eleven bullet points | established relationship dynamics w gen partner, fluff slightly suggestive, teasing, physical affection, praise, embarrassment, emotional vulnerability, intimacy.
• Max acts like he's in charge until the bedroom door closes, then all of his confidence mysteriously evaporates. He'll complain about being manhandled the entire time, but somehow never actually tries to stop it.
• The quickest way to fluster him is to praise him. One genuine compliment and suddenly he's hiding his face in the nearest shoulder.
• He hates admitting he likes being taken care of, but melting into someone else's embrace is his favorite place to be.
• An arm around a waist, fingers hooked in a sleeve, resting his head against a shoulder – it all happens on instinct.
• Max grumbles whenever someone calls him "cute." The problem is that his bright red ears completely ruin the intimidating image he's trying to maintain.
• He's secretly very receptive to gentle affection. A hand in his hair or someone rubbing circles into his back has him relaxing almost immediately.
• Despite his competitive traits, he enjoys not having to be the one in control all the time. It gives him a rare chance to switch his brain off and simply exist.
• Max absolutely buries his face in pillows whenever he's embarrassed. If there isn't a pillow nearby, he'll settle for hiding in someone's chest instead.
• He's surprisingly quiet when he's genuinely comfortable. The usual sarcastic comments fade away, replaced by sleepy little hums and contented sighs.
• His love language is acts of service. He'll casually make coffee, fix something around the house, or order his partner's favorite food without making a big deal out of it.
• No matter how tough he tries to look in public, the second he's alone with his partner, he's the first one asking, "Can we just stay in tonight?"
a/n : i lwk wrote max as a bottom but it doesn't matter
Erotomania: an uncommon paranoid condition characterized by an individual's delusion that another person is infatuated with them.
obsessed!stalker!op81 x reader
inspired by "The Diner" by Billie Eilish
907 words | dead dove, do not eat: stalking, delusion, paranoia, obsessive behavior, invasion of privacy, psychological horror, emotional distress, implied threats, open ending.
The first gift arrived on a Tuesday.
It wasn't wrapped. It wasn't signed. It was simply waiting outside your apartment door:
A single white lily, carefully placed on top of a folded napkin from a café you'd visited exactly once the week before.
You stared at it for a long moment.
Maybe someone had the wrong apartment, maybe it belonged to your neighbor.
You nudged it aside with your shoe and went to work.
Oscar noticed immediately.
He'd watched through the street camera across the street.
Not because he wanted to invade your privacy, but because you were shy.
You couldn't accept gifts in public.
That was okay.
He understood. He always understood.
The internet made it easy to know someone.
You'd never posted your apartment number.
But reflections in windows were helpful.
Street signs. Landmarks. The receipt sticking out of your grocery bag. A forgotten geotag.
People never realized how loudly they announced where they lived.
But, Oscar wasn't stalking.
He was paying attention.
There was a difference.
After all, you'd wanted him to notice.
Hadn't you?
His notebook was organized by dates.
Every smile. Every outfit. Every place you'd been. Every glance in his direction.
Especially the glances.
Page after page was covered in neat handwriting.
April 8
She looked at me for 2.8 seconds.
Didn't smile because media was nearby.
Understandable.
April 19
She wore blue.
My favorite color.
Coincidence impossible.
May 2
Ignored me.
She's testing commitment.
I Passed.
Reality had become something flexible.
Everything bent toward the same conclusion.
You loved him. You simply hadn't admitted it yet.
You began noticing him everywhere.
Not constantly.
Just... enough.
A café. An airport. The grocery store three neighborhoods away. Once outside your office.
He never approached. He just looked. Long enough that you recognized him. Short enough that you questioned yourself afterward.
Maybe Formula 1 drivers just traveled a lot.
Maybe you were imagining it.
Oscar smiled the entire drive home.
She recognized me today. She's getting comfortable.
The messages began after that.
Not from his official account.
Random usernames.
No profile picture. No followers. No posts.
"Hope you got home safely."
Delete.
Another.
"You looked tired today. Please sleep more."
Block.
Another.
"The blue sweater is my favorite."
Delete.
Another.
"I know you're scared. It's okay. I'll wait until you're ready."
Your stomach twisted.
You changed your number.
Moved apartments.
Stopped posting online.
For almost three months – Silence.
Enough silence that you convinced yourself it was over.
Then your favorite book disappeared.
It had been sitting on your bedside table for a week.
You knew exactly where you'd left it.
You searched every room.
Nothing.
Three days later, it returned.
Perfectly centered on your kitchen table.
A note rested inside.
"You left this open to chapter twelve. I finished it. You have excellent taste."
The police asked reasonable questions.
"Any sign of forced entry?"
"No."
"Anyone else have a key?"
"No."
"Security cameras?"
"The hallway camera is broken." – Again.
Oscar hated seeing you frightened.
He cried that night.
Not because of guilt.
But because you wouldn't let him comfort you.
If she'd just let me explain... she'd understand.
She always understands eventually.
His therapist had once tried.
"Oscar, what evidence do you have that this person feels the same way?"
Oscar had smiled. "The evidence is everywhere."
"Can you give me an example?"
"She keeps pretending not to know me."
"...That's evidence?"
"It's obvious."
He stopped going after that session.
Some people simply refused to see the truth.
Your friends started noticing.
"You're pale."
"You keep checking windows."
"You jumped when your phone buzzed."
You laughed it off.
Said work was stressful.
It was easier than saying "Someone I barely know has somehow memorized my life."
Because that sounded impossible.
Until the race weekend.
You hadn't planned on going.
A friend won tickets.
"It's free."
"You'll have fun."
You almost declined.
Instead, you went.
Thousands of people crowded the paddock.
Noise. Engines. Cameras. Safe.
There were too many witnesses. Too many people. Nothing could happen here.
Oscar spotted you before qualifying.
Of course he did.
You came.
Just like you promised.
He'd always known you would.
He waved.
You froze.
Not because you were happy.
Because he was looking directly at you.
With complete certainty.
Like he'd been expecting you all along.
His smile widened.
He mouthed one word.
"Finally."
You left before the session ended.
That night, a package waited outside your hotel room.
Inside was your missing apartment key.
Another note.
"See? You never really lost anything. I was keeping it safe until you were ready to trust me."
Your hands shook so violently the paper slipped to the floor.
Someone knocked.
Three soft taps.
You didn't breathe.
Another three.
Silence.
Then footsteps fading down the hallway.
Security checked the cameras.
No one.
The hallway recording cut out for exactly forty-three seconds.
Just enough time.
Oscar lay awake smiling.
Progress.
She didn't throw the note away this time.
She kept it.
She understands now.
Months later, your life looked normal again.
New apartment.
New city.
New routine.
You almost believed you'd escaped.
Until one rainy evening, as you unlocked your front door, you noticed something tucked beneath the welcome mat.
A single white lily.
Fresh.
Untouched by the rain.
No note.
None was necessary.
Because whoever left it already believed you knew exactly what it meant.
824 words | tooth-rotting fluff, light teasing, established relationship, humor, domestic moments
Ollie insisted he didn't need another stuffed animal.
He was nineteen. He raced Formula cars for a living. He traveled the world carrying helmets, race suits, data tablets—not teddy bears.
So when you walked into a tiny gift shop after a race weekend and held up a ridiculously fluffy brown bear with a crooked little smile, he immediately shook his head.
"No."
You looked at him. "You didn't even let me ask."
"I know what you're going to ask."
"What am I going to ask?"
"'Can we buy him?'" Ollie answered, perfectly mimicking your voice.
You gasped dramatically. "You've been making fun of me?"
"A little."
"You've wounded me."
He laughed, already walking toward the checkout with the snacks you'd come in for. You stayed behind. "...You're leaving him?"
"Yes."
"He'll be lonely."
"He is cotton."
"He has feelings."
"He absolutely does not."
You sighed loud enough for the entire shop to hear. "...Fine."
Twenty minutes later, the bear was buckled into the backseat of the rental car.
Ollie glanced in the mirror. "You bought him anyway."
"I used my own money."
"You named him, didn't you?"
"...Maybe."
"Oof."
You folded your arms. "His name is Bernard."
"Bernard?"
"He looked like a Bernard."
"...That's somehow worse."
Bernard began appearing everywhere.
On hotel beds. On your suitcase. Watching TV. Sitting in the passenger seat. Sometimes you'd prop him beside Ollie while he was studying onboard footage.
"He wants to learn racing."
"He has no eyes."
"He can still listen."
The first time Ollie was caught talking to Bernard, he blamed exhaustion.
He'd walked into the room after a simulator session. Dropped onto the bed. Looked at the bear. "...Long day?"
You froze in the bathroom doorway. "...Did you just ask Bernard how his day was?"
"...No."
"I literally heard it."
"I was talking to myself."
"Sure."
From then on, it became your favorite thing to tease him with.
"Bernard says you're overthinking qualifying."
"Ollie, Bernard thinks you need to drink water."
"Bernard agrees with me."
"I don't think Bernard does," Ollie would mutter.
"He nodded."
"He cannot nod."
Then came the triple-header. Three race weekends, almost no sleep. Too many flights, too much pressure.
By the time you both finally reached the hotel after the last race, neither of you had spoken much. You were exhausted, and Ollie looked even worse.
He showered, changed into one of his oversized hoodies, and collapsed face-first into bed.
You brushed your teeth before climbing in beside him. "...Where's Bernard?" you asked.
Ollie blinked."...I packed him."
"You packed him?"
"...Yeah."
You smiled."Where?"
He silently reached into his backpack and pulled out the bear. he placed Bernard between the two of you. "There." Your heart nearly melted. "You packed him..."
"You always sleep better when he's here."
"I do?"
"You hug him every night... I noticed."
You looked down at Bernard, then back at Ollie. "You remembered." He shrugged like it wasn't a big deal. "You were sad when you almost left him in Monaco."
"You remember that?"
"You cried."
"I did not cry."
"You absolutely cried."
"My eyes were... emotional."
"They leaked."
"They were humid."
Ollie laughed. "You are unbelievable."
That night, you woke up around three in the morning. The room was dark, quiet. You rolled over. Bernard was gone. Confused, you looked around until you found him. Tucked securely under Ollie's arm, his cheek rested against the bear's head. One hand was absentmindedly squeezing its paw in his sleep. You stared.
Quietly, you reached for your phone.
Click.
The picture was adorable.
The next morning.
"What are you smiling at?"
"Oh, nothing."
"...Show me."
"No."
"Show me."
"No."
"Please?"
"Nope."
He reached across the bed, trying to grab your phone. You squealed, scrambling away. "Ollie!"
"Delete it!"
"Never!"
"Delete it!"
"It's blackmail now!"
"You are evil!"
"I learned from the best."
He finally caught you, laughing so hard he nearly fell off the bed. "You cannot show Gabi."
"I won't."
"Isack"
"No."
"Kimi?"
"..."
"Kimi?"
"..."
"You've already sent it, haven't you?"
You grinned. "...Maybe." Ollie buried his face in the pillow with a groan. "I'll never recover." Your laughter filled the hotel room.
After a moment, he reached over and stole Bernard back from you. "He's mine now." You raised an eyebrow. "I thought stuffed animals were for children."
"I have no memory of saying that."
"You said it in the gift shop."
"Fake news."
"You looked Bernard in the eyes and said no."
"I've grown as a person." You smiled. "I can see that." He hugged the teddy bear a little tighter before nudging it toward you so the two of you could share it. "...Don't tell anyone," he mumbled. "Your secret's safe with me."
"...Mostly?"
"...Mostly."
He sighed dramatically. "Worst girlfriend ever."
"And yet..." You tucked Bernard between the two of you again. "...You still let me buy the bear."
"...Yeah." A small smile tugged at Ollie's lips. "I guess Bernard was a good investment after all."
lando norris x trans!oscar piastri | based on this
2.2k words | 18+ content
reading under the cut means that you are okay with reading the following : sexual tension/language/dialouge, porn with plot, fingering, oral, (slight) foreplay, dirty talk, praise, munch!lando, (slight) aftercare.
Oscar didn't know what to expect when he opened Twitter that morning.
Maybe it was hype about championship standings. Maybe it was another sighting of him in his new car. Maybe it was World Cup results. Maybe it was memes that he was too out of the loop for.
But nothing could have prepared him for what caught his attention.
The video replayed a couple of times as he processed what he was seeing.
It was Lando, in a club somewhere, which wasn't the unusual part. Lando was usually in some club or on some yacht touching men in a questionable way that made the majority of Twitter question his sexuality.
The unusual part was what he was wearing.The video started with Lando pulling his top off to reveal his tanned torso, glistening with sweat from the sweaty club, abs flexing. He'd recently been getting back into DJing despite being adamant he was 'retiring' in interviews. Then the video cut to his arms, pulling on a black tank top, his biceps rippling as he struggled to pull it over his torso.
When it finally settled over his stomach, on the front, it read in big yellow and green letters:
"Eat Pussy, it's Vegan!"
Oscar's first thought was, 'He looks fit with his arms out like that.'
His second thought sat deep in his belly and coiled tight until it heated his entire body. Lando was an eater…
Oscar knew Lando was... generous, to say the least. Between club sightings and hearing stories straight from the man himself, he knew all about Lando's reputation.He briefly considered whether to proactively notify the PR team, even though theoretically it wasn't his concern, nor was it within his job responsibilities. If he had to say anything, he should be worried about whether Lando was able to get home safely last night. With the matter out of his mind, he showered, changed clothes, made himself a cup of chocolate milk, sat down at the dining table, and started working on his computer. Oscar didn't think about anything other than racing data for about two hours, until someone called him. He glanced at his phone; it was the PR department. Great.
Basically, he and Lando would have to fly to Woking and film some videos to distract the public from Lando's shenanigans. Great.
Within the next hour, Oscar was packed and on a jet to England. So much for a weekend off.
At the MTC, the PR team has Lando and Oscar film a video of them making a scrapbook. After about 30 minutes, they send the men on their way.
Oscar walks over to the mini fridge and pulls out a random Monster, not looking at the flavor. He cracks the can open and takes a sip, not registering the flavor as Lando walks over. "I see you like melon yuzu," Lando teases, grabbing a can of Monster himself. Oscar raises an eyebrow, not getting what he meant until he looks at the can. "I mean, it's alright," Oscar replies, wiping his mouth with his thumb. Lando chuckles, giving Oscar a sly smirk. "You know, it's quite unlike the PR team to call us in so suddenly. " Oscar starts, looking directly at Lando. Lando's face faltered before he quickly smirked again. "Yeah," he said with a shrug. "Guess they ran out of content." Oscar hummed in acknowledgment, absentmindedly turning the Monster can in his hands. His eyes scanned the fine print wrapped around the label. "Huh."
"What?"
"I never realized Monster was vegan." Oscar tilted the can slightly, reading another line. "I mean... I guess that makes sense." He took another deliberate sip.
Across from him, Lando inhaled his own drink at exactly the wrong moment, breaking into a fit of coughing. Oscar finally looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching. Lando pointed an accusing finger at him between coughs. "Low blow." Oscar's expression remained perfectly innocent. "Low. Blow."
The rest of the day passed without incident.They answered the same recycled questions, smiled on cue for the cameras, and posed for enough photos to satisfy the team's social media managers. By the time the final video wrapped, both of them were running on little more than caffeine and muscle memory.
The drive back to the hotel was unusually quiet. Oscar is in the driver's seat with his eyes focused on the road. Normally, Lando would've filled the silence with complaints about traffic, a terrible joke he'd read online, or some wildly unnecessary debate he'd started just to see Oscar argue with him. Instead, he stared out the window, headphones around his neck but no music playing. The hotel lobby was calm when they arrived, the late evening rush long gone. They exchanged polite smiles with the receptionist before making their way to the elevators. Neither of them spoke as the numbers climbed.The room greeted them exactly as they'd left it earlier that day: two suitcases tucked against opposite walls, clothes draped over chairs, and two neatly made beds separated by a bedside table.
Lando dropped his backpack beside the bed closest to the window. Oscar claimed the one nearest the door.It wasn't unusual. The team almost always booked one room for overnight trips. Tonight, though, the space between the beds felt much wider than the few feet of carpet that separated them.Lando disappeared into the bathroom first, emerging several minutes later in a tank top and a pair of sleep shorts. "Bathroom's free."
"Thanks." Oscar changed into his pair of sleep shorts and an oversized shirt quickly, brushing his teeth in practiced silence before returning to the room. Lando had already switched off the main lights, leaving only the warm glow of the bedside lamp illuminating half the room. "Night," Lando said quietly, already lying on his side, facing the window. "Night." Oscar reached over and clicked off the lamp. Darkness settled between them, and neither of them slept nearly as quickly as they pretended to.
Minutes crawled by.
The digital clock on the bedside table ticked relentlessly toward the early hours of the morning, bathing the room in a faint blue glow. Every so often, one of them shifted beneath the covers, each movement reminding the other that sleep remained stubbornly out of reach.
Lando stared at the ceiling until his eyes burned. He turned onto one side, then the other. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing exhaustion to take over, but his thoughts refused to quiet. The silence between the two beds felt heavier than it had all evening.
Finally, with a quiet sigh, Oscar pushed the duvet aside. The mattress creaked as he sat up. He pushed his back against the headboard, leaning his head back. He didn’t realize Lando was also up, grabbing his phone without thinking to check.
1:48 am
Oscar rubbed a hand over his face before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cool beneath his feet as he quietly made his way toward the bathroom, careful not to make more noise than necessary.
A splash of cold water did little to settle the restlessness clinging to him. He stared at his reflection for a moment before drying his hands and slipping back into the dark hotel room.
He hadn't expected Lando to still be awake, awake and sitting up with the light on at that.
"What?" Oscar asked, catching him looking. Lando's lips twitched. "Nothing." Oscar's eyes narrowed. "Liar."
"You know..." Lando crept out of his bed, walking over to Oscar. "Since we're both up, I could teach you about my vegan lifestyle." Lando then came to Oscar's side, his hand tiptoed around Oscar's waist, and rested his head against the back of his warm shoulder. And that – that does something to Oscar. Fuck, his face is probably so red; the heat is starting to warm him up. It’s frustrating because he can drive a car that could kill him and talk to the most important people on the planet and be fine, but Lando Norris and that look right there – that fucking smirk on this face."You've gone all quiet," Lando said, clearly trying – and failing – not to laugh. Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm trying very hard not to acknowledge you."
"So... it's working?"
"No."
Lando's smirk only widened. "Knew it." His hands moved to the bottom of Oscar's shirt, moving them under his shirt. Lando's hands moved up Oscar's chest, stopping at his pecs. He traced where Oscar’s top surgery scars were, kissing his neck. Oscar held his breath, not moving. As Lando guided him over to a bed, he gave Oscar enough room to back away if he wanted. Oscar laid back on the bed, leaning back on his elbows, and gave Lando a little nod to continue.
Not a word is said as Lando’s massive hands pull down Oscar’s sleep shorts – and no words are said; Oscar can just barely hear them breathe over his own pulse.
“Fuck, Osc, I haven’t even touched you, and you’re soaked.” Oscar doesn’t care about embarrassment anymore, doesn’t care about the blush and the shaking. He needs Lando to shut up and – “You said you were gonna prove it, Lando. Can’t do that without your mouth full.” That gets an eyebrow raise and a slack jaw out of Lando; shock.
But, it works.
Lando shuffles and wraps one hand onto each of Oscar’s thighs where they meet hips, spreading them wide. He rubs circles into Oscar’s skin and bones, getting so close breath tickles his folds.
Oscar knows he’s glistening and puffy and already practically begging for it and that he should be embarrassed and he is, but it also just makes him want it more.
Then, Lando plants his mouth onto Oscar’s clit and flattens his tongue. Lando starts moving, toying with his clit like it's a game for him. It’s a balance of soft and firm, slow but paced. It was perfect.
And it’s making Oscar cover his mouth to prevent awful, incriminating sounds from escaping. Both hands clamping his lips shut. Oscar’s hips try to buck up as Lando slips lower, tongue traveling down him and dipping into his hole, but Lando doesn’t allow it from the way he’s holding Oscar pinned.
A muffled "Oh my God" escapes Oscar by accident. Lando hums into him in return and speeds up a little, starting to use his lips to suck in all the right places.
“Oh, Oscar,” he coos, sticking two of his fingers into Oscar's hole. Oscar groaned, biting his lip as his back arched. "Lando – fuck," Oscar gripped the sheets, trying to squirm away, but Lando had a tight grip on his hips. Lando ate like he hadn't eaten in years, devouring Oscar's folds. "God, you taste heavenly." The coil in his belly began tightening as his legs began to shake. “Lan, I’m close," he whispered as he hummed against his leg, the vibrations making it even harder to not completely fall apart. Lando pulled off, looking up at him with those eyes he could never quite describe, the muddy olive mix of them, and the slick around his mouth. Oscar's slick.
“Then come for me,” and his mouth was immediately back on him, this time harder and with more intention.
He mainly focused on his clit, pulling out sounds from him that he had never heard himself make before. It felt obscene, like no one else’s should ever be able to touch them again. He came in a cataclysm of moans and overstimulation, but Lando didn’t take his mouth off him yet. He continued to work him through the orgasm, lapping up every last drop of him, until his legs kicked out and he was finally done. He stayed there a few moments longer, letting Oscar's breathing return to its normal state and getting in a few last licks. "Oh, baby,” Lando coos once more, voice sugary sweet and laced with fondness. “Look at you.” Oscar looked dazed, staring up at the ceiling as he catched his breath.
The silence lingered for a moment, broken only by the sound of his uneven breathing. Reality slowly settled back into the room, replacing the haze that had clouded Oscar's thoughts. Before he could gather himself enough to move, he felt the mattress shift behind him.
Lando moved to sit behind Oscar, rubbing slow, comforting circles over his chest. "Wanna get cleaned up? Take a shower?" Lando asked, placing a kiss on Oscar's shoulder, moving his way up to the side of his neck. Oscar tilted his head back, giving Lando better access to his neck. "I'd rather stay right here." Lando smirked, leaving a few gentle kisses along the side of his neck before settling his forehead against Oscar's shoulder. Oscar's face warmed, a small, genuine smile spreading across his lips as he turned his head to meet Lando's eyes. Neither of them said a word.
Oscar put his pajamas back on, tying tufts of his hair into a tiny ponytail. Lando, clinging to Oscar's waist, positioned them to lie on their sides. Oscar looked up at Lando, who was already looking down at him with a small grin. They simply stayed there, enjoying the quiet, content in each other's company.
Oscar kissed Lando before he closed his eyes. Now they were no different from a real couple. Their bodies intertwined on the bed, embracing and kissing. Oscar's lips were excessively soft and devilish, truly devilish, and Lando didn't want to separate. Lando's arms were wrapped around Oscar, passionately kissing, his tongue exploring his mouth freely, even though Oscar had just been devoured. He pulled away, seeing Oscar's eyes, pupils unfocused from kissing. Their faces were flushed, and they both shared a laugh. Lando gave Oscar one last kiss on his cheek.
“Night Osc”
“Night Lan”
a/n : i literally cannot write anything without some form of a plot (even if the plot is written badly 😭) (not beta read!!)
They love the blurry videos of him swinging between buildings in Melbourne. They love the clips of him stopping robberies with an awkward thumbs-up before disappearing. They love the fact that nobody knows who he is.
You, unfortunately, hate him.
Not because he's Spider-Man.
Because he's your neighbor.
Well... Not officially.
But you don't know that yet.
Oscar Piastri is the quiet guy who lives across the hall from your apartment.
The guy who somehow always has bruised knuckles.
The guy who disappears in the middle of conversations.
The guy who borrowed your phone charger and never gave it back.
The guy who occasionally falls asleep in the laundry room because he's apparently "really tired from work."
You have absolutely no idea what work he's talking about.
"You're late."
Oscar freezes halfway through climbing through his apartment window.
Your voice comes from the fire escape.
Slowly, he turns.
You're sitting on the metal stairs with a takeaway coffee in your hands.
Staring directly at him.
At three in the morning.
His Spider-Man suit hidden beneath a hoodie.
"Hi," he says.
"Where have you been?"
"Out."
"That's not an answer."
"It technically is."
You narrow your eyes.
Oscar narrows his right back.
It's a strangely competitive stare-down.
One that lasts nearly twenty seconds.
"You are the weirdest person I've ever met."
Oscar exhales in relief.
Good.
You still don't know.
The problem starts when you get hurt.
Not badly. Just enough.
A mugging gone wrong on your walk home from work.
A twisted ankle. A scraped arm.
A terrified phone call.
The kind of thing that shouldn't happen.
The kind of thing that leaves you sitting on a curb trying not to cry.
One second you're alone.
The next, red and blue lands beside you.
"Are you okay?"
His voice is distorted through the mask.
You blink.
"Spider-Man?"
"Unfortunately."
You laugh despite yourself.
"Unfortunately?"
"People usually scream first."
You study him.
He's taller than you expected.
Broad shoulders.
Messy curls sticking out from beneath the mask.
And weirdly familiar eyes.
He stays until the ambulance arrives.
Stays while they wrap your ankle.
Stays while you complain about how embarrassing the entire situation is.
Stays long enough to make you laugh.
And when the paramedic finally says you'll be fine, Spider-Man leaves.
Swinging away into the night.
The next morning Oscar knocks on your apartment door.
Holding breakfast.
Your favorite breakfast.
A breakfast you've never told him about.
"How's your ankle?"
You blink.
"How did you know about my ankle?"
Oscar freezes.
"...Lucky guess."
You stare.
He stares back.
Then immediately walks away.
That's when the suspicions begin.
Because suddenly everything makes sense.
The disappearing acts.
The bruises.
The constant exhaustion.
The fact that Oscar always seems to know things he shouldn't.
The fact that Spider-Man has the exact same dry sense of humor.
The exact same eyes.
The exact same voice.
So naturally, you decide to test him.
"Spider-Man is hot."
Oscar nearly chokes on his drink.
"What?"
You smile sweetly.
"Spider-Man."
Oscar's ears turn red.
"He wears a mask."
"Exactly."
"That's not how attraction works."
"It works for me."
Oscar looks horrified.
The next few weeks become a game.
You drop hints.
Oscar pretends not to understand.
You ask suspicious questions.
Oscar gets increasingly stressed.
Until one night. Everything goes wrong.
A fight. A real one. A villain. An explosion.
And Oscar doesn't make it home.
By midnight you're pacing.
By one a.m. you're calling him.
By two you're terrified.
Then your window slides open.
And Oscar practically falls inside.
Still wearing the suit.
Bleeding from his shoulder.
Mask half torn off.
Silence. Complete silence.
Oscar slowly looks up. "...Hi."
You stare. He stares.
Blood drips onto your carpet.
"You."
Oscar winces. "Yeah."
"You're Spider-Man."
"Yeah."
"You let me spend six months trying to figure this out."
"...Yeah."
You grab a pillow.
Oscar immediately ducks.
The pillow still smacks him directly in the face.
"OW."
"YOU LIED TO ME."
"I WAS PROTECTING YOU."
"YOU STOLE MY PHONE CHARGER."
"THAT'S THE THING YOU'RE MAD ABOUT?"
Five minutes later you're helping stitch his shoulder together.
Neither of you speaking.
Neither of you looking at each other.
Finally, Oscar breaks the silence.
"You aren't scared?"
You pause.
His voice sounds smaller than usual.
More vulnerable. Less superhero. More Oscar.
"No."
He looks up. "No?"
"No."
You gently press a bandage against his shoulder.
"You saved my life."
Oscar's breath catches.
"You save everyone's life."
"Not everyone's."
You smile. "Mine."
The look Oscar gives you then is devastating.
Soft. Warm.
The kind of look someone gives when they've been in love for a very long time.
"Oh."
The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
Oscar immediately looks away.
His ears turn red. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't make it weird."
You grin. "You like me."
Oscar groans.
And for the first time since meeting Spider-Man,
You finally have him completely figured out.
Unfortunately for Oscar.
Now he has to deal with the fact that his biggest secret isn't being Spider-Man.
It's how hopelessly in love with you he's been the entire time.
a/n : oscar is secretly from earth-616 and I will die on this hill!! also this is just something short until fp 2 happens in austria
Barcelona always felt loud, even on days you weren't there.
You noticed it in the timing more than anything else.
The race weekend would start, and your phone would become a constant stream of notifications you deliberately ignored. Practice results. Qualifying clips. Predictions. Driver interviews.
You didn't open any of them.
Not because you didn't care.
Because you did.
And that was exactly the problem.
So for the first time all season, you stayed home.
Not as a marshal.
Not as a spectator.
Not even as someone quietly wandering around the paddock pretending she wasn't looking for a certain Australian driver.
Just home.
You told everyone you needed a weekend off.
Which wasn't entirely a lie.
The truth was simply more complicated.
After Monaco, after Canada, after weeks of strangers deciding they were entitled to opinions about your life, Barcelona felt exhausting before it had even begun.
The comments had gotten worse.
The speculation had gotten worse.
And every time someone posted a blurry photograph of you standing near Oscar, thousands of people suddenly became experts on who you were.
Some comments were harmless.
Most weren't.
You hadn't told Oscar.
You didn't plan to.
He already carried enough.
You weren't about to add yourself to the list.
The weekend passed quietly.
At least for you.
You avoided broadcasts.
Avoided Twitter.
Avoided Reddit.
Avoided every corner of the internet where Formula One fans gathered.
Unfortunately, the internet had never needed your participation to involve you.
The messages started Saturday night.
Then multiplied Sunday morning.
Friends.
Former classmates.
People you hadn't spoken to in years.
are you okay?
have you seen this?
why are people talking about you again?
Your stomach sank.
You opened Instagram.
Immediately regretted it.
Photos.
Screenshots.
Threads.
Speculation.
The same recycled theories.
Girlfriend.
Secret relationship.
McLaren employee.
Attention seeker.
Clout chaser.
One particularly popular account had somehow turned your absence from Barcelona into evidence of a secret breakup.
You wished you were joking.
You closed the app.
Then immediately opened it again.
Because sometimes self-preservation lost to curiosity.
That was your first mistake.
The second mistake was opening the comments.
You stopped reading after three minutes.
The call came that evening.
You answered on the second ring.
"Hey."
Silence.
Not awkward silence.
The kind that immediately told you something was wrong.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Your stomach dropped.
"What?"
Oscar exhaled sharply.
Not angry.
Frustrated.
Which somehow felt worse.
"The comments."
You closed your eyes.
Oh.
"The messages."
Silence.
"The people trying to figure out where you live."
You leaned back against the couch.
Of course he'd found them.
Somebody had probably sent them to him.
Or maybe he'd searched himself.
Either way, it was too late now.
"Oscar-"
"No."
His voice wasn't raised.
That somehow made it worse.
"You told me everything was fine."
"It is."
"It isn't."
You rubbed at your forehead.
"I didn't want you worrying about it."
"I'm already worried about it."
The answer came immediately.
Without hesitation.
For a second, neither of you spoke.
"I can handle it," you said quietly.
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
"The problem is that you're handling it alone."
The words landed harder than they should have.
Because part of you knew he was right.
And part of you hated that he was.
"I didn't need rescuing."
"I never said you did."
"Then why are we having this conversation?"
Oscar laughed. A short, humorless sound.
"Because I had to find out from strangers on the internet."
You looked away.
The frustration in his voice wasn't directed at you.
There was something fundamentally wrong with the Australian Grand Prix. At least, according to you and Oscar. Because every time either of you got excited about your home race — Something went wrong.
For Oscar, it happened before the race had even started.
The formation lap began. The crowd roared. The season was finally underway. Then, somehow, within a matter of seconds— Disaster.
The McLaren snapped.
The wall arrived far too quickly.
And just like that- Race over. Before it had even begun.
The radio messages were all over social media within minutes. The footage replayed endlessly. Commentators analyzed it. Fans debated it. Memes appeared immediately. Oscar, meanwhile, wanted to disappear into the earth.
DNS.
At home.
In front of Australian fans.
In front of family.
In front of everyone.
Not ideal.
Unfortunately, your own weekend wasn't going much better.
Because after months of training and preparation, you'd finally gotten approved to marshal at home. Your home race. The race you'd grown up watching. The race you'd dreamed of working.
And approximately six hours into the day- You tripped.
It wasn't dramatic. There wasn't an explosion. No runaway race car. No heroic rescue.
You simply missed a step, fell awkwardly, and hit your head.
The embarrassment alone nearly killed you.
The concussion protocol that followed wasn't much better.
"Just precautionary," the medical staff had repeated it several times, which was apparently doctor language for: You're not doing anything this weekend.
So instead of working trackside, you were sitting in a medical room eating crackers and contemplating your life choices.
Until your phone buzzed.
Half an hour later, you found yourself walking through a quiet section of the paddock.
Far enough from the crowds.
Far enough from the media.
Far enough from most people.
Oscar was already there. Leaning against a barrier. Cap pulled low. Hands in his pockets.
"Concussed," He greeted.
"Crashed," You replied.
"Fair."
"Fair."
For a few moments neither of you spoke. Just existed. The strange comfort of being around someone who understood.
Most people wouldn't understand how awful this weekend felt. They'd say it wasn't a big deal. That there would be another race. Another opportunity. Another year.
Maybe they were right. But that didn't stop the disappointment from hurting.
Oscar understood. Because he was carrying his own version of it.
"You okay?" You asked eventually.
He looked away. Toward the circuit. Toward the race he should have been part of.
"Not really."
The honesty surprised you. Not because Oscar wasn't honest. Because most people didn't get that answer.
They got: "Yeah, just one of those things." "We'll move on." "Focus on the next race."
Not this.
"I hate disappointing people," He admitted quietly.
Your chest tightened. "You didn't."
Oscar laughed, a short sound. "The internet disagrees."
"The internet also thinks pigeons are government drones."
That earned a real laugh. Progress.
"What about you?" He asked, "You okay?"
You sighed. "Physically? Apparently." "Emotionally?"
"Emotionally?"
"I lost a fight against a staircase."
Oscar snorted. "That's embarrassing."
"Thank you."
"Anytime."
The conversation drifted after that.
Away from racing. Away from disappointment. Away from expectations. Toward easier things.
Childhood stories. Family. Travel. The future.
And for the first time all weekend, neither of you felt quite so miserable.
Unfortunately, someone had a camera.
Across the paddock, a fan had recognized Oscar.
Normally, that wouldn't be unusual.
What was unusual was that he wasn't with a teammate. Or a team member. Or family.
He was sitting with a woman.
A woman wearing marshal credentials.
Laughing. Talking. Looking entirely too comfortable.
The fan took a photo.
Then another.
Then another.
Just in case.
Three hours later, the photos appeared online.
Then everything exploded.
Nobody stayed calm. Absolutely nobody.
Within hours, TikToks were being posted. Twitter threads were multiplying. Instagram edits were appearing faster than anyone could keep track of them. Reddit had already begun a full-scale investigation.
People were analyzing your marshal credentials.
Zooming into blurry background photos.
Comparing timestamps.
Building conspiracy theories from absolutely nothing.
One account claimed you were secretly a McLaren employee.
Another was convinced you were an ex-girlfriend.
A third somehow concluded you were a Ferrari spy.
The internet was having a completely normal reaction.
Meanwhile, neither you nor Oscar knew any of this.
At that exact moment, you were sitting in a quiet corner of Albert Park, sharing objectively terrible vending machine snacks and complaining about your collective bad luck.
For a little while, the outside world didn't exist.
No cameras.
No headlines.
No conspiracy theories.
Just two friends catching up.
Unfortunately, the internet had never been particularly good at minding its own business.
And by the time either of you checked your phones the next morning, it had already spiraled completely out of control.
a/n : next chapter is a smau! hopefully, it should be out before sunday.
