn't say anything else after that, content to just let the movie play.
You made it through the barracuda attack before your eyes started closing on their own. The last thing you registered was Marlin promising to never let anything happen to his son, and metered rhythm of Oscar's quiet breathing beside you.
You jolted awake just as Nemo was starting his first day of school.
"— I miss anything?"
Your voice was scratchy.
"Nemo just met his classmates," Oscar said without looking away from the screen. "You were out for like three minutes."
"Oh."
You blinked hard, trying to focus.
"Okay. Good."
Oscar’s eyes flicked to hers, noticing the haziness in them.
"Go back to sleep if you need to," he whispered. “I can wake you up in a bit.”
"No. This is important."
He glanced at you, amused. "It's a kids' movie."
"It's not just—"
You struggled to sit up a little. He immediately moved to help, his hand instinctively hovering near your back.
"It's about the ocean. You're Australian. You should be taking this seriously."
"I am taking it seriously!"
"You're smiling!"
"'Cause you're being ridiculous."
"I'm being culturally responsible."
You squinted at the screen, watching as Nemo began to swim toward the boat. As carefully as you could manage, you brought your arm up to nudge his shoulder, but it ended up being more of a weak graze. "Pay attention, Osc. This part's important."
"I am, I am, I'm paying attention."
For a moment, you watched him, just to make sure he really was paying attention before you turned back to the movie. As soon as you were content, your eyes felt heavier again, until you fought to keep them open. You had to, of course – Marlin was freaking out and Nemo wouldn’t listen, too stubborn to know what was coming. Even with your eyes beginning to close, you couldn’t help but mouth along to some of the dialogue from muscle memory.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Oscar noticed it too. He didn't say anything, but his smile got softer. You drifted off again somewhere around Dory's introduction, and woke up to Marlin and Dory in the dark water, the anglerfish looming.
Your hand clenched in the blanket without thinking.
"You good?" Oscar asked quietly.
"Yeah."
But you didn't unclench your hand. On screen, the anglerfish lunged. You flinched. It was stupid, considering you'd seen this movie a hundred times, but everything felt too close right now, too loud. Oscar shifted in his chair.
"Hey. It's alright." His voice dropped lower, gentler. "Dory's got this. She speaks whale, remember?"
"She doesn't speak whale yet," you mumbled.
"Right. That's later."
He was still using that soft voice, like you were actually scared of a cartoon fish. It should've been embarrassing. It wasn't.
"But they make it outta this part. Promise."
"I know they make it out."
"I know you know. I’m just reminding you."
You let out a breath. On screen, Dory and Marlin escaped and even though Marlin was in the middle of trying to tell Dory that he wanted to continue the rest of his search for Nemo without her, the music shifted to something lighter and your hand relaxed.
"Thanks," you said quietly.
"For what?"
"I dunno. Being weird with me."
He huffed a laugh. "You make it easy."
You tried to stay awake for the moonfish’s game of charades to cheer Dory up — but you faded out somewhere around Dory swimming away to cry and woke up to Dory getting distracted by the small baby jellyfish instead of Marlin’s directions.
"Where are we?" you asked, brows furrowed, still groggy with sleep.
"Jellyfish scene," Oscar answered easily.
"Oh, good. This is the best part."
He smiled, a teasing grin. "Oh yeah? I thought the last part was the best part."
"Every part's the best part," you told him, blinking at him seriously. "Are you even Australian? The ocean's, like, your whole thing."
"Uhh, pretty sure we have other things."
"Name one."
"Vegemite."
Naturally, you made a face. "That does not count."
"Why not?"
"'Cause it's gross, Osc!"
"Oh, c’mon! You've never even tried it."
"I don't have to, genius. I can smell it from here."
You weren't making sense. Hell, you knew you weren't making sense. But Oscar was watching you like you were saying something profound, and on screen, Dory greeted the adorable little jellyfish with a soft, “Hey, little guy.”
Marlin, of course, was so focused on how excited he was to be on his way to finally be reunited with Nemo that he completely failed to pay attention to what was going on right behind him. Meanwhile, Dory came closer to the baby jellyfish, cooing at it.
“I shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine and he shall be my Squishy. Come here, Squishy. Come here, little Squishy.”
You laughed at that, and in the dark of the room, Oscar turned to look at you, smiling. He’d figured out quite some time ago that even the smallest sliver of your joy had the power to make his heart do funny things in his chest, but he tried not to think about that. Now, however, in the dark of the hospital room and with all your attention directed at the screen, he allowed himself to look at you for just a moment longer than perhaps friends should.
Soon, Marlin had finally managed to resume Dory from where she'd fallen unconscious stuck in the throng of jellyfish, your cheek was squished against the starchy material of your pillow and your eyes were drifting closed again.
"I’m awake," you stated out loud, though it might've been an affirmation for your sake more than Oscar’s, if you were being honest.
"You don't have to," Oscar told you gently, one hand carefully pushing your hair out of your face so you could see better.
You replied, but most of your words were mushed together, a stream of mumbles more than anything truly coherent. But Oscar didn’t seem to mind it. In fact, he understood you anyway.
"But you need to see– the EAC's coming up. That's the turtles. Hm, you'll like the turtles…"
"I'll wake you up for the turtles," Oscar assured you.
"...Promise?"
"Promise."
It was then, and only then, that you finally let your eyes close.
Just for a minute.
a/n: i know i'm supposed to be working on other stuff, but i had a minor car accident and this is what i was inspired to write instead. i apologize for not getting the promised chapters out this week. please accept this consolation prize instead. hope you like it!
summary: Y/N hears from a friend of friend that a guy who sits in the back of her physics class sells weed. New at this, she finds herself at a small party at Oscar Piastri's place - where she tries to buy drugs for the first time.
Can't be that hard, right?
warnings: smut 18+ (sex for drugs, dom/sub dynamics, shotgunning, one puff of a joint before sex, minimal praise kink, some condescending dom!oscar, dry humping, fingering, p in v sex, unprotected sex, couch sex?, some v light degredation/)
word count: 5.5k
The air downstairs felt different—warmer, thicker, like it had been exhaled too many times and never replaced. A single bulb hummed in its cage above, throwing long shadows across the damp concrete walls. You clutched the folded bills tighter, the edges softening with the sweat of your palm.
Oscar sat at the far end of the room, not so much relaxed as perfectly composed. One leg crossed over the other, a glass balanced at his fingertips, the kind of posture that made it clear he wasn’t the one out of place here. He’d been watching you since you first hesitated at the bottom step of the staircase.
“First time?” he asked, voice quiet enough that you weren’t sure if it was meant to carry. Still, it cut through the background noise — the bass thrumming from upstairs, the muffled laughter, the shuffle of footsteps.
Your mouth went dry. You nodded before you could stop yourself, embarrassing pinkening your cheeks.
Oscar's eyes flicked down, just briefly, to the fist you hadn’t yet unclenched. Then his gaze drew back to your face, steady, unreadable. He hummed thoughtfully, a sound closer to amusement than approval, and leaned back in his chair.
“Y’shouldn’t advertise that,” he advised, though the words almost seemed more warning than wisdom. The words weren’t cruel, but they were edged with something pointed.
He shrugged, leaning back in his seat. “Someone could take advantage, you know.”
You swallowed, suddenly looking alarmed, trying to steady your voice. “Are you—?”
He cut you off without raising his tone. “Am I that someone?” he finished for you.
His lips twitched, not quite a smile, not quite not. Oscar shifted forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his body closing the distance between you enough for you to feel the warmth of his body heat. Or perhaps it was your own.
Dark, hooded eyes meet yours, the moody lighting of the place making them gleam obsidian.
“Well, bunny,” his mouth quirked, holding back a smirk. “Depends how dumb you’re willing to be.”
Your pulse kicked hard, but you forced a breath, forced yourself to hold his gaze. That seemed to entertain him—his eyes flickered, sharp, appraising, like he’d found something unexpected.
“You’re nervous,” he murmured, softer now, like he was speaking to himself. “And curious. Dangerous combination.”
He reached out—not fast, not threatening, just extending a hand across the table, palm open, patient. “Show me what you brought.”
The bills felt heavier as you uncurled your fist. For a second, you thought you might change your mind, retreat up the stairs into the safety of noise and the swarm of bodies. But his eyes held you in place, steady, waiting, already seemingly certain of your choice.
The bills looked small in your hand when you handed them to him. It was a crumpled handful, your fingers reluctant to let go until you forced yourself.
I can’t believe I’m buying drugs. Oh my god. Oh my god–
Oscar’s hand lowered, flattening each note against his knee before he flipped through them. He counted slowly, lips moving just enough for you to notice. Then he stacked them back together and tapped the slim bundle (if you could even call it that) against his knuckle, finally meeting your eyes again.
“Cute,” he said, voice low, casual. “This all you brought?”
You nodded. “It’s—”
“Not enough,” he interrupted smoothly, pushing the money back toward you.
Heat rushed up your neck. “But you said—”
“I said I’d sell you a bag,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair again. His glass clicked softly as he set it aside. “Didn’t say I’d give it away for free.”
Your stomach dropped. “What? What do you mean?”
He cocked his head, like you’d just asked him what color the sky was. “I mean,” he drawled, waving the money once before setting it back down in front of you, “this gets you half a gram, maybe. Like, if I was feeling generous.”
Heat crept up your neck. You had no way of knowing that of course, but hearing it said like that—like he’d expected it, like it amused him— still stung. You always were a perfectionist like that – always had to get it right.
“Oh, uh– I can… I can Apple Pay you?” you tried, fumbling for your phone.
Oscar’s laugh was a quiet exhale through his nose, barely there, but it lit up his eyes. “Apple Pay?” He leaned back again, lacing his fingers loosely in his lap. “What do you think this is, a farmer’s market?”
Your face flamed hotter. “I just—I didn’t know—”
“Yeah.” He cut you off gently, not unkind, but with that same sharp edge. “Not trying to get arrested tonight.”
“Oh! Oh, right. Sorry about that.”
You bit your lip, glancing down at your bag, at the little wallet where the rest of your cash was stuffed. It wasn’t much—barely enough to get you home. You shifted in your seat. “Well, I do have… a little more.”
Oscar arched a brow, waiting.
“It’s just—” You exhaled, embarrassed. “It was kinda supposed to be for taxi fare…?”
For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just studied you, that unreadable calm still plastered over him, though you could feel the shift—the way his silence pressed heavier than words. Then he smiled, finally, lazy and deliberate.
“You sure are something,” he murmured, almost to himself. He thought for a moment, before he added, “Don’t worry. I don’t leave girls stranded. Not my style.”
Your heart hammered, and you hated how much you wanted to prove him wrong. “So… what am I supposed to do?”
He leaned back again, taking his time, letting the pause work on you. When he finally spoke, it was with that same calm certainty, like he was only stating the obvious.
“For a girl like you?” His gaze drifted down, then back up, deliberate. “I can be flexible. Doesn’t have to be cash.”
The words settled between you, heavy with implication but never rushed, never sharp. He wasn’t pushing—you could feel that.
The air seemed to thicken, charged, the unspoken hanging heavier than the bulb above. He didn’t lean closer, didn’t have to. His voice carried the weight all on its own—smooth, certain, a clever fox cornering his rabbit without lifting a paw.
“Question is,” he added, lips twitching like he was biting back another laugh, “how bad do you want it?”
Oscar let the silence work you up, his thumb tapping idly against the rim of his glass. You swore he was enjoying this a little too much—the way your nerves tangled with eagerness, how you couldn’t quite hold his gaze without looking away again, cheeks singed pink.
Finally, he tipped his chin at you, voice low and amused.
“C’mon, bunny.” The nickname slid out lazily, unbidden. “You have anything else you can offer me?”
Your stomach dipped. You opened your mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “I…” Your fingers twisted in the hem of your shirt sleeve. “Oh, uhm. Maybe I could… do something for you? Like… like a trade?”
The corner of his mouth pulled up, slow and knowing, as if that was exactly the answer he’d been coaxing out of you all along. He didn’t move right away, didn’t pounce—just sat back, letting the weight of your own words settle on you.
“A trade,” he echoed, savoring it. “Don’t hate that. What’ve you got?”
You froze, scrambling. “Well, I, um… I bake?
One of his brows ticked up.
Sometimes. Like banana bread. Or muffins? I don’t know if you’re a banana bread kinda guy,” she chuckled nervously, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear that had never really come loose in the first place.
“But I don’t exactly—” you gestured helplessly at your relatively empty hand, containing only your small wallet, “—carry loaves of it around, so I guess that wouldn’t really help right now.”
Your heart thumped rapidly in your chest.
What do drug dealers do if you don’t have enough money? Can they kill you? Oh no, I’m going to end up on some TV show, aren’t I?
That earned you a soft huff of laughter. He leaned back, lazy as ever, watching you trip over yourself. “Shame. Banana bread would’ve been a first.”
You swallowed, heat crawling up your neck.
Think of something else, c’mon.
“O-or, I mean… I could share my notes? I’ve seen you in the back of my physics lecture sometimes, and I know people sell theirs, so if you needed—”
That earned the smallest huff of laughter, more breath than sound. He shook his head, disbelieving and almost fond, and leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees.
“Oh, sweetheart. Banana bread and physics notes?”
Your cheeks burned hotter. “I’m just… trying to think of something useful. I don’t exactly have anything valuable just… on me.”
Oscar’s smile deepened, lazy, like a cat watching a bird tire itself out. “Depends how you define valuable.”
Your brows pinched. “I just told you—I don’t have anything.”
Oscar hummed like he was considering it seriously, even though the glint in his eyes could’ve easily gavin him away. “Banana bread, physics notes…” His gaze dragged down your figure, then back up, the pause deliberate. “…nothing else comes to mind?”
Your mind scrambled, stuttering through possibilities—laundry, tutoring, walking someone’s dog—
Did he even have a dog?
You were interrupted from your thoughts when he shifted forward, the chair creaking softly as he leaned his forearms onto his knees. That alone shortened the space between you, made your pulse spike. His eyes stayed fixed on you, steady, unblinking in a way that made you squirm.
“Why don’t you c’mere a sec,” he murmured. Not a command, not quite, but the kind of suggestion you felt tug low in your stomach.
You stepped closer before you even thought about it, and his hand lifted—fingertips brushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. The touch was casual, almost careless, but it made your breath stutter all the same.
“There we go,” he said softly, studying your face like it was something worth taking his time on. “Much better when I can see you.”
Your throat went dry. “I– I don’t really know what you mean, though.”
“Really?” he drawled, leaning back in his chair like this was all a game he had endless patience for.
“Because I can think of plenty you’ve got to offer.”
And suddenly it clicked—the weight in his words, the way his gaze lingered, the casual touch that felt anything but. Your stomach flipped, heat rushing under your skin. Your breath hitched, his thumb still ghosting along your jaw.
Oh.
Oh.
“I think I get it now.”
Oscar’s mouth curved, slow and faint, like smoke curling at the edge of a flame. Like he’d just been waiting for you to catch up. “Yeah?”
You fumbled, cheeks hot. “Like… not banana bread. Or notes.”
His chuckle was soft, warm enough to ease some of the tightness in your chest. “Not banana bread,” he echoed, amused.
You swallowed hard, nerves buzzing. “Something with… me?”
For a moment, he just looked at you, steady and unreadable. Then he leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your skin, and spoke low. “Now you’re gettin’ there.”
Your stomach flipped, the confirmation leaving you dizzy. He wasn’t mocking, not sharp-edged—his tone was almost gentle, coaxing, like he was proud you’d figured it out.
“See,” he went on, brushing your hair back again, lingering this time, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath hitched, eyes wide as they looked up to meet his.
“So you… you really would take…”
He brushed your hair back again, gentler this time, almost fond. “Relax, sweetheart. I’m not gonna bite.” His smile deepened, warm and wicked all at once. “Not unless you ask.”
The room seemed to shrink, the bass upstairs humming through the floor, but all you could focus on was the quiet certainty in his voice. He wasn’t rushing you, wasn’t pushing—just sitting there, patient, letting you choose if you wanted to take the step he’d already laid out.
It was the look that did it—the steady, knowing patience of it, like he wasn’t surprised, like he’d been waiting for you to catch up.
You wet your lips, voice barely steady. “So… what happens now?”
Oscar leaned in just enough that the smoke from his last exhale curled between you. His smile was small, almost kind, though the glint in his eyes betrayed it.
“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he murmured. His thumb traced your jaw again, feather-light. “You tell me how you want to pay, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
A joint smoldered between his fingers now, smoke curling lazy toward the ceiling. His hand looked too elegant for something so careless, long fingers rolling the paper like it was second nature. You shouldn’t have been staring, but you were. Smoke curled upward in thin ribbons, catching the light, and when your eyes darted back up, the glow haloed his face in a way that made your stomach twist.
Your breath hitched, and suddenly it was impossible not to notice the rest—the warmth of his knee a hand’s breadth from yours, the way his shoulders slouched like he had all the time in the world, the line of his throat when he tilted his head back to take a drag.
The silence between you stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable, like the air had thickened. You couldn’t tell if it was the heat from the smoke, or him.
Maybe both.
You realized how close you’d let yourself get. Close enough to feel the heat of him. Close enough that your pulse tripped, panic and want muddled together.
Your gaze darted down before you could stop it, quick and betraying — tracing the line of his hand, lowering over the slope of his chest under that loose shirt, down to the way he sprawled like he owned the room. Then back up, fast, guilty, to find him still watching you.
Oscar’s mouth curved, slow and sure, as his voice dropped into something lower, something that made the air feel thicker. “Want a taste?” He turned the joint lazily between his fingers, holding your gaze.
Your breath hitched. Heat spread through your chest, your neck. Slowly, almost shyly, you nodded.
He hummed, approval soft, and lifted the joint to his mouth. You blinked, confused, brows knitting as he drew in a drag—like maybe you’d misunderstood, maybe you were too naive again.
You blinked, confusion knitting your brow, and then—
His free hand slipped up, steady at your jaw, tilting your face just enough. His lips pressed to yours in one smooth, unthinking motion, smoke blooming between your parted lips as he exhaled into you.Your gasp turned into a shiver, your body caught between surprise and the rush of the high threading in all at once.
When he pulled back, just enough for your lips to part, his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, catching the stray smear of tinted lip balm. His eyes stayed locked on yours, steady, unblinking, a sly glint under the haze.
It was dizzying, all heat and haze, the sharp burn of it chased by the warmth of his mouth. By the time you realized what he’d done, he’d already leaned back just slightly, watching you through half-lidded eyes, that same sly glint tucked into the edges of his calm.
“Sweet,” he murmured, like a verdict.
Your lungs still burned, chest fluttering as you tried to catch your breath. The haze clung to you, curling at the edges of your mind until all you could do was stare at him, wide-eyed, heart thundering.
His face hovered close, the bass from upstairs thrumming through the floor in rhythm with your pulse. You tried to think of something to say, anything, but all that came out was a small, shaky breath.
Oscar’s lips curved, like he could read every scrambled thought on your face. His hand was still at your jaw, warm and steady, guiding without pressure.
His lips tilted into a lazy smirk, and then they ghosted against the column of your throat, feather-light. “Say the word,” he murmured, the word dragging slow, intentional. “,-and I’ll show you all kinds of tricks.”
Your breath hitched, your body leaning into the touch before you could stop it. Dizzy, hazy, you nodded, quick and small, like your body was answering faster than your brain.
He chuckled under his breath, leaning in just enough that his mouth brushed the barest graze against the side of your throat. The touch made your heart trip over itself, made your breath hitch audibly. “Mm, not enough.” His mouth brushed higher, near your jaw, voice soft and teasing. “Gotta hear the words, baby.”
He could feel the bob of your throat when you swallowed nervously.
The smile that pulled across his mouth then wasn’t mocking—it was slow, sweet, edged in satisfaction but soft in its core. He pressed a brief kiss beneath your ear, reward-like, before pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again.
You blinked up at him, still dazed, lips parting on instinct. Your voice came out small, roughened from the smoke. “Yes.”
That was all it took. The smirk on his mouth broke wider, sharper, like he’d been waiting for it—then he kissed you. No hesitation this time, just a sudden, dizzying heat that knocked the air out of you. His lips pressed hard and slow, one hand sliding up to cup your jaw, tilting your face so he could take his time.
Your head spun, breath catching, and then his mouth was back on yours, hungrier this time. His teeth caught your lower lip, tugging until you gasped, and he laughed softly against you—quiet, cocky, like he liked hearing how you couldn’t quite keep it together.
One hand slid down to your hip, fingers pressing just enough to make you shiver. “Easy, baby,” he whispered against your ear, his lips brushing the shell of it. “Let me take my time with you.”
Every kiss after that was messier, wetter, the kind that left your lips swollen and your lungs begging for air. He nipped down along your jaw, then lower, his breath hot against your throat.
You gasped, the sound swallowed by him as his hand slid lower, gripping your waist and dragging you flush against his lap. The rough pull sent you tumbling into him, your knees straddling his thighs before you could think twice.
His grin pressed into your mouth. “That’s it…”
The bass thudded through the walls, but all you could hear was your own heartbeat, frantic and loud. His fingers slid under the hem of your top, warm against your bare skin, trailing up your spine.
You shivered. He noticed.
His other hand tightened at your hip, rolling you forward until the friction made your head spin.
“Oh-!”
Oscar swallowed the sound with another bruising kiss, his tongue pushing deeper, controlling the pace. You clung to his shoulders, nails digging through the fabric as he coaxed you to grind down harder.
“That’s it, baby. Yeah, there you go.”
The joint still smoldered in the ashtray, forgotten. The only haze left was the one clouding your thoughts as his thumb brushed under the band of your bra. A teasing graze, then a firmer press that made your back arch.
You broke the kiss with a whimper, lips slick, chest heaving.
Your back hit the couch cushions before you could even catch your breath, Oscar pressing forward like he’d been holding back for hours instead of minutes. His mouth was on yours again, harder this time, stealing every sound you tried to make.
You arched up to him without thinking, and that was all the invitation he needed. His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers splaying hot against your stomach before skating higher, higher—until your gasp broke the kiss.
He chuckled low, lips brushing yours. “Sensitive, huh?” His thumb stroked once across your skin like he wanted to memorize the texture. Then his mouth was back on yours, swallowing the small, desperate noise you gave in answer.
Your hips moved before you realized it—pressing into him, needy, clumsy, trying to close the unbearable distance. He caught it instantly, rolling his hips into yours in a slow grind that pulled a whimper from your throat.
“Fuck, baby…” he murmured into your mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip before sucking it between his. “Want it that bad?”
Hoping it would distract from your questions, your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, closer still. His hand traced down your side, gripping your hip and dragging you flush against him, the friction sparking white heat up your spine.
You gasped into his kiss, breath hitching when his other hand slipped beneath the waistband of your jeans—not far, just enough to tease the edge of you, just enough to make your head spin.
He groaned against your mouth, the sound raw, hungry. “Feel good?”
Every nerve in your body screamed yes, but all you could do was nod against his lips, dizzy, lost, chasing the next kiss like it was air.
His hand slipped lower then – past the dip of your waistband until your jeans were pushed past the curve of your ass and halfway down your legs.
You broke the kiss with a sharp inhale, your head tipping back against the couch. You whined, tried to kiss him again, but he was too busy watching your face as he slid a finger past the fabric. His lips chased your throat, mouthing at your pulse, his breath rough when his fingers finally slid inside your underwear.
“Fuck…” His voice cracked soft with awe, then curved into a smirk. “Already wet for me? Didn’t take much, did it?”
You whimpered, hips twitching against his hand. He pressed two fingers through your folds, lazy at first, spreading the slick before circling your clit just enough to make your knees tremble.
Oh my fucking god.
You tried to speak, but his fingers pushed deeper, slow, filling you in a way that stole the air from your lungs. Your nails dug into his shoulders, clutching his hoodie like it was the only thing tethering you down.
Overwhelmed by the pleasure, you bit down on his shoulder, muffling another sound, and he laughed softly — then hissed when you rolled your hips harder against the hand still inside you, angled so his palm rubbed against your clit with every roll of your hips.
“That’s it, baby,” he coaxed, voice low and filthy against your ear. “Take it. Good, lemme hear you.”
His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight circles that had your hips grinding down on his lap, desperate, messy. He groaned when your thighs clenched around his wrist. “Fuck, you’re practically riding me already. Sweet little bunny, can’t even keep still.”
You turned your face into his neck, gasping against his skin, and he laughed softly, almost cruel in how gentle it sounded. “Aw, shy now?”
Your hips chased every thrust of his fingers anyway, desperate and needy, and he kissed you filthy when you tried to answer, swallowing your moans like they belonged to him. The rhythm of his hand quickened, each thrust of his fingers matched with a roll of his hips beneath you, denim rough against your soaked underwear.
“You are fucking dripping for me,” He kissed you again, hard, swallowing your moans like they belonged to him. “Bet you’ll let me fuck you stupid if I ask nicely.”
The moan you let out was answer enough.
In the blink of an eye, your back was against the couch cushions, Oscar turning the pair of you around and following you down without breaking the kiss.
Oh, fuck me.
His jeans were unzipped now, your legs tangled around his waist as if they had a mind of their own. Every brush of denim against your bare skin had you gasping into his mouth, clutching at his shoulders.
“Fuck, bunny,” he muttered against your lips, voice rough, hips rolling just enough to make you whimper.
“Please?” The word tumbled out half-broken, half a breath, more desperate than you meant it to be. Doe eyes stared up at him, shining in the low lighting of the room, glimmering with far more innocence than he’d seen in a long time.
He groaned — low, guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest — and tugged his jeans down far enough to free himself, shoving his briefs down in the same motion. The sight made your stomach clench, your pulse thunder in your throat.
He caught your gaze, smirking faintly as he stroked himself once, slow, right in front of you. “This what you want, baby?”
You nodded, wide-eyed, lips parted.
His hand slid back to your hip, steadying you as he shifted between your thighs. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance, and the shock of it had your breath catching, a soft “ahh—” spilling out before you could stop it.
“Easy,” he murmured, pressing forward a fraction, enough to feel the stretch. “Breathe f’me.”
You did — or tried to. The burn and pull had you clenching tight, another shaky moan breaking free. “ahh—oh, God—”
Oscar swore under his breath, his head tipping forward to your shoulder. “Fucking hell, you’re tight.” He pulled back, pushed a little deeper, slow, deliberate.
Your nails dug into his back, your body arching up to meet him without thought. “Please, please, want more–”
That earned a quiet laugh against your skin, his breath hot on your collarbone. “Greedy little thing.” But he gave it to you, inch by inch, until your walls fluttered around him, until you couldn’t bite back the desperate moans spilling from your lips.
The moment he bottomed out, you both stilled — his jaw slack, your body trembling, the only sound the sharp little gasps of your breath and his low, ragged groan.
“Shit,” he hissed, pulling back and slamming back in one rough thrust that made your whole body jolt. “You feel… nghh—ah, fuck—unreal.”
Your answer was incoherent, a high-pitched moan as your hips bucked, meeting his. Every snap of his hips drew another sound out of you — little whimpers that he swallowed with hungry kisses, teeth catching your lip.
He set a rhythm, hips rolling deep, groans spilling past his clenched teeth every time you clenched around him. “That’s it, sweetheart… ahh—take it… nghh—just like that…”
The couch creaked, your thighs trembled, the room thick with the sounds of skin on skin and the wet slide of him dragging in and out of you. You were gone to the haze, clinging to him like he was the only solid thing left, every thrust wringing another broken moan from your lips.
“uh, uh, oh god—”
Oscar smirked against your cheek, his breath shaky but teasing all the same. “Look at you, takin’ me so well.”
The room filled with the sharp slap of skin, the wet drag of every thrust, your gasps and his groans tangled in the thick air.
“Ahh—ahh—don’t—don’t stop—”
Oscar’s laugh was broken, dark. “Not stoppin’, baby. Not ‘til you cum all over me. That’s the deal.”
Every thrust had your head tipping back, lips parting on broken sounds you couldn’t hold in. The couch creaked under the pace, his hips driving up into you, unrelenting.
Your thoughts were soft around the edges, blurred from the little smoke he’d coaxed between your lips earlier. Not high, not really—but enough that everything felt amplified. His touch, his voice, the dizzy thrum in your chest.
And God, he was beautiful.
From this angle, with his head tipped back, throat straining, jaw flexing with every groan—your stomach flipped. His lashes were damp, cheeks flushed, sweat already beading at his temple. You wanted to memorize him like this, wanted to kiss every part you could reach.
So you did.
Shaky, half-dizzy kisses pressed to his jawline, then down his throat when he groaned and tipped his head to give you more. Your lips parted against his skin, breathing him in, your voice catching on a whimper.
“Fuck—” your words broke against his collarbone, too raw, too unfiltered, “you feel so good—”
Oscar’s laugh cracked low in his chest, his breath hot against your ear as he thrust deeper, sharper, forcing another cry from you. “Yeah? Thought so,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple. “Look at you… fuckin’ drunk on it already.”
Your hips stuttered, your forehead pressing to his collarbone, overwhelmed. All you could do was cling to him, bite down soft at his neck between desperate little moans, because he was everywhere—inside you, around you, against you.
And he let you, let you scatter open-mouthed kisses across his throat, his chest, your voice trembling between them. Each one only pulled more broken groans from him, like you were unraveling him right back.
“Shit,” he gasped, voice rough, “sweetheart, you’re—fuck—gonna fuckin’ ruin me.”
The rhythm built sharp and steady, every thrust dragging a cry out of you. Your nails scraped down his back, useless at grounding the way your body coiled tighter and tighter.
“Oscar—ohh—fuck—please!” Your voice cracked, words tumbling out between gasps.
He groaned low at the sound, hips grinding deep before pulling almost all the way out, making you whine. “Please what?” he murmured against your cheek, his tone maddeningly calm.
You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching at him. “Please—please let me—ahh—please, I need to—”
His pace faltered just long enough for you to open your eyes, only to find his gaze on you, steady, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Begging for permission?” His voice dipped rough, each word punctuated with another hard thrust that had you gasping. “Fuck. You really are a good girl.”
Your whole body shivered at the praise, a helpless whimper slipping out as you nodded, desperate.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Wanna hear you ask.”
“Please,” you choked, the word breaking. “Please let me cum—need it, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything—”
Oscar groaned, sharp and guttural, his hand gripping your jaw, forcing your hazy eyes to lock on his. “Christ. You sound so fuckin’ sweet when you beg.”
Another thrust, deeper this time, his voice frayed with restraint. “Alright, sweetheart. Cum for me. Wanna feel you lose it on my cock.”
The words barely left his mouth before your body obeyed.
Your walls clenched tight around him, release tearing through you so fast you could only sob out a broken, “O-ohhh—Oscar—!”
Your thighs shook, nails digging into his shoulders as wave after wave crashed over you. Every thrust only sent you spiraling deeper, your cries caught between moans and gasps, until all you could do was hang onto him and let it take you under.
“Fuuuck,” he groaned, voice guttural, jaw slackening as he felt you clamp down around him. His rhythm stuttered, hips jerking erratically as your climax dragged him over the edge with you.
“Shit, baby—nghh—”
He buried himself deep, a raw groan tearing from his chest as he spilled inside you, forehead pressed hard against yours. His whole body shuddered with it, the sound of skin slapping, breathless moans, and the couch creaking beneath you filling the room.
You were both gasping, chests heaving, lips brushing but too wrecked to kiss properly.
Oscar finally managed a low laugh, husky and frayed at the edges. You were pretty sure he spoke then, but the words were muffled against the curve of your shoulder.
“Fuckin’ hell… you’re incredible.”
Your only answer was a dazed hum, eyes fluttering shut as you slumped against him, your skin hot and damp against his. He kissed the top of your head, still catching his breath, his hand stroking slow down your spine as if to steady you both.
Your body molded to his, cheek to his chest, breaths syncing slowly as the haze ebbed into exhaustion. His hand moved absentmindedly along your spine, steady, grounding.
“You alright, baby?” he murmured, voice rougher than usual.
You nodded, still catching your breath. Then, shyly, softer, “Was it… good? For you too?”
Oscar huffed a laugh, tilting his head back against the couch. “Good?” He looked down at you, smirk tugging his lips. “You were amazing.”
Heat flared in your cheeks, but he didn’t let you hide, tipping your chin up for a quick, easy kiss before pushing you gently off his lap.
He tugged his jeans back up, wandered to the table, and plucked up the baggie of weed. Tossed it your way with a casual flick. It landed in your lap, heavier than you expected.
“Little extra,” he mumbled, not meeting your eyes, already leaning down to fish something else out of the drawer. When you looked back up, a lollipop came sailing toward you too. You caught it clumsily.
Your brows furrowed, confused.
“A… lollipop? Why are you giving me a lollipop?”
Oscar just grinned, hoodie half-pulled back over his head, hair mussed from your hands. “Pretty sure it’s called customer service.”
The laugh that broke out of you was breathless, disbelieving, but warm. And when he sank back into the couch, lighting another joint like nothing had happened, you couldn’t tell if your heart was hammering from the weed, the sex, or just… him.
a/n: holy shit. oml. so that's there. i don't know whether to be proud or scurry away and hide, but here it is! my usual readers know i've written smut like once before (literally), so this was something of an experiment. plus with the pov for x reader, this was a bit different from my usual work. but i hope you liked it, and love to hear your feedback!
dedicated to @rizzlonso81, who enabled me to write this 5.5k piece of porn!!
and also big big shout out to @f1freaks , whose phenomenal drug dealer!lando series which altered my brain chemistry and inspired this lil oneshot :)
Months together. Oscar has already learned how to light a bonfire without the help of Google, distinct between a manta ray from a ray.(He failed twice)But things are turning a little bit better to the point of making you feel nervous, very nervous.
Pt.1 // Pt.2 // Pt.3 // Pt.4 // Pt.5
A/N: I’m baaaaack! The thrill I feel posting this, so I hope you like it. because honestly, I love how this is turning. 🍒
For days you have noticed things have turned a little bit weird.
First Oscar started to receive unusual packages, that he refused to open in front of you; he didn't make hard comments, he just saved the package for later and turned his full attention to you and whatever you were doing.
Second, peculiar phrases came out of his mouth from time to time, like 2 weeks ago when you were cooking dinner after he arrived from a race; tired, sleepy but with a winning smile on his face.
“You know when all this formalice…” Oscar said, stopped in the moment he heard himself moving the pasta to avoid getting burned.
You stop in your way to serve the salad on the plates, tongs open on your hands as a cold sweat runs down your back.
“Formalice what? The pasta?” You asked him, making fun of the situation.
“Yeah, sure, the pasta.” Oscar turns around searching for the parmesan cheese. “I think this needs more cheese.”
You narrow your eyes, letting the situación pass, still your mind screams a massive, suspicious.
Third and last, two days before Oscar leaves for another race week, you found him outside cleaning the boat with a brush as he mumbles what you could bet as a romantic song, but it was hard to know which it could be.
No one is happily motivated to clean seaweed at 7 AM.
Unless it is about to make the big kneel thing on the ground and open the box.
Early this morning when Oscar got down with his clumsy hair, the cute smile and his big backpacks on his hand, an uneasy sensation is feeling in your stomach
“I hate you when you leave like that.” You rolled her eyes. “In a handsome mood.”
Oscar laughs, leaving the backpacks on the living room, walking where you are, sitting on the stool taking what he bets it’s your first cup of coffee, with a small pout on your mouth.
Months ago, he asked you if you had a problem or feel uncomfortable if instead of going to Monaco every week off, he goes right there, to your house: your answer was a chuckle and arms around his neck, you love having him around.
Best decision of his life, because he’s marvellous learning and spending nice time on the coast, enjoying your company and the sunrises and sunsets of every day.
“Giving me compliments before I leave.” Oscar gives you a soft peck. “You definitely know you play your cards.”
You laugh, hiding your face on his chest, as Oscar hugs you tight. In the fridge door he can see the wave sticker on today.
“Going to the sea?” You nod, finally letting him go, but not his hand, making him sit on the stool and pulling him his breakfast.
“The season is near and we want to make sure we are all ready.” Oscar noticed the spark on your eyes.
Manta ray, your favorite animal of the world, the big animals that swing under the sea in complete elegance; the black and white of their colors is perfectly harmonious with the deep blue of the sea, not counting the personal meaning it has for you.
Oscar touched your face, making you giggle.
“Oh come on babe! You know I know I can take care of myself.” You push his spoon as he begins to eat. “Don’t worry.”
In the irony of the situation, every time Oscar leaves you, he always repeats the same words, “Keep safe out there.”
“I’m not the one who drives a car at more than 300 km per hour, let me remind you that.” You tilt your head when he finally takes a bite of his breakfast.
“As I’m not the one who dives in an open sea with nothing more than a black suit and a tank of oxygen." Oscar licks his lips, even if you refuse, he knows you have a special talent for cooking.
You laugh, standing as you walk at his back, hugging him, resting your head on the top of his.
“I take care of myself, I promise.” You kissed the top of his head. “You will win, right?”
Oscar moves his head side to side. “I believe I can do that. Lately, I have had special incentives.”
There it goes, one more time, the ambiguous commentaries, as he kisses your arm.
°°°
“OMG! Why haven't you told me that before?” Nina swipes her suit as she jumps in your direction.
All the team is on the open ocean ready for doing the first immersion of the day. It’s a sunny day, barely windy and you have been seeing a lot of fishes and some big species on their way there.
“That's why!” You shake your head, as you put on the tank of oxygen. “You overreact and make me more nervous."
Nina giggles, taking a deep breath. “Sorry, it’s just, I believe you already know the answer to those changes and still you're refusing to accept it.”
Nina opened her eyes, could a small possibility be the only possibility?
“Or you don’t love him?” You choke with her own saliva, feeling all your strengths leave your body.
“WHAT?! No!” You shake your head. “I mean, yes, of course I love him. Come on Nina, that's a stupid question.”
Nina raises her shoulders putting her mask on. “I have to ask!”
“It just…” You sigh. “I don’t know, I mean… Marriage? Rings? White dress? Shared names on the mailbox?”
Nina chuckles, shaking her head, taking for a second the mask. “First, names on a mailbox? In which decade are we, 50th? Second, white dress, you’ll look stunning if you decide to wear it.”
“Leadies” Cris appears on the prow. “I’m sorry for interrupting your talk but I need you in the water.”
Both girls giggle, as people approach them, ready to help you and go to the sea.
Now, you have more doubts than answers.
°°°
“Congrats mate.” One of Oscar's engineers congratulated him on his way back to his room.
Another week, another win.
Oscar smiles as he receives the holding hand and the pat at his back.
“Have you…”
The girl in charge of PR smirks, giving him his phone as he opens the door. “3 minutes Oscar.”
The final interviews are being prepared; he nods, sitting on the chair, dialing your number; with the time difference, while there is around 8pm, for you it’s 5 pm, hopefully you know where your phone is.
“YOU WON!” Your face appears in front, wet hair and the lines of the oxygen mask around your mouth. “Congratulatons babe!”
Oscar giggles, feeling shy under your eyes. “You just call, right on time, watch this…”
You switch your camera pointing to the ocean and the sun hiding behind it, the sunlight making every little wave have a small of white foam on the top of it.
“I was watching the race… We arrived just in time, you were at 5 lap.” You rested your head on your knees, switching the camera one more time. “Sorty, I haven’t let you talk.”
“Oh please, I love to hear you.” Oscar rests his head on the wall. “Did you see something interesting?”
“Beside you racing…” You fake thinking. “Just a few.”
“Y/N, I’m talking seriously.” Oscar blush as he scoffs.
You smiles. “Me too! But ok, if you want the futile details… promise you won’t freak out.”
Oscar takes a deep breath, preparing for a situation that you're making sound terrific but maybe it was a cute little clown fish that was curious about them.
“WE SAW A SHARK! Like a 4 meters away, probably less, but fuck! He was so calm and chilling, probably around 1.2 but the sc….”
Your rambling stops seeing Oscar with eyes close pressing his lips together, he’s mentally prepared for the scar detail around the shark body.
“I TOLD YOU!” You laugh, finally he opens his eyes.
“What? I’m cool, you swing with a shark, my daily stories.” Oscar chuckles, taking a deep breath.
“Sure, you look pretty calm.” You bite your lip. “Ok, champ, go and keep celebrating, I already see the way your eyebrows narrow, people are searching for you.”
“Sorry, I…” Oscar stands with an apologizing face.
You shake your head. “Never apologize, it’s my fault for falling in love with an F1 driver… I should pay more attention to the biologist around here.”
Oscar rolls his eyes. “Ha ha ha, you’re so funny.”
“Oscar…” The girl calls for him one more time, he must be already with the reporters.
“I LOVE YOU!” You scream, closing your eyes, as you win eyes from the people walking around the harbor; some of them with scrunch faces and another with a playful smile.
°°°
“You got it?” Lando perks over Oscar's shoulder with a mischievous smile on his face.
Oscar is walking with a tiny pink velvet bag outside of the hotel.
“Let me see! Let me see!” Oscar giggles, but takes the bag away before giving it to him.
“Don’t take it out, just…” Oscar gave it to him. “See inside.”
Lando mocks him with his face, seeing side to side of them; any familiar face, just random people and few casual faces, it’s the end of double race week, what all want is to go, quickly as possible to their home.
Inside of the bag, there it is, shiny and dazzling.
“Mate! It’s beautiful, I mean I won’t choose…” Oscar pushes Lando taking the bag, both of them laughing, as Oscar cheeks turn red and red.
Stella observes his drivers playing around the lobby, he knows something about Oscar plans, being honest, lately, he’s been asking random and weird questions.
“Go home or I’ll send you the simulator for the week off.” Stella sentences passing by them. “I mean it.”
Lando raises his shoulders as Oscar rushes himself to put the little bag inside of his jacket pocket.
“Can I say it?” Lando raised his hand, ready for a high five.
Oscar scoff, crashing his hand with his. “Don’t even dare.”
°°°
The breeze of the sea is your boost of energy after a tiring day. You stop for a while inside of your car, letting the breeze calm your troubled mind; the sound of the birds is calming as your breathing turns steady and calm.
“God! I hate being angry because I need you here.” You mumble, laughing at yourself.
You talked about that, and got a multiple agreements; one of them don’t reserve those feelings for yourselves, if one you need it each other, say it, maybe most of the time, Oscar couldn’t be in a blink of and eye but he’ll find a way to make it easier for you; and you without a question will take flight to wherever he is.
Although, there are days like today that are just your need to be clingy with him.
You take the keys of your car, grab your bags going inside of the house, refusing to light on, you just want a hot bath and go right to the bed.
Taking your clothes off, you get the bath ready; going inside, holding your legs against your chest, closing your eyes, refusing to move another muscle until you feel with the strength to do it.
“Long day?” Oscar tilts his head as he rests against the bathroom door, still a bag at his back and his hoodie on.
You barely smile, just turning your face around, opening your eyes. “Isn’t one of my best days.”
Oscar walks and kneels next to the bath touching your head.”What do you need?”
You scoff, he looks tired too, probably rushing to get you and still he asked you what you needed.
“Call me cheesy but, you, I just need you.” You keep holding your legs.
Oscar kissed your cheek. “Well, make a little room for me.”
“No, I can go out, I just…” You finally start to move but Oscar rushes himself, taking out his clothes getting inside of the bathtub.
The water is still warm but you feel cold, and wrinkled.
“Hey!” Y/N move naturally making space for him.
Oscar smiles tenderly at you, laying back, as he opens his arms for you. You giggle, getting comfortable as he surrounds you with his arms, legs tingling as your head rests against his chest.
“We saw a sick baby whale.” You finally opened to him. “We couldn’t…” The knot on your throat feels like a big rock.
Oscar kissed the top of your head. “I’m sorry.” You let the tears roll down. “It’s ok, I'm here.”
-
That's one of the many things Oscar loves about you. Your resilience; the next morning with your PJ's on and a pen stuck at your hair, you're moving every string you can to investigate, prevent and help the whales that keep passing around the area.
You collapsed in the living room, being precise, on the carpet. Oscar wonders since when you were awake, your side of the bed was cold and you looked with enough energy for being 7 am.
You turn around slightly, seeing Oscar sitting on the stairs.
“Love!” You run to him sitting on his lap putting his arms around you, as you kiss his forehead. “Thank you so much.”
“Why?” Oscar pressed you tight against him. You roll her eyes, like he just asked the most obvious thing.
“I didn't know what you were talking about.” Oscar furrowed his eyebrows.
You kissed him long and steady, holding his face. “You did more than I could ask.”
The light coming from the windows is making him glow. That golden with a little orange light is the same as he had when you released, you were already in love with him.
On a random morning, it was the fourth time you woke up like that, with the sound of the sea at your back as a slow and calm breathing is next to you, the moment you roll, there he is, his hand resting on your hip, giving you space but keeping it close. The moment he moved his face, getting comfortable on the pillow, just that simple movement made you grin, as you pushed yourself to his chest, feeling in peace, you knew it, you loved him.
“Breakfast?” You ask followed by a kiss on his lips, taking his hands away from you.
“Sure, I can make….” You shake your head and put his arms around you, one .
“Let's call a winner breakfast, let's go outside, I'll pay.”
Oscar won't take away that cheerfully of you but it is Thursday morning, so you’re supposed to be at work.
“Don't put on that face, I'll ask for a couple of hours.” You kiss the top of his nose. “We'll change our clothes, go have breakfast, then I go back to work, I have it all under control.”
Oscar nods. “As you said.”
°°°
His favourite breakfast is in front of him, with a cute touch, over the top of his waffles, there is a mini F1 car, made of chocolate.
“Oh look at this!” Oscar's smile turns wide as he spins his plate taking from all the point view of the car.
“It's not a McLaren MCL39, but I didn't have all the skills.” You seem proud of your creation from this morning.
Oscar blinks twice. “Wait, you did it?”
“I couldn't sleep so I put it to work at my mother's pastry-making classes for my teens.” The red on his cheeks make all the noon work worth it.
Oscar lifts from the chair, as he walks grabbing your face to give a kiss.
“It's fantastic, I love you.”
The center said two hours and by the end of the second hour the messages and calls are attacking your phone. Oscar notices the way you sigh and your shoulders tense.
“We are running out of time, right?”
You pout. “Sorry, I have to go back to work, but I'll see you for dinner ok?”
“Hey, can I take your car?” You turn around your face as you walk to the entrance. “I needed to do some errands.”
“Some errands?” You ask in disbelief as Oscar opens the car door for you.
However, you stood still with the door open. “Yeah, I’ll be quick and I'll pick you up after work. I want to prepare a fancy dinner for us.”
You opened your mouth but Oscar knew you were about to argue back. “Not for today, it’s Friday night before I have to leave."
“Since when do you prepare fancy dinners?” You finally get inside the car, as Oscar smirks.
“Since I want to keep impressing my such an intelligent…” Oscar leaned inside of the copilot seat, kissing your lips. “Tenacious…” Another one. “Brave.” One more… “A stunning girlfriend."
You giggle as you gladly receive every little kiss. “Ok, take it.”
Oscar smiles, kissing you longer this time, before going to the opposite side, to the driver seat, letting you mind travel too far and sees the bottom of “Emotional panic.” from a very short distance.
cherry here!...i blame it on writers block, guys…but anyways, here it is!—welcome to the twisted world of envy mwah!
“Okay, a little to the right.”
Nodding, Carlos slides the picture frame carefully before turning back to face you. There, wearing a white sundress that makes your red lipstick stand out more than usual, you tilt your head, make a careful inspection, then send a thumbs up with a bright smile. The brunette releases a breath, climbing down the ladder and taking a glance up himself. He hums.
“Oh, Carlos, I love it!” you exclaim, running towards him and tossing your arms over his broad shoulders. They barely reach to wrap around him completely, but the effort is what he cares for the most.
Sliding his hands down to your waist, he grins, kissing your cheek softly. “Happy wife, happy life, is that not what they say?”
“That is exactly what they say,” you sing, taking a step back with a sheepish look in your eyes. He groans, already knowing where this was headed. “Do you think you could help me by watering my garden?”
You call it your garden because it technically is just yours. The Spaniard has his racing stimulator and you have your flowers. From the window, when he’s busy racing Lando on random days at home, he likes to take a look outside, always finding you on your hands and knees, digging through soil as if it were something you enjoy.
You probably did, though. Always finding fascination in each and every single rose. It’s one of the many reasons as to why Carlos fell in love with you—your determination to see things through. To help nourish what you love, even if plants are emotionless and really don't tend to love back. But he does.
Yet still, you knew him, you knew how much he hated getting stung by bees or bit by mosquitoes depending on the time of day. You never really understood all his bad luck when it came to that, always insisted on the simple solution of bug repellent, but he simply squirmed and shook his head. Over time, you eventually stopped asking, but with all the unpacking, you didn’t have much time to do it on your own, therefore, leaving you to beam up at your gorgeous husband and pray he said yes.
Carlos lets out a small wince. “You know, I’d love to—you know I would—but I, uh, actually have a really important call in a couple of minutes.” He shrugs lamely. “You get it, don't you?”
“Oh,” you mumble, blinking numbly. “I promise it won’t take more than five minutes. Just a quick spray is all that they need, I swear.”
He can already feel the itchiness, the constant need to scratch the red bumps until he loses his mind and begins to get irritated. And yet, seeing you there with a wishful expression and with big, doleful eyes, he pushes all of that back and nods with a gentle smile.
“Whatever you need, honey.”
-
The story goes: Carlos Sainz has never been in love.
No. He never really had been despite having a couple serious relationships. He likes to think so, but the moment you enter his chaotic, yet boring life, he knew there couldn’t have been a time where it was anyone else but you.
So, when Carlos awkwardly walked up to Charles one sunny afternoon in Baku a couple years ago to ask if it was alright for him to ask out his strategist with the pretty hair and youthful eyes? Well—it wasn’t much of a surprise.
“Uh, I mean…sure?” the Monegasque responded, still a bit confused as to how he ties into any of this. “As long as she’s comfortable with going out with you, then, well, yeah.” A beat, then: “Just don’t distract her too much.”
And it just worked out. You said yes, of course you said yes. Not only that, but you swore all your wishes came true. He was perfect. Kind, intelligent, humble, protective—there was not a single thing about him that made you second guess.
After that, it only took a couple dates to make it official, and a couple more for him to propose. That wasn’t a surprise either. Not to you, at least. Everyone saw it coming, and quite frankly, they were all ecstatic at the thought of it being you and not some snotty-wannabe who thinks too high of themselves to notice others. Everything was the way it was supposed to be. You and him, him and you. Nothing else made sense, and nothing else ever would.
But he thinks it happens the moment you get promoted. A couple extra zero’s in your bank account, probably, where he starts to feel a weird sensation stuck in the back of his throat and a burning feeling running throughout his fingertips.
Jealousy.
-
“That’s amazing,” Carlos yelps, lifting you off the ground with just about a thousand pecks hitting your exposed skin. Above him, you giggle until it physically hurts to breathe. He puts you down carefully before cradling your face and placing a deep kiss against those plump lips that he dreams about on the daily. “I’m so, so—so—proud of you.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, suddenly feeling a wave of shyness, like it's your first time meeting him given the way he’s looking at you with dilated irises. You look away, chewing your lip momentarily, then brushing your hair over your shoulder with a sheepish shrug. “But the only reason as to why I even got the promotion in the first place was because Charles suggested the idea to Fred, so it doesn’t really count.”
“Doesn’t really count?” the brunette repeats with disbelief. “Are you kidd—you deserve this more than anyone.”
A deep shade of red rolls across your cheekbones. “You’re too sweet, but you're just saying that because we’re married. You're sort of forced to feed me compliments.”
“I think it's cute to see that you think that way, but no—that’s not why I’m saying any of it, I genuinely think you worked hard and now you've earned something as amazing as this. And sure. Alright. Maybe Charles helped out a bit, but Fred didn't have to agree—and yet he did. I think that lets us know all that we need to know.”
And that was that. Until the following week.
Flipping through pages and pages of words he most likely wouldn't be able to read if someone asked him to, the Spaniard sighs, rubbing his temples with exhaustion. “I’m sorry to ask, but how long is this going to take? I have a dinner reservation to get to.”
Charles looks up from his own set of notes, flickering a brow high up in the air. “With the sweet missus, isn’t that so?”
Carlos chuckles. “That’s a dumb question to as—”
“Alright, alright, enough,” Fred cuts the Ferrari drivers short, flashing a dopey grin. “But to answer your question, Carlos, no, this won’t take too long. We’re just waiting up on someone.”
A conversation begins to flow in the meantime, but the second Lewis enters the room with a pitiful smile that looks hard to play off, everything sort of shifts on its axis. Glancing next to him, his gaze connects with the Monegasque who looks just as surprised and uncomfortable all of a sudden. And it hits him, like a punch to the soul, and before anyone can really even say anything, he stands abruptly.
“I’m so sorry—”
“It’s okay,” Carlos cuts the Brit off, forcing a tight smile. “Really—it’s no problem.”
“Mate…” Charles says with a grimace, but even then, all Carlos does is wave him off like it’s no big deal, when in reality, it felt like his world was ending.
Because it was.
“Hey, hey, wait,” Fred speaks up quickly, hoping to be able to explain. “Let us just talk this throu—"
“No need,” the brown eyed man responds, playing with his wedding band as some coping mechanism. “I think I understand what’s going on here, and I’m, uh, alright, ya know?” Awkward silence. “I get it. I totally get it, but a…” This time he feels the frown fall onto his lips, initially wanting to fight it off, but how could he? “A warning would have been nice.”
No one really says anything, not for a very long time, but just as he’s about to walk out, Charles places a firm hand onto his shoulder. “It’s a good thing she got that promotion, no?”
“Excuse me?” Carlos says with a slight crack to his voice. He turns around, glancing at each and every single one of them. “What is that supposed to mean?”
The green eyed driver blink feverishly, swiping his tongue across his pink lips. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong, what I meant to say is that—”
“How about we all take a seat and discuss the matter at hand like professionals?” Fred proposes with slight hope. “I really don’t want there to be tension between us, Carlos…” And for all the years of knowing each other and working together, he decides to stay. Fred tilts his head. “Look…you know that I respect you as a racing driver, don’t you?”
He doesn’t utter a single thing.
Fred shifts uncomfortably. “Well, I do.” A pause. “But you have to be able to put yourself in my shoes for a second—we need someone like Lewis.”
The knife twists brutally. “Sure,” Carlos finally answers, plain and simple. “Makes sense.”
The older man continues. “And that’s not to say that you yourself aren’t talented, because you are, but Lewis is close to retirement, and believe it or not, joining the team wouldn’t just benefit him, but us as well.” Close at hand, the Brit can’t even look up from his lap, embarrassed by how things are rolling out. It’s weird and he knows it must hurt being cut off this way. “We need to think about our future, buddy.”
The Spaniard bites back a nasty response because he knows he has to keep things civil. Because he knows he can't say what he has in mind out loud. Because he knows he should be mature rather than impulsive. But this just all—sucks.
“Well…thank you for being sincere. I appreciate that.” It was anything but sincere. And he doesn’t appreciate any of this at all. And still, he traps his lips into a soft smile, thinking he might come and believe in it too.
Carlos laces his fingers together, holding his gaze, steady despite feeling anger boiling deep inside of him. Because this isn’t easy. Because quite literally he feels as if he got stabbed in the back by people whom he once thought of as close friends. But how can friends keep a secret like this from him? Especially when it jeopardizes his future. Where is he going next? Will anyone even want him? “But going back to the whole promotion thing—what does my wife have to do with that?”
Charles squirms in an uneasy manner. “A couple months ago, Fred mentioned to me that he would be terminating your contract in order to bring in Lewis.”
The room falls silent.
“Okay,” Carlos hums, jaw clenched. “And?”
“And I felt bad…” the Monegasque confesses with shame. “Y-y-you had just gotten married, you were happy all the time, and I didn't want to ruin that. So, I, uh, just kept my mouth shut.” In a hurry, he sits up straight up in his chair, lamely apologizing with his eyes. “And now I regret not saying anything to you in the first place because you’ve always been there for me and I just—”
“It’s my fault as well,” Fred buzzes in. “I shouldn't have done things the way I did, and I should have told you weeks ago, but just like Charles said, you were in the honeymoon phase and I didn’t want to bring you down from any of that.” His brows soften up. “And I apologize.”
He doesn’t really know what to say, but what he does know is that this doesn’t make it sting any less. Instead, he nods robotically, praying they accept that and let him leave.
Charles speaks up again. “Which is why I suggested a possible promotion.”
This makes Carlos’ fake smile fall flat. “What do you mean?”
“I-I-I thought it might help ease things up a bit. Like, yeah, you’d be leaving, but if it helped you in any way, then your wife could get a raise in return. To make things even between both ends.”
A sharp chuckle. “Do you realize how fucked that sounds?”
Charles’ face quickly loses its color. “I—”
“I thought it was a great idea,” Fred adds. “That way it wouldn’t have all been for nothing. Picture what you could do with all that extra money!”
“You think I care about the money?” Carlos spits out, the facade quickly starting to fade away. “I could care less about something as useless as that. I came here to race. I came to live out my dream. I don’t give a fuck about my bank account.” Lewis tries to get everyone to calm down, but Carlos instantly aims a sharp glare. “Sorry, but you don’t have a say in this right now.”
He continues, dark brows looming over with disgust. “I get that money is a necessity in life, but what you guys did was fucking low. And on top of that, you used my wife as pity bait?” That makes him even more furious, the thought of them using you this way. “Not only did you blindside me, but her as well.”
This gets a blink out of both Charles and Fred. They share a knowing look before Charles finds his voice again. “Oh, she, um, knew about all of this, actually…”
He could hear a pin drop.
It’s as if he lost all sense of sanity, but numbly sat there with a stupid expression hearing all that they needed to say. How they called you in one day and mentioned how you would be receiving a lengthy raise for all your hard work. They went into detail about your confusion that later switched into happiness. And they also mention the fact that they let you know about Carlos not making a return to Ferrari the following year, and how all of this tied back to that too.
“We told her about Lewis, we told her about you, and we gave her a choice.” A beat. “And she took it.”
It’s as if all the memories of you and him together are swirling at the forefront of his mind, causing a migraine of the worst kind because—how could you?
Out of everyone, why you?
Fred carefully walks over to him, gently placing a hand over his stiff shoulder. “Don’t be mad at her for accepting. She’s just looking out for both of you. Your future together…it’s just begun.”
Only, that's not true.
Because he’s pretty sure it just ended.
-
“Five more minutes, I promise,” you ramble nervously as the hostess reaches your lonely table for the fifth time that night. “My husband should be here any minute now, he just tex—oh, there he is!”
Waving your napkin up in the air, Carlos flashes a warm smile, making his way over as everyone's heads turn to look at him, as if he were something magical. At times, you think that might just be true. “Perdón, perdón—meeting ran long.” He leans down to kiss your shoulder, then your lips. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
His words make you blush, only making him smile wider. “Wine?”
“Sounds great,” he chimes in, taking a seat across from you. “Would you mind bringing us your best bottle? We’re celebrating my wife’s promotion.”
Letting out an unsure chuckle, you furrow your brows softly with a loopy smile. “No…we’re not,” you mumble hesitantly. “We’re celebrating our anniversary.”
By now, both your waiter and the hostess glance back and forth. From you to him, from him to you, still astonished over the fact that Carlos Sainz was right in front of them like it was any other day. Your husband rolls his brown eyes theatrically. “A promotion as big as yours isn't a daily occurrence.”
“Well neither is our anniversary,” you retort.
He sighs, reaching across to take a hold of your small hands. “I know that, but I never properly took you out for dinner to celebrate your promotion. Let this be my formal apology.”
You’re still unsure as to why he’s acting this way, like it’s just something he has to get out of the way, but decide not to fight him on it because it actually was pretty sweet of him to want to do this for you. With a delicate smile, you nod, seeing him lighten up and signal the go-ahead for the wine. Briskly, the two individuals run off like their tails were on fire. You giggle at the sight.
“For a second there, I thought I was about to be stood up,” you joke. “I waited for you for a very long time.”
A beat. His gaze lingers on you like a magnifying glass, and then it's gone. “I guess now I know where your loyalty lies.”
“Exactly,” you play along, watching as they serve the wine elegantly before leaving the bottle behind and zooming off. “Anyways, how was your meeting?”
“Fantastic,” he claims, taking a swing of the red beverage. “But I don’t really want to talk about that right now—I want us to talk about you. How do you feel knowing you almost beat my salary?”
You frown, confused over his sudden question. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
Your neat brows pinch together strictly. “No—it’s not. I make significantly less, you can’t really compare a strategist to a Formula One driver.”
“Right,” he agrees, resting his back against his chair. “Right.”
“Right,” you mumble, neat brows still furrowed with confusion.
“Right.” He smiles mockingly. “Right, right, right.”
A minute ticks by just like this. He doesn’t really look away and neither do you, but the moment he focuses on you like a spectator at the zoo, you inch backward, tilting your head to the side.
“Are you mad at me about something?” you ask, no longer interested in being a part of this back and forth that has you lost and his eyes flickering with something indescribable, a sight you've never seen. Something is simply…off. You swallow. “What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong? Do you really want to know what’s wrong? Fine, yeah, I can tell you exactly what's going on. Well, for starters, how could you keep something like this from me? How could you not give me a heads up about possibly being kicked out of the racing team I've dreamt of being a part of ever since I was a little kid? How could you have known about this and still chosen not to say anything? And to make matters worse, you accepted a fucking promotion in return? I’m losing my career and you're too busy thinking of a goddamn promotion? Genuinely, and I mean this with all honesty left inside of me, does this really seem like something that will be worth it for you in the end?
He doesn’t say any of that. He instead bites down onto his tongue, practically feeling it split in half. And yet, none of the pounding and the blood pouring down his throat come off as painful as your secrecy, especially when there shouldn't even be none.
Carlos sighs tiredly, reaching out across the table, signalling for your hand, which you comply with a bit unsurely. “Look at me being mean to you on our anniversary,” he mumbles, feigning shame. “Now what kind of husband does that make me?”
Your eyes soften up like jello. “You weren't being mean,” you start, twisting his ring up a bit, making his stomach churn and not in a good way. A tender smile slips past your glossed lips. “Bad day?”
Carlos has never really been much of a liar, never really thrived on mischief. But things change. I mean, for the love of God, you definitely have. And he has too.
The Spaniard smiles back sweetly. “The worst.”
-
He wishes he could say that he’s over the ache of leaving Ferrari by now, but that just wouldn’t be true. And surely, if at close inspection, anyone would be able to tell that there was a slap mark slashed across his face, because the moment he found out he’d be replaced by a seven time World Champion, it sure felt like he got striked with no mercy.
Besides that, he still couldn’t get over the idea of you living peacefully. Of it being you who gets to thrive in such a historic team while he’s too busy drowning at Williams. Of it being you who keeps wracking up such a high respect while everyone begins to wonder if he ever really had any talent to begin with. Of it being you who people walk up to to congratulate while he just stands off to the side like some bored trophy wife. And one thing is for sure—he is not a trophy wife.
You are.
Well. You should be. But no, instead you're out there practically being the breadwinner, and if that isn't something that injures his ego, then he doesn't really know what else could be as efficient. Because it just doesn't make sense. How did things all take a turn?
And how could you act so okay?
“Wow,” Lando hums, taking a careful sip of vodka, keeping his gaze from flickering with surprise. “She got another promotion, you say?”
Carlos flinches against his seat. “Just last week.”
The Brit squints an eye. “And an extension?”
Another rude flinch. “Two more years, give or take.”
Quiet. From the other side, with close enough attention, they could hear you giving Lando’s girlfriend a tour of your garden. The poor girl probably won't last a month with the blue eyed boy, but that was your nature. To be kind and make sure everyone felt included. And sure, she was a nice girl and all, but Carlos seriously doubts anyone really cares about lilies. Or perhaps she does, who knows.
“That’s, um…great. Really, really good news, mate, congrats,” Lando mumbles, still unsure about what to say exactly. He knows how much his friend has been struggling—both physically and mentally. Ever since departing from Ferrari, it’s safe to say that he hasn’t quite been the same, but no one ever understood why. There had to be a deeper meaning to it all, but one thing Carlos was good at would be keeping it all in.
As much as it hurt.
The Spaniard stands, rubbing his jaw roughly. He paces back and forth, looks over his shoulder, and continues his march. He does this so many times that Lando begins to wonder just how sane he actually is. Then, he clears his throat.
“I think I hate my wife.” Pause. “And that I want to get a divorce.”
There, in the middle of summer, with the sun still hanging beautifully, he lays it out like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t give any sort of explanation, doesn’t even hold eye contact for a second or two, but he swears he’s never been so sure in his entire life. Not even when it came to his wedding vows.
Lando jumps up, glancing over his shoulder as well before furrowing his brows sharply. “Are you fucking crazy?”
Except—he’s not.
Carlos shakes his head harshly, like a spoiled brat, and even wags a finger with disgust. “No, no, I’ve actually had this in mind for quite a while now, and now…now…” Straightening his back, he smiles, sending a wave of confusion over at Lando who blinks stupidly. “And now I’m sure.”
Crickets sing. “You’re drunk.”
“I’m not.”
The Brit tugs the beer bottle straight from his grip. “You’ve had what—five? I think that’s enough.”
“Stop it,” Carlos shoots out, taking a large step back. “I know what I’m saying, I’m not drunk. I-I-I just don’t love her anymore.”
This gets the wind knocked out of Lando, because as far as he’s concerned, the Spanish driver is utterly devoted to you. He’s seen the way he looks at you, as if you hold the cure to all sorts of unexplainable diseases. As if you were the only one for him. And now this?
“I don’t get it—why would you say these things?”
Carlos gulps, slightly shorter hair breezing against the wind as his Adam's apple bobs up and down. He makes a face. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Lando glares, suddenly feeling protective over you since there isn’t even an explanation being given to him. He knows you, he knows who you are, and because of that, he’s having a really tough time trying to understand why someone like Carlos would want to drop you just like that. “Then help me understand.”
But for a very long time now, Carlos has been bitter. More than bitter—envious.
He hates you for who you are. He hates that while you succeed in all your endeavors, he struggles to even be remembered. He hates that while all eyes are on you, he has to practically jump up to remind people that he’s there too. He hates that while you smile, he has to force a similar reflection. And above all—he hates your stupid, fucking garden.
It’s absurd, he gets it, but every single time you head out there with your hair tied up in a messy ponytail and with those ugly overalls you just won’t give up, he realizes that he hates all the flowers, all the fruit trees. He hates it because it gives you peace, and peace is the last thing someone like you deserves.
But he doesn’t think he has enough evil in him to say all those words out loud. Because even if he wishes you the worst, he knows that your friends still have a certain perspective over you. And he just can’t ruin that, can’t taint it.
“Oh my goodness, your garden is breathtaking,” the redhead gasps out loud the moment you two make your way back to the drivers. Her eyes are wide and bright with disbelief. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!"
Carlos turns, spotting you with a timid smile, fixing the strap of your dress from falling off your shoulder. Your ring glimmers against the dying sun, but is still noticeable because of the upcoming moon. It’s a gorgeous diamond.
One that you don’t deserve.
You don’t deserve the praise. You don’t deserve your success. You don’t deserve to have any friends.
You don’t deserve him. And he realizes that now.
Your husband chuckles, finally setting his drink down and naturally reaching out to hug you from behind. And like a puddle, you melt into him as he kisses your cheek. From a distance, Lando frowns, feeling like a deer caught in the headlights.
Carlos hums. “Thank you, really, but it’s all because of her.”
You blush, tapping his hand as a signal for God knows what, but it brings some sort of comfort. “I told you a thousand times already—what’s mine is yours. This is our garden.”
Your husband nods, flashing a look up at the British boy closeby. “Not for long, am I right?”
Your brows twist, pushing his arms down and turning back to face him. “What do you mean?” Lando’s stomach drops, blue eyes flying back and forth as you share a questionable look. One that he tries to hide with plain lips, but ultimately ruins with a wobbly grimace. “I don’t get it, what did you mean by that?”
Carlos clicks his tongue, waving your worries away. “Don’t pay me any attention. I’m so drunk, I don’t even know what I’m saying.”
-
Turns out, Carlos doesn’t even need your consent to file for divorce.
He thought he did, but after one simple question to Reign, a close friend of his—who also happens to be a divorce attorney—he finds his answer.
Reign’s lips slant. “Why do you ask?”
The brunette waves him off, already making his way back to his driver's room. “For a friend. I’m asking for a friend.” A wide grin. “Enjoy the race, mate!”
You find him crouched over, doing a stretch you never really learned the name of, so you don’t really speak until he’s done. Once he looks up, he makes his way close and presses a gentle kiss down to your rosy cheek. “Where have you been, angel?”
“Here. There.” Yawn. “Everywhere.” Another yawn. “I miss you.”
“Yeah, well, I missed you t—”
“No, I miss having you around,” you confess with a pout. “For a long time, I knew that if I glanced up and across the garage—that you would be there. But even now, after a year of you being gone, I’m still not used to it.” A small chuckle. “Granted, I love having Lewis around, but…well. You get me.”
You did this to yourself, he thinks to himself rather stubbornly, but softens his eyes as if missing you was a fact and not a lie. But as time goes by, he finds it harder and harder to pretend. To pretend that you don’t annoy him. That you don’t make his skin crawl. That you don’t stand for something broken. And you—how can you just stand here and utter bullshit?
He doesn’t really agree nor disagree, but he does make sure to tug you into a reassuring hug, though the twist in his stomach makes him want to push you far enough away to the point where he won’t remember your face no matter how hard he tries.
And like always, you and Charles placed third. It’s been like this all season long—the constant result—but anything was better than sitting dead last. It sickened him to watch you two celebrate with expensive champagne and sore smiles.
It should have been him.
And what was worse was the fact that you alway—always—felt the need to talk about it. Was there really any need? No. Not at all. But it’s not like you were self-aware of his misfortune when you were busy high up on cloud nine.
“We can go for more,” you chant, hugging the Monegasque desperately before pulling away. “We can always go for more.”
Carlos sits there, in the corner, as quiet as a mouse. No one notices his sullen shoulders, no one notices his dark glare, and no one—absoultely no one—asks him what's most important: How are you doing, Carlos? Good? Bad? How does it feel to see your wife overachieve her own expectations and know that your historic reputation is being long forgotten? Do you think about the betrayal every time you lay in bed next to her? Is she as loyal as you once thought to be true? Does it hurt to see her accomplishing all the things you might not even get the chance to accomplish? How? Are? You? Really? Doing?
It’s not that easy. Not when everyone thinks you're some perfect angel. Smart, too. But you're not. You’re no angel. You're not smart. And to put it quite plainly, at best, you were mediocre. But what made you stand out was your luck. Because yes—that was what you were: lucky.
You’re not some hard-working strategist with a brain that could get her places. You were some weak girl who lucked out with him, therefore, gaining all the opportunities in the world on a silver platter. Sure, one could argue that you had this job before you two were together, but God, he gave you so much.
He gave you the opportunity to branch out. Network. To meet new people—to stab him in the back.
So yeah. Luck has a lot to do with where you are in life.
And as for him? He had none left.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Charles says with a gentle smile.
Carlos rolls his eyes, facing the other way. He wishes to die, right there and then, to not have to deal with any of this.
Why did it have to be you?
-
He finds it hard to explain what it ever really was about you. Your eyes? Your smile? The way you giggle like a Disney Princess? Or maybe your pure heart? He genuinely wonders, because now—in a moment where he should know what he feels—he doesn’t.
George looks around stupidly, as if looking for some sort of sign. “Um…hello?” He waves his hand right in front of Carlos’ face, dark brows shooting up when he fails to flinch or blink in the slightest. “Are you feeling alright, mate?”
A beat. “Oh, um…” Another. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I just—” The William's driver shares a weak smile, rubbing his eyes dramatically. “I’m sorry, what was your question again?”
George chuckles, digging his hands into his pockets. “How did you know she was the one?”
The only reason he’s asking is because he says he's thinking about proposing to Carmen. That it's long overdue, but that now feels like the right time. They've traveled, they've learnt everything about one another, and that now it makes sense. They took their time—slow for some, sure—but he was one hundred percent certain that there never would be anyone else.
But here, he has Carlos standing next to him, enjoying a nice glass of wine. And knowing that he's been happily married for four years is no understatement, so if it helps to ask for a bit of advice, then ask away he shall. The Brit licks his lips. “I think I knew that I wanted to marry Carmen during our first fight.”
Carlos makes a funny face. “What?”
He nods. “I get that it sounds weird, but when I really came to think about it, I remember feeling that there was no one I'd rather be in it with than with her.” A loving look flashes his eyes as he sighs with a hand still wrapped around his glass. “I could not imagine a world without her in it, and if we're arguing all the time, then I'd rather have that than not have her at all.”
And it's just that Carlos can't seem to remember the reason as to picking you. He knows there is one, but it won't come to mind no matter how hard he tries to remember. So instead, he settles with a safe answer enough for George to walk away afterwards.
“I just knew.”
He ends up proposing to Carmen an hour later when all his friends and family finish arriving and Carlos just remembers thinking: Yeah. They’ll last. They actually seem in love.
“Oh, look at them,” you squeal, and he suddenly remembers that you're next to him. “Can you believe that that used to be us?” And there it is, that soft, sweet giggle of yours. “Just two kids trying to figure it out, but—so, so, so in love.” The crowd cheers when George dips Carmen with a flashy grin. “And we still are, aren’t we Carlitos?”
He stiffens, but you don't notice. You never do.
“Defintely.”
-
“I’m so, so, so sorry, Carlos,” you sob, shoulders shaking as you cling onto his shirt. With a blank expression, he keeps his arms down, unsure of what to do. “I messed up bad, and I-I-I’m so s—”
Chuckling to himself, he gently wraps his arms around your shoulders that continue to vibrate in waves that come and go, and pulls you into his chest, not caring about continuing to get drenched with salty tears. “It’s alright, it was an honest mistake.” From the corner of his eye, he spots his racing stimulator, dripping with water. He winces with distraught, but quickly hides it when you pull away with rose tinted cheeks. “It’s okay.”
That’s the moment he knew you were the one.
Because he found it absolutely astonishing that he could never fully be mad at you. For anything, really. You could ruin his stimulator, make him buy another, and he still couldn't be mad at you. You could have stepped on his food with those high heels you only seem to wear on special occasions, and he still couldn’t be mad at you. You could have ditched him for dinner because your meeting with Charles and the team ran a bit longer than expected, and he still couldn't be mad at you.
There was nothing you could have done that could have made him lose his love for you. But then, you did it. Strike the only nerve that stuck.
Tilting his head out the window to where you water with a gentle smile and flowy dress, he clicks his tongue, trying really hard to understand why you loved this boring hobby of yours so bad. It’s not like the flowers sung to you or anything like that, but you almost made it seem as if that was the case at times. You carefully place the water hose down onto the grass before taking a step back, smiling to yourself, and inhaling that fresh scent that springs throughout the garden.
“How come no mosquitoes ever bite you?” he calls out with a boyish smile, the window now fully open, leaving him to lean against the frame like a painting.
“You might just be unlucky,” you reply with flirty eyes crinkling.
Carlos: always unlucky, unlucky, and nothing other than unlucky.
“A ladybug!” you cheer, pointing towards the tiny red insect that lands against your collar bone, next to the pearl necklace he gave you for your one month anniversary. The first of many, you had said with certainty and a sheepish look that made his heart lurch with excitement.
You: always lucky, lucky, and nothing other than lucky.
As if you're walking on eggshells, you carefully inch closer to him, signalling for his hand, to which he slants a messy brow and extends out to you. You grab the ladybug just then, placing it onto his warm skin. It sits there for half a second—or maybe even a full one—before it flutters its wings and sets off into the sky.
“Wow. You really are unlucky.”
His veins twist. He tries to pretend that this innocent encounter hasn't bothered him much, but it's done just that. And maybe it's something stupid to be mad about, but at least he does a good job at hiding it. Carlos sticks his head out with a tight smile. “I wouldn't say so. You are my wife, aren't you?"
Blood races up to your ears as you tippy toe to kiss his soft lips. He doesn't pull away right away, though, no, he desperately cradles your face, showing his endearment in the best way possible. A soft sigh of pleasure echoes against him as he feels your hands begin to reach out for him. One thing is certain—despite not loving you anymore: you sure do affect him the same way as yesterday.
You’re the first to disconnect, left in a haze. “You taste like berries,” he says, swooning as he pecks your swollen lips one last time. “Raspberries.”
“I had a good handful of them a while ago.” He can tell you're still buzzing. “You hadn’t…”
Crickets chirp.
“Hadn’t what?” he whispers.
A single minute passes by before you blink hastily, almost laughing to yourself with surprise. “You just hadn’t…kissed me like that in a while.”
You had noticed? For a moment, he can't find the proper words to try and explain—make up a lie as to why he’s been distant—but of course you had noticed, how could you have not?
You’ve felt the distance and you’ve mourned his embrace. It’s been months since he’s touched you—properly touched you. And not that you were some desperate housewife or anything like that, but you'd say it's disheartening when you feel as if you don’t matter to him anymore. He had always reassured you, though, and maybe that's why you hadn't questioned him on it, but now that he’s kissed you as if he had been missing you all along, you seem to forget whatever it is that you had been worried about in the first place.
He doesn’t need to say anything else.
That night, it's as if you’ve fallen in love all over again.
He cooks for you—something he hadn’t done in a month. He hears you talk without interrupting—something he hadn’t done in two. And he tells you—
“I love you so much.”
For what felt like the first time in forever.
Come to think of it, there's been a lot of love you’s and no I love you’s. And contrary to belief—there is a difference. You hadn’t noticed that before, but now, hearing him say it after such a long hiatus, you feel it strike you as odd. Because in a way…it was.
Something is off. The familiar feeling comes to mind, but he’s too caught up with fucking your tiny cunt at a worrisome speed. You barely had a chance to think properly before he flips you, causing you to squeal as you fall face flat onto the comfy bed and lay with your ass high up in the air. Overly exposed, you turn clumsily to face him to the best of your ability as he kneels from behind, licking his lips with anticipation. Your stomach churns nervously.
“Carlos—”
“Hm,” he cuts you off, sliding his thumb into your hole, feeling you clench around the firm digit as if that was the only response your body was capable of giving. Maybe it was. He tilts his head with a smug expression, sliding his finger around until he feels the gummy part of you that makes you let out a broken moan, purposely digging your face back into the nearest pillow, unaware of how much this is getting him off. “I really don’t feel like talking right now.” He slips his finger back out, seeing the way your juices flow down his arm. “Plus, you’re much prettier when you stay silent.”
For some reason, his comment forms a lump deep inside your throat. You feel used, and pathetic, and something was telling you that he was mad at you. Furious even. This made you jerk up, no longer interested in any of this. “Can you please not say stuff like that?” you mumble, not daring to look back at your husband who has remained silent up until now. “I’m not really into…degregation.”
“The truth counts as degradation?”
You flinch, still not lifting your head, but by now, your face is no longer pressed against the duvet, but rather hanging low as tears slide down your face. It takes all of you to sit back up, feeling stupid and useless as you grab his t-shirt out of necessity, and throwing it over your head.
When you finally come to face him, he’s already slipped his shorts back on, looking you dead in the eye with something that should have been unexplainable. But it is no longer that way. Unexplainable, that is. Because you knew.
You knew that he knew.
“When did you find out?” you whisper, red splotches already forming across your skin as you bite down onto your lip to prevent the sobs from breaking through. Because God knows that’s the last thing you need right now, and a tiny voice tells you that he’d love to see something as heartbreaking as that.
Carlos scoffs. “You’re not even gonna try to deny it?”
“When did you f-find out?” you repeat, this time softening your brows with regret.
“How could you?”
“I’m sorry!” you say with panic, climbing off the bed the moment he makes his way out of your matrimony room. “If I could take it all back, I would! It was just that you—”
“We’re not doing that!” the Spaniard yells back, turning on his heels to face you with eyes you no longer recognize. You stumble back a bit, wincing at his harsh tone, one he’s never used on you. He has never—ever—rasied his voice. But you’re aware that you deserve this. He shakes his head with a sour laugh. “I will not let you blame me for something you did.” Silence. “W-why…h-how…” Gulp. “How could you do this to me?”
He’s no longer satisfied watching you cry. He’s no longer satisfied having you spits empty apologies as if that might actually fix any of this. But the damage is done, and he can’t even begin to figure a way to get that through your head. Instead, he, himself, feels empty. Because this is it. This was the confrontation he had been expecting, but he just never thought he’d be left this dumbfounded. He thought he’d have a whole speech ready, really let you know how much you hurt him, but at this very moment—he just can’t seem to find the proper words to let you know how he feels.
Wiping you tears away, you sniffle, reaching out for him as he musters up a dirty glare. Your heart stops. “I get it. I do. You’re angry—reasonably so—but…” Your attention flickers down onto the floor like a kid caught stealing. “It was only a kiss.”
Carlos’ jaw goes slack.”You kissed someone?”
Your whole body goes cold as you look up, furrowing your brows with confusion. “I-I-I…I did. But I’m confused—what were you talking about?”
“Forget that—who did you kiss?”
Suddenly, it’s as if your entire vocabulary has been wiped. You’re left there, opening and closing your lips lamely as if that might help you find your words. Nothing seems to work, but the second he marches up to you and grabs your shoulders with a firmness that catches you by surprise, you’re quick to snap out of your trouble. “H-he kissed me first,” you let out. “I didn’t initiate anything with h-him, I swear—”
“I don’t care who kissed who,” the brunette warns, staring intently into your orbs that show him a reflection of himself. From this point of view, he can distinguish his hair a mess, and his beard too grown out. It should come to no surprise that he was simply exhausted of dealing with the disappointment that is, well—you. His dark brows slant with danger. “Who is he?”
Your mind seems to think about it. Debate whether you should tell him or not. None of it sounds like a good idea, but you also know that there’s no way around it. At this point, there’s no chance he’ll ever forgive you, so you might as well get this secret off your chest. “Lewis,” you confess. “I, he, he kissed me.”
“Lewis?” He feels sick to his stomach. “You cheated on me with the guy who stole my seat?”
You hesitate, feeling his arms drop to his sides with defeat as he stares off into space with utter betrayal and disbelief. “H-he came onto me one night, and I tried to push him—but he just…kissed me.” You grimace at the thought. “It was hi—”
“And you didn’t think about pulling away?” he retorts sarcastically, but the pain is evident in his accent as he rubs his eyes as if he just woke up from the worst slumber of his life. “You just…stood there?”
“No!” you yelp. “Of course not! I pushed him off, I-I-I warned him not to try anything like that ever again!”
“Sure you did…”
Your neat brows pinch with hurt. “You don’t believe me?”
“I just don’t know,” he starts, cocking his head with false interest. “You’re pretty fucking easy.”
The slap comes out of nowhere. He feels the sting right away, and he hears you gasp right after. The audacity you carry to act shocked, a shaky hand laid over your mouth as you begin to close the distance. “I don’t know why I did that,” you state with dark eyebags. “I don’t know why I did that, I don’t know why I did t—”
“Why else?” he remarks with a sour expression. “I said something that you know is true, and you don’t like that. To hear the truth.” A deep chuckle. “Is that how you’ve gotten all of your promotions? By sleeping around?”
He watches your hand rise up again, ready to strike, but it only takes him a second to react this time, catching your hand as you let out a sob, lifting your other hand before he catches hold of that one too. “You’re such a fucking dick!” you exclaim, irises dilated with rage. “That’s not true!”
Your arms try to break free, but he only grips tighter, a sense of irritation beginning to crawl up his neck. “Really? Then tell me—how did you really gain access to a promotion like that?”
“By doing my job!” you screech, finally ripping apart and stumbling back. “By doing my fucking job, Carlos! How else?”
“Right,” he mutters, rolling his brown eyes. “Right, right, right.”
His words take you back to your dinner a year ago, where he said the exact same thing in the exact same tone. The realization takes you by the ear, causing you to stand up straight and tilt your head with shame.
“You know, don’t you?”
He huffs. “About your affair or what?”
You ignore him. “You know about the deal.”
It’s the first time you’re acknowledging it, and he didn’t expect it to hurt this much. His heart rate slows down as the room begins to close in on him as you nod silently. “You’re calling it a deal, now?” he says back, trying to show that he’s doing just fine, but even his own mother wouldn’t believe a lie as outrageous as that. “You really are a horrible wife, you know that?”
His words sting, and he knows that by the smile he wears, but his red eyes prove otherwise. He’s hurting, too. And it’s all your fault. Gulping steadily, you purse your lips before running a hand through your tangled hair. A whiff of his cologne paints the air as his shirt remains wrapped around you. His eyes dart, as if already claiming it back as his own, but doesn’t say anything.
“I know…” you agree with something just above a whisper. “But you have to try and see where I was coming from—we had just gotten married, Carlos.”
“Oh. Sure. That just makes complete sense. To get married and then double cross your husband who you promised to be loyal to.”
“You don’t get it,” you start, no longer crying, but rather panicking. “I thought the money would be of good use! We had just spent a fortune on our wedding!”
“Don’t try to say it was a money thing, you know it was never a money thing! Just admit it—you were fucking hungry for more. That’s the only thing that mattered to you!” He chuckles at the way you stand there with an open mouth. “And it still does! But on top of that—to make matters worse—you kept a secret from me. A secret that shouldn’t have even been a secret, and one you should have told me about—did you ever think about telling me?”
“I was going to, but then—”
“But then what?”
Your throat dries up. “But then I thought: what’s the point? Crush your dreams?” Your eyes begin to water again, but this time, you refuse to let them fall. “You were going to be dropped anyway, so why should I have been the one to kill something so important to you?”
“Because it would have hurt a lot less, that’s why!”
You freeze.
Carlos focuses on not lashing out more than necessary, but it’s as if everything—all of his feelings—have finally caught up with him, dragging him back into reality, whether he likes it or not. His hands shake, his face begins to flush, and swear he no longer sees you as an angel, but just someone—ordinary. You were just another nobody to him.
And all it took was this.
“If you had told me that was going to happen, it would not have felt like a nightmare. If you had told me that was going to happen, we could have gotten through it together. If you had told me that was going to happen, I might have been prepared and not looked so stupid in front of everyone.” His vision begins to blur, but he’s quick to rub his eyes, forcing the feeling to run the opposite way. “But you didn’t. And instead I dealt with all the repercussions on my own, instead of with my wife.”
You shrink right in front of him. “I’m sorry…”
Your husband shrugs, like it doesn’t bruise his heart to even look at you. “You apologize, but that means that you knew it was wrong all along…and you did it anyway.”
The living room falls silent, all except the the sound of the dryer going off. You doubt you’d ever wash another polo of his, another pair of jeans. Just—his uniform. You doubt you’d ever lay it out for him on the bed while he runs off to a quick shower. You doubt you’ll ever do his hair, only for him to do it all over again. Just above the fireplace, your wedding picture—the one he bought a ladder for in order to reach—hangs like a joke. You doubt you’ll ever dust that ever again too. In it, he smiles down at you as you beam towards the camera, eyes crinkled with pure joy.
And it really hits you. That he’ll never look at you that way ever again.
“Did I ruin your life?” Your inquiry makes his soul split in half, because even though he has the answer to your question, he can’t find the strength to say it out loud. His silence is answer enough. You nod, not really understanding why you’re shocked anyways. Twisting your lips before letting out a weak smile, you hum. “There’s a lot of intimacy in never speaking again, you know?”
His irises dilate, and you find the truth in them.
That he hates himself for still loving you.
“It’s a good thing we never had kids, right? Woulda made things worse.” You snort. “Much, much worse.” The dryer rings, indicating its cycle has come to an end. “Don’t worry, I’ll leave.”
“What about your garden?” he calls out pathetically. His warmth and consideration is the last thing you should have, but he can’t help it. He knows how much you love it.
Glancing out the window, you sigh, shoulder rising high before falling. “Dunno. Take care of it for me, I suppose?” You turn back slowly, grabbing your keys with a lump in your throat.
“In another life, I would’ve liked checking the baby monitor with you.” A beat. “I just thought you should know.”
He still has your heart in his hands. You don’t know for how long—but he just does.
Your gaze meets his, and it’s as if you’re meeting him once again. Just him. Just you. And no problems in between.
You smile gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Yeah. I would have liked that, too.”
-
A loud thud echoes against your wooden desk, making you jump in the slightest. Charles lets out a snicker. “This just came in for you.”
You eye the packet suspiciously before ripping it open. The Monegasque watches you scan the pages, rosy lips caught in between your teeth. There’s complete silence, nothing but the sound of papers flipping, and the clock ticking. Not long after, you shake your head. “It’s just the, uh—divorce papers, that’s all.”
He awkwardly shifts, not really knowing what to say to make things feel any less suffocating. “He’s actually going through with it?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” you mumble, placing the papers down. “I ruined our marriage, so…”
Your words stir his guilt. It makes its way to the palm of his hands, making them begin to sweat. Then it slithers its way to his eyes, blinking with embarrassment at the reminder of a few months ago. You pushing him back, warning him to leave you alone. Yelling at him for mixing his feelings, while yours were perfectly intact. If it weren’t for the fact that you two work well together, he thinks you would’ve quit on him a long time ago.
“Do you ever think that maybe…it was my fault?” he mumbles. “I mean, I was the one who kissed you—”
“We said we wouldn’t talk about that again, Charles,” you say with a certain firmness caught in your voice. “You said you wouldn’t repeat what you did, so let’s just leave it alone, once and for all, please.”
The Ferrari driver stiffens. “Sure, but, well—you brought it up to him, didn’t you? Isn’t that why you’re now getting a divorce?”
A wave of irritation starts to bloom within your veins as you shake your head, standing up abruptly. “Yeah—I did. But there was a lot more to it than just that.”
“Like what?”
“Jesus, Charles!” you exclaim, making him flinch like some puppy. “Because I kept a secret from him! Because I didn’t tell him about the meeting, what it was about!” Your gaze darkens as your face pinches up bitterly. “Because I accepted a fucking promotion on top of him—so sorry to you, mate! Sorry to break the news and say that not everything is about you.”
He lamely looks away, squirming in his seat. “You’re right. You’re right, not everything is about me, you’re right.” A beat. “But I’m here for you, you know that—”
“Listen, Charles,” you say, breaking him off as he stares at you with high expectations. “How about we just leave it alone?’ A heavy sigh. “I’m dealing with a lot right, the last thing I need is to have you begging for something that will never be, okay?” Charles nods robotically, cheeks turning pink with humiliation. “Either way…he thinks I kissed Lewis, not you.”
He freezes. “What? Why?”
You glare. “How about a thank you?”
Only, he’s not thinking of doing that, no, instead he rests his forearms against your desk as panic paints his irises. “Why would you lie to him? I don’t get it…”
“It was either you or him,” you say, massaging your temples, attempting to lessen your growing migraine. “I-I-I panicked, and I thought he knew, so I blamed it on someone else. Someone who he didn’t think of as a brother.” Charles recoils at the thought of him and Carlos once being close. Spending race weekends binge watching shows or playing chess. Granted, that sort of came to an end the second you entered the Spaniard’s life, but still—it was nice while it lasted. You lick your lips. “It’s stupid, but—”
“You care for me.”
Your stomach churns. “No, I don’t. I simply lied to protect his feelings.”
“No,” Charles retorts. “You lied to protect me.”
“You’re out of your mind—”
“Am I?”
Your lips fall into a straight line.
He can’t even try to hide his smile from growing. “Tell me—if you say it was better that way—then why did you tell him Lewis kissed you and not me?”
“B-because,” you stutter, lashes fluttering with dread. “Because if he was going to hate someone, might as well be him, and not…” God, no. You close your eyes, not being able to hold eye contact for any longer. “Not you…”
Charles’ eyes twinkle with excitement. “There ya go.”
Holy. Shit.
Without saying another word, the Monegasque leaves you standing there, exiting your office with pride hung high up on his shoulders. Because he knew—he knew your feelings before you knew of them yourself. Blinking dumbly, you stare off as he turns the corner, out of view as if this conversation hadn’t just happened. You stay there, just like that, for the next four minutes before the sound of your phone ringing rips you away from the trance he’s apparently had you in since that Godforsaken kiss.
You pick up without ever reading the contact name, still not fully in your five senses. “Hi, hey, um—hello?”
Static sounds erupt from the other side. Then, Carlos clears his throat rudely, and that’s when you know it’s him.
“Hey, so I recently confronted Lewis and he swears you two never kissed.”
I sympathize with oscar because as an autist I've no greater fear than being forced to befriend a guy who has 97548 friends, is always seen at clubs, is extremely socially and emotionally intelligent and has many different interests, and I have to act super cool and chill and mask the fact that my personality trait is 'car' and that I won't even go out for drinks after winning a grand prix because bars are a sensory torture chamber. and I have a crush on him.
summer break feeling so long it got me making incorrect quotes at midnight. Shucks there's still 2 weeks left, that's quite a long while, drats guess I gotta make more.
alex “i don’t have a yacht so what if i showed up to race day in monaco on a swan pedal boat but the tide is too strong and i can’t outpedal it and it carries me off to cannes and i’m just floating around south of france instead” albon i love you so much
summer break feeling so long it got me making incorrect quotes at midnight. Shucks there's still 2 weeks left, that's quite a long while, drats guess I gotta make more.
izzy806
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
dededos
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