hi!! okay i saw this prompt and immediately thiught of you and your modern fantasy AUs (art of noticing) and i was hoping this could inspire a carcar fic?
no pressure!! i just love how you bring these kinds of stories to life. keep writing i love the work you do!! 💗💗
OOOOOH U know the key to my heart (modern fantasy tropes) Plz enjoy 1.5K of carcar with sirens:
...
The night air bites, even more so with the sea salt sprinkled into the breeze. Carlos can feel every grain pelting his face and curling his hair.
He had never been a fan of yacht parties. It was all a little too cliche; rich people on an obscene boat drinking wine that nobody actually likes. He’s tried to leave three times already, each attempt intercepted by Lando hemming and hawing and begging him to stay juuuust a little while longer.
“Mate!” Lando shouts, bounding over so quickly he almost topples over the railing. “You’re gonna be glad you stayed. The sirens are here!”
Carlos stiffens. Maybe he should just throw himself overboard. His shirt is linen, but it’s never been one of his favorites.
Lando takes his silence as acceptance and grabs his hand. “Come on, have you seen one of these before? They’re mint!”
He’s dragged to the upper deck, where a small crowd has already formed. Three wooden crates are stacked together near the opposite railing. Two men with white polos and baseball caps are wrangling something out of one of the crates. A third man holds a cattle prod, watching them carefully. “Odyssey’s Entertainment Rentals” is painted bright and neon on the back of their shirts.
The wranglers step back, and there she is. Carlos has never seen one in person like this, so close that he shivers from it. She’s got sharp eyes and grey scales running up her legs. She’s got two rows of bottom teeth, pointed and daunting, like a shark’s. Her arms are handcuffed in front of her, ensuring she can’t reach out a grab.
The siren picks a guy at the front of the crowd and beckons him closer. The crowd wolf-whistles and buzzes in anticipation. The man strides forward, his ill-fitting slacks catching under his shoes.
It’s silent for a moment, until the siren closes her eyes and transforms in a wisp of smoke. She’s taller now, with long, blonde hair and bright red lipstick. Her dress has got a deep V and a high slit that seem to start where the other one ends. She’s Jessica Rabbit come to life.
The crowd erupts at this, with whoops and cheers. Someone yells out, “Ricky, that’s not your wife!” and everyone laughs. The man doesn’t seem to hear any of it, though- just stumbles himself closer to the woman, desperate to touch, to have.
One of the handlers catches him before he can get too close. The siren transforms back into her scales and teeth, and Carlos grows ever paler.
“They say the dopamine rush is something else, mate,” Lando says, nudging him. “Like- the hope it gives you…”
Lando elbows himself to the front of the pack. Carlos can see him vibrate. The siren sees him too, maybe catches his movement or senses his wide-eyed wonder. She beckons him forward and she’s transforming, again.
Once the smoke clears, she’s Mohammed Ben Sulayem, holding out the Driver’s Championship trophy. Carlos can just pick out how she says, “You did it, Lando! Decisively,” voice like royal honey. He sees Lando’s eyes widen and his mouth go slack. It makes something in his stomach twist and flip.
Of course that’s what Lando wants more than anything. It’s what they should all want. It’s surely what would show up for Carlos if he were called up. Either that or Fred on his knees, begging for him to come back to Ferrari with a guaranteed five-year contract.
But Carlos’ wants are his own, and no dopamine hit would be good enough to showcase even the most obvious parts of his heart to any of these strangers.
With soft steps, Carlos escapes from the group under the cover of their cheers and gasps. He’s made it back down to the main deck when he hears his name, soft but sure.
Oscar’s hair has gotten longer. It looks like it did during winter break. His hands are stuffed in his hoodie pocket, dug in deep like they’re about to rip the seams. The sea breeze has tinged his cheeks and the tip of his nose a sweet pink. He’s leaning against the bow railing, looking a little too rehearsed to be casual.
“Hey. I, uh… I heard you were going to be here.”
Carlos clears his throat. He throws a thumb over his shoulder, as casually as he can. “I was just leaving, actually.”
“I was hoping to talk,” Oscar says, taking a step forward. His shoes clang on the hardwood. “Finally built up the nerve, I guess.”
Carlos’ mouth feels like peanut butter. “Talk about what?” he finally vocalizes.
“Uh. Did you see they have sirens here? I was up there a little bit ago, I’d never seen one before.” Oscar’s exhales are shaky, Carlos can see the outline of his fidgety hands still in his hoodie pocket. “And, and the thing looked right at me and turned into… I guess I should have known better than to be surprised at what my deepest want was.”
Carlos shouldn’t ask. It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn't matter. “…What, uh, was it?”
Oscar laughs and Carlos can pick out the nerves mixed in, like sea salt in the wind. “Are you really going to make me say it?”
Carlos doesn’t respond, and Oscar obviously takes that as a yes. He looks out over the railing at the dark waves overlapping each other.
“I still think about that moment in Abu Dhabi. And over the break, I almost called you, like, five separate times but I chickened out.” The wind ravages his hair, blowing it into his eyes. “You intimate me, Carlos Sainz.”
Carlos’ heart palpitates. “I’m not so scary,” he whispers.
Another laugh escapes Oscar’s mouth, a little more insane and intoxicating. “You intimidate me because you do that,” he says, pointing accusingly at Carlos’ everything. “Because you sing weird songs in the paddock and ruffle Lando’s hair and you make pancakes from scratch and… I’ve never wanted… so much…”
Carlos looks. Oscar’s words are getting more and more fragmented, splintering with the terrible force Oscar used to eject them out of his mouth. He looks so small like this, bundled in his hoodie, hair wind-torn and face pink. Carlos’ heart beats and beats, his head replaying Abu Dhabi for the thousandth time.
“...You want to get out of here?” Oscar finally asks. He’s got this look on his face that Carlos has only seen a few times before- like he’s embarrassed to be hopeful.
Carlos doesn’t have that kind of restraint. Not when Oscar looks the way he looks and he’s saying the things he’s saying. His eyes are big bay windows into his sanguine soul.
Carlos nods and Oscar breaks out into a wide smile- wider than Carlos has ever seen before. Carlos is close enough to touch, but before he has a chance, Oscar’s face twists, recoiling with a sickening hiss. Oscar’s engulfed in smoke, curling around him before disappearing as soon as it appeared. What’s left in its wake is webbed feet, scaly legs, and two rows of sharp teeth.
“Aha! There you are!” It’s one of the men in the white polo. He’s got a prod stuck to her side while he grabs hold of one of her arms, still handcuffed together. He turns to Carlos. “Sorry about that- this one got away from us there.” He must notice Carlos looking shell-shocked. “You good?”
The siren leers at him. Carlos almost wants to let her finish the job. For all the good a dopamine rush is, it’s nothing compared to the horrible crash once that hope is replaced with reality. It was worse than Carlos feared it would be. His whole body is prickly with shame.
The handler gives him a thumbs up and disappears up the stairs.
That’s it- he is exiting this boat; either by ramp to the dock or by launching himself over the railing. Carlos turns around and doesn’t even make it one step.
This Oscar’s not wearing a hoodie, which makes more sense considering the climate. But his linen button-down is wrinkled, revealing how little he knows how to present himself at things like these.
And now he’s looking right at Carlos, slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“…You. How much did you…” Carlos rasps, because he needs confirmation that his greatest fear has not just come true after his greatest hope turned out to be an illusion.
Oscar sounds breathless. “I didn’t… Carlos, I didn’t know that you felt-”
“And you still don’t,” he bites, before restraining himself. He will leave this boat with his dignity, even if it’s tattered and shredded. “I was just leaving. I will see you on track next weekend, Oscar.”
He needs to get off this boat. Oscar calls after him a few more times, but thankfully, he doesn’t try to chase after him after he gets to the dock. His hands are shaking; he has too much pent-up energy to drive. His apartment is thirty blocks from here- he walks the whole way home.
