The Spanish Sacrifice - OP81 x fem!reader
Oscar's been out of luck lately, but luckily for him, you're Spanish... and you're not feeling too well. Who knows, maybe that'll bring him some luck this season!
warnings: fluff, maybe swearing?, worried bf, reader's feeling unwell, E.R trip. I really think this one's funny ^o^
a/n: HBD OP! I started w this before his win sooo yeah...🧿🧿
support me here: ko-fi
🔊 listening to: FEVER DREAM - Alex Warren
Oscar Piastri did not believe in superstition. He believed in data.
What he did not believe in… was whatever the hell Carlos Sainz had going on.
Because explain to him how Carlos Sainz gets his appendix removed and then immediately goes and wins a race.
He was out of luck this season so one afternoon while playing padel, Carlos decided to offer his unsolicited advice on how he managed to get through that rough patch.
He called it “the Spanish appendix sacrifice” as if it were a well-known legend, and went on for several minutes talking about how he believed that surgery had worked in his favor.
“Correlation does not imply causation” he’d said at the time.
His girlfriend had just stared at him over her phone.
She was Spanish. Which, in Oscar’s stressed opinion, was becoming relevant in a way he did not like.
“You’re just saying that because you’re scared” she’d replied.
“I’m not scared.”
“You haven’t started a race yet baby”
“…that’s unrelated”
She had hummed in a way that suggested he was wrong.
_______________________________________________________
Oscar was a little bit scared because things were not clicking. Qualifying was fine. Race pace was… fine. Everything was just fine.
And fine does not win races.
Meanwhile, his girlfriend had started sending him increasingly cursed messages.
“what if it’s like… a spanish thing 😏” “babe imagine the content tho 🤩😅” “im doing it for the plot 😛😛”
“Oscar” Lando had said at some point, peering over his shoulder, “why is she googling ‘appendix removal recovery time’?”
“She’s joking.”
“…is she?”
Oscar didn’t answer.
___________________________________________________________
“Absolutely not.”
Oscar was standing in their kitchen, arms crossed.
“You’re not removing a perfectly functional organ because of a statistical coincidence.”
“It’s not a coincidence, it’s manifesting. baby”
“That’s not how biology works.”
“Carlos did it.”
“That’s not how” he stopped, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s not a valid sample size.”
“Okay but what if I’m the control group.”
“You’re not a control group, you’re my girlfriend.”
“Exactly. Better results.”
He stared at her. She stared back.
There was a long pause.
“No, that's it”
She pouted but she knew he was right.
_______________________________________________________
She was joking. Up until she wasn’t.
Oscar noticed it in the most stupid way possible.
It was a normal morning at 7 a.m. in their hotel room in Suzuka. The sunlight was coming through the curtains, and everything was quiet until Oscar heard his girlfriend throwing up in the bathroom.
At first he didn’t even react.
People throw up sometimes. Bad food, nerves, whatever.
But then it kept going. And going.
“Hey babe?” he called, half-asleep voice turning sharp. “Are you okay?”
No answer.
He was out of bed immediately.
By the time he got to the bathroom, she was leaning over the sink, pale, hair tied up in a messy bun and looking absolutely miserable.
“Hey, hey” he hovered behind her “What’s wrong?”
She rinsed her mouth, then just stared at herself in the mirror like she was reconsidering every life choice she’d ever made.
“I feel disgusting,” she muttered.
“That’s… not very specific.”
“I’ve been feeling weird since yesterday.”
Oscar frowned. “Weird how?”
She shrugged, which was not reassuring. “Nauseous. Pain. I thought it was just jet lag but—” she gestured vaguely at the sink.
He went quiet.
There was a very obvious possibility there.
“…have you eaten something bad?” he tried.
“I ate the same things as you, Osc”
Not helpful. “Okay. Um.”
She turned to look at him, narrowing her eyes.
“Why do you look like that?”
“Like what? I don’t—” he rubbed his face. “I’m just thinking.”
“About what.”
He hesitated. This was a dangerous conversation.
“…nothing.”
“Oscar.”
He sighed. There was no winning here.
“…is there any chance you’re… pregnant?”
The silence that followed was immediate.
She blinked at him.
“What?”
“I’m just asking,” he said quickly, hands up. “It’s a normal question given the...symptoms.”
She stared at him like she was deciding whether to laugh or throw something at him.
“I’m literally about to throw up again and that’s your contribution?”
“I’m concerned.”
“You think I’m pregnant because I threw up twice?”
“Three times” he corrected, then immediately regretted it.
“Oh my god.”
She pushed past him, walking back into the room, flopping dramatically onto the bed.
“This is your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes. You and your cursed season and McLaren.”
Oscar froze. “What does that mean?”
She propped herself up on her elbows, looking at him.
“You haven’t had a good race yet.”
“That is not...”
“And what happened to Carlos?”
Oscar closed his eyes for a second. “We are not doing this again.”
“He got his appendix removed and then he won.”
“That is not how it works, love.”
“It’s literally what happened.”
“It’s a coincidence.”
“Okay, Mr. Data, then explain why you’ve been mid all season.”
He stared at her.
“…mid?”
“Don’t make me say worse.”
“That’s not relevant to -”
She suddenly went quiet, pressing a hand to her stomach, face twisting.
“Oh—okay no, wait, I’m actually going to be sick again.”
“Bathroom” he said unnecessarily, guiding her even though she clearly knew where it was.
He stayed with her this time, one hand hovering awkwardly over her back before finally settling there, rubbing small circles.
“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured. “Just breathe.”
“This is so unattractive,” she groaned between waves.
“I promise you I’m not evaluating that right now.”
“You better not be thinking about pregnancy again.”
“I’m not,” he lied.
She gave him a look that said liar without needing words.
_________________________________________________________
An hour later, she was wrapped in a blanket on the bed, looking slightly less like death but still very much not okay.
Oscar sat next to her, scrolling through something on his phone.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Looking up symptoms.”
“Stopppp.” she groaned.
“I just want to make sure it’s nothing serious.”
“You googling things is how people end up thinking they have five diseases at once.”
He ignored that.
“…okay, nausea, vomiting, abdominal discomfort…”
She slowly turned her head toward him.
“If you say pregnancy again, I will actually kill you.”
“I wasn’t going to,” he said.
He frowned at the screen.
“…appendicitis can also present like this.”
She blinked.
“…what?”
He looked up. “It says here it can start with vague symp—”
“Don’t.”
“I’m serious.”
“Oscar, don't.”
“I’m not saying it is, I’m just saying we shouldn’t ignore it.”
She stared at him for a long second.
“You are not about to turn this into your little conspiracy theory after calling me crazy”
“It’s not a conspiracy, it’s—”
“—your weird obsession with the Spanish appendix thing.”
“It’s not my obsession, you started it.”
“And you continued it!”
“Because you keep bringing it up!”
She shrugged under the blanket, completely serious.
“Worked for Carlos.”
_______________________________________________________
By the afternoon, she felt worse. This wasn’t funny anymore.
She wasn’t really eating. She kept holding her stomach and the nausea wasn’t going away.
Oscar stopped arguing.
“Okay,” he said finally, already grabbing his phone. “We’re getting this checked.”
“It’s just a stomach bug—”
“I don’t care. We’re not guessing.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again when she saw his expression.
Right. Not negotiable.
“…okay,” she muttered.
Oscar was calm on the outside, but internally he was running through every possible scenario again, none of them helpful.
She, meanwhile, was looking down, in a wheelchair, trying not to look like she regretted every joke she’d made in the last 48 hours.
“Well” the doctor said, in that serious tone that makes everyone quiet “it does look like appendicitis.”
Silence.
She turned her head very slowly to look at Oscar.
Oscar did not move.
“…no” he said.
The doctor blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“No,” he repeated, quieter this time.
She stared at him, eyes wide.
“Are you kidding me?” she whispered.
He let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief.
“This is not happening.”
The doctor, very professionally, chose not to engage with whatever was going on between them.
“We’ll need to operate before it worsens.”
She was still looking at Oscar.
“You see it too, right?” she said.
“I see that you need surgery,” he shot back immediately. “That’s what I see.”
“But—”
“No,” he cut in, sharper now. “We are not turning this into some kind of... strategy.”
“I’m just saying”
“You’re having surgery because you’re sick, not because of a race.”
She held his gaze for a second “I know.”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair.
“I’m staying” he added, it wasn’t even a question.
“You have a race weekend.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I care about you more.”
That shut her up.
Later, when everything was set and she was being prepped, the mood shifted again.
She reached for his hand.
“I'm scared babe, you better win now” she murmured.
He looked at her.
“Don’t” he said softly. “Don’t put that on this.”
“I’m joking.”
“Are you?”
“…mostly. Just trying to diffuse the tension”
He squeezed her hand.
“I’m not winning because of this,” he said. “If I win, it’s because we did everything right.”
She smiled faintly.
“Okay, engineer.”
He leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.
“Just focus on being okay. I love you”
__________________________________________________________
Race day.
Oscar did not think about appendixes or coincidences.
He drove.
And for the first time all season, everything just… worked.
The car was smooth and the strategy clear.
When he crossed the line first, the radio exploded, and he just sat there for a second, hands still on the wheel, heart racing.
P1.
He knew what this looked like, he knew exactly what this looked like.
“…don’t say it,” he muttered to himself.
________________________________________________________
The first thing he did after everything, the podium, the interviews, all of it, was call her.
She answered on the second ring, voice a little weak but very, very smug.
“I told you babyy. Congrats...to me!”
He closed his eyes, already smiling despite himself.
“You did not tell me anything.”
“I literally sacrificed an organ, for you.”
“You had appendicitis.”
“Details, details.”
“That is a very important detail.”
“Did you win?”
“…yes.”
“Exactly.”
He shook his head, laughing under his breath.
“This is not becoming a thing.”
“It already is, wait 'till Carlos finds out.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Say thank you.”
He hesitated. Because he didn’t believe in superstition.
He didn’t. But also...
“…thank you,” he said finally.
“For?”
He sighed.
“…for the Spanish appendix sacrifice.”
She laughed, soft and satisfied.
“De nada, te quiero. Ahora ven al hospital y sácame de aqui”
“…What?” he laughed.
