#kee.fic.8155

[vroombeams]

hotbox

carlos/oscar | ~4.5k words | omegaverse

The official name for it is the Omegan Safety & Security Enclosure, but pretty much everyone calls it The Box.

➛read on ao3 🔒

aka bad and sleepy omegas (accidentally) get stuck in the high anxiety dog box

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any chance 13 on your spotify wrapped inspires some carcar boxing au thoughts? (xo @testarossa)

spotify wrapped writing game

13┈allergies by sisyfuss / boxing au

When he wakes up in the hospital it's like falling again. White bedsheets, bright light, sterile smell like the ground rushing up to meet him, like a fist rushing in to meet the side of his head. The ring, the fist, the floor. Things in backward-forward loop; it's the only thing he remembers, the first day.

Later, Carlos will find out he'd finally been knocked out for the first time. A terrible record to break. He's always been known for sturdiness. For his ability to take a punch. Practiced and honed until he was more anvil than sword, there to take a beating and then drop with cartoonish violence to crush his opponent into the ground.

Even worse; it'd been Oscar.

His father tells him this. That that's the worst part. Because they're rivals, and the following he's gained from this rivalry has been huge for his career. For Oscar's, too, but Carlos' father doesn't mention that part. Mostly he paces the hospital room, slow enough to look controlled while fury clawed its way up under his skin. All Carlos can do is watch him, docile in a way he hasn't felt in years.

He won't be allowed in the ring for months, his father says. Won't even be allowed to spar for weeks. No training. No nothing. The concussion is bad enough that Carlos' memory is still coming back in chunks a week later.

When he's allowed to go home the calm follows him. He's never been this calm, he thinks, not since he was too small to remember what peace felt like.

He's meant to keep screentime to a minimum, but the first thing he does when he has access to YouTube is looks up the fight.

He watches it on a loop. Watches it with such frequency that he could probably recreate it step-for-step by memory, even with his brain as addled as it is. But he watches and he keeps watching, in and out of sleep so that it follows him into his dreams, phantom impact to the head that rattles him awake over and over and over.

Carlos, bloodied, missteps. Oscar, bloodied, swings a right hook so solid that it sounds like a gunshot when it impacts. Carlos, falling.

Which parts are dream and which are reality start to escape him, once someone comes to take his phone away from him. In the video, he thinks, Oscar had looked sort of shocked. As shocked as Carlos has ever seen him, anyway. Staggering back with a strange look on his face when the ref had ended the match. They'd both been bleeding heavily by the end of the bout; so slicked up in each other's blood that it'd been hard to tell whose was whose.

Was he worried? Was Oscar scared for Carlos, then?

In the dream, or in the memory, Oscar leans his slick chest against Carlos'. The sort of one-armed squeeze that looks sportsmanlike on the outside but could be anything, really. In the dream, or in the memory, Oscar had whispered something in his ear. Carlos feels the phantom of his mouth like the phantom of his fist, lips-to-lobe, knuckles-to-nose.

These days Carlos wakes up hard and smiling more often than not. The doctor tells them he'll start feeling more himself soon, more clear, but Carlos has never been so sober. The sparkling clarity that leads him on like a lighthouse, to an end that is him and Oscar. They're meant to be, aren't they? He should've seen it all along.

[vroombeams]

heavy hard sound

kinktober day 7 | bloodplay | carcar

Obviously, Carlos had been angry. Wants to be angry, still, that Piastri had grinned at him like that, with blood still tracing out the lines between his teeth. With it running down his nose and lips and chin, scarlet sacrament. He’d been so, so angry, before it’d gone to rot in his heart and turned to something else, less recognizable. 

➛read on ao3 🔒

followup to this piece in the boxing au

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↻ FLIP FLOP

i am so humbly requesting carlos’ POV for hot box pls pretty pls

fic asks 💕

↻flip flop / alt character’s pov / hotbox carcar, explicit

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Carlos doesn’t go looking for Oscar because he likes him.

He hears that the Mclaren garage has had a fire, and that the drivers and crew have ended up in Ferrari hospitality, and he knows what they’ve got set up in a back room for any omegas-in-need. He also knows that Oscar’s a week or two out from a heat.

So, no, he doesn’t go looking for Oscar out of concern or care or any amount of goodwill at all. He goes looking for Oscar because he knows he’ll be vulnerable, and that’s the best time to attack.

It’s stupid of Oscar to have not latched the Box. Carlos will ridicule him for it later, once he’s had his fun, but right now he couldn’t have hoped for a better setup. The training knot is something they have dozens of, part of the omega-inclusion movement that’s kicked into higher gear since there’ve been so many more omegas on the grid. Carlos doesn’t understand it, really. Ferrari has never supplied him with a pocket-hole or anything like it when he’s approaching a rut. They’re not going around giving Alphas sex dolls to keep their heads clear before a race weekend.

So he has the training knot, and he peels it carefully out of its packaging while Oscar sleeps—soundly, stupidly unaware—and even has time to jack off into a pair of underwear he’d worn in practice. It’s all so perfect. So effortless that he’s almost expecting to be caught out, arrested for harassment or whatever it is this would be considered.

As if Oscar’s not going to enjoy it. He always enjoys it. Carlos can smell it on him.

Oscar’s reaction when he wakes is as immediate as it is satisfying. So indignant. So angry. He doesn’t smell afraid, but then, he never does. Carlos hasn’t got him there yet. It’s good to have goals. It’s good to have a line to keep pushing, bending till it breaks.

It would be nice to break Oscar, Carlos thinks. He’s so infuriatingly steady. So carefully stone-faced when it comes to most things that aren’t his teammate.

Carlos listens to Oscar fume and spit like a wood stove. He listens and he taunts and he lounges, luxuriates in the obvious attempts at staying stoic before Oscar finally folds and gives in. Carlos smells it when he starts to touch himself. Hears it, the wet squelch of fingers-in-hole and the tiny, needy gasps for air. Carlos is half-hard by the time Oscar gives himself a first orgasm. He’s palming himself idly when he hears Oscar squirm around, obviously replacing fingers with toy.

He can smell the frustration. The dissatisfaction and the fury. It’s art on the nose—a perfect bouquet.

For a while, Oscar goes quiet. Not very long but long enough that Carlos feels the need to do something about it. This is what has him standing, and unzipping, working his dick out and sighing as his body relaxes.

Another second of silence as Carlos’ piss hits the box. A second is just long enough for Oscar to breathe it in. Another second is long enough for him to understand and start shrieking like a cat.

Carlos laughs at him while he seethes. Laughs and keeps up his stream, doesn’t bother aiming through the air holes because he knows it’ll drip inside anyway and he likes the idea that he might be pissing directly on Oscar’s face, if he weren’t inside the box.

The latch clicks just as Carlos is finishing up. Oscar comes tumbling out, more fraught than Carlos has ever seen him. The knotting aid is still inside of him, just visible as he tries to scramble away and clothe and cover himself, but Carlos is much quicker. Carlos has the benefit of having not been in the box. Carlos has the benefit of not being a quivering, near-heat omega.

He grabs Oscar by the ankle. He tuts down at him like he’s disappointed and he wonders aloud how he could have been so foolish, dropping Oscar, going to his bag, fetching the other toy he’s brought.

He hadn’t bought it for Oscar, exactly. He’d bought it with Oscar in mind, because he’s not actually fucked him yet and it seemed the gentlemanly thing to do. Let him fuck himself in front of Carlos to get him used to the idea.

It is a bit absurd. Even Carlos can admit that. It reminds him a bit of the podium champagne bottles; comically large, unwieldy, awkward to hold. It hits the ground with such a loud thud that it reverberates up through Carlos’ feet.

He’s not expecting Oscar to be able to take it all. Maybe he’s not even expecting Oscar to try all that hard.

It’s almost impressive that he does. Even if Carlos does have to help him out in the end, shoving the toy in with the ball of his foot and watching Oscar’s body convulse with orgasm. His eyes are all wet and his face is all red and he’s still not managed the knot. But even Carlos can admit that he likes this. He likes the look of this. He likes that he can actually, genuinely see where Oscar’s stomach pushes out, just a little, just a subtle swelling where the toy’s made room for itself.

Carlos almost—almost—finds himself thoroughly speechless when Oscar works the knot in.

Only that’s when Oscar grins up at him with all his teeth. Truly, indescribably feral. And that’s when Carlos knows he’ll have to fuck him. He has to, at the very, very least to remind him of where he stands.

[vroombeams]

kinktober day 20 & 21 || dubcon & somno || carcar

Carlos wakes up drunk, hard, and pissed off.

It’s the middle of the night. It would be pitch dark in the hotel room except for the lamp he must’ve forgotten to turn off on his way in. He’s sweaty and his head is already starting to ache even though his vision is still swimming with drink.

There’s someone else in bed with him, of course. The obvious reason for the hard and pissed off parts of him.

Piastri.

keep reading on ao3

[vroombeams]

carcar (carlos/oscar)+control

It's a hand around the neck, the throat, the nape.

It's the hard grip at a shoulder, where it's easiest to twist and leverage balance, to pin to a wall or a floor or a bed.

It's Carlos' voice, thick and irritated, keep quiet, and his hand over Oscar's mouth, and his chest against Oscar's back. It's Carlos' body, holding him down and steady and still while he takes what he wants and he thinks that he's won and what it isn't is victory—for Carlos or for Oscar. Just another deadlock, another stalemate, another failed tug-of-war.

send me a ship and single word prompt and i'll write you a five sentence fic