10 ⧽. getting them their favorite food or treat as reconciliation after accidentally hurting their feelings
with carcar please?
word count: 1.3k
rating: general
To a lot of people, Oscar is hard to read. It's a popular enough shtick - the new Kimi Raikkonen, level-headed and cool, who can handle anything thrown his way. The emotionless robot.
But not to Carlos. No, Carlos has taken care to learn all of Oscar's tells over the years: the tight stretch of his lips, the twitch of his jaw, the heavy weight of his brows when something displeases him. It's something he's prided himself on - and now, those signs are unmissable.
For days, Oscar has been pissed. It's not like he tries to hide it; dodging Carlos' mouth in the entryway and petulantly presenting his cheek instead. Carlos still takes it, pressing his lips to a freckled cheekbone on his way out the door. But he shoves Carlos away when he comes back sweaty from cycling, snipping at him to go shower.
So, yeah. Safe to say that Oscar is pissy. Carlos just wished he knew why.
He wracked his brain for days, trying to pinpoint what it would have been that would have set Oscar off. The last race in Hungary had gone well for Oscar (all things considered) and they had kicked off the start of summer break with a party on Charles' new yacht. It had been fun, enough champagne and tequila to make Pierre drunk enough to jump in the ocean fully clothed, Franco almost straining his shoulder when he attempted to walk from port to starboard doing a handstand.
Carlos, Oscar, and some of the rookies had camped out in the hull of the boat, indulging in their first pizza in months as they played video games. It had been a fun but tiring night, with Carlos and Oscar collapsing back in their apartment bed not until early morning. When Carlos eventually woke up sometime in the afternoon, he had turned to kiss along the moles of Oscar's back, thinking of another way to celebrate the start of the summer break. But Oscar had rolled away, getting up and saying he was gonna shower when Carlos tried trailing a hand along his hip.
Carlos didn't know how much longer he could handle it. This freezing out was driving him crazy, and he was not about to spend all of summer break this way. If only Oscar would talk to him. But every time Carlos snagged Oscar's arm as he passed by, Oscar clammed up, icy eyes stalling Carlos' questions in his mouth. It was damn frustrating, enough that Carlos thought he would go crazy.
On the third day, Carlos knew he had to do something. He heard when Oscar got up in the morning to go for an early run. He waited till he heard the door shut, then got up to make breakfast, leaving the extra in the fridge so Oscar would see it when he got back.
Then he went for a drive.
It wasn't until the afternoon by the time Carlos returned. He found Oscar in their living room watching TV on their couch. Carlos went and sat beside him, setting his shopping back by his feet. He cleared his throat. "Oscar."
Oscar didn't look at him.
Carlos sighed, grabbing the remote to mute the TV. Finally, Oscar turned his head to look at him, and Carlos made himself meet that stubborn gaze. "Can we talk?"
Oscar raised one skeptical eyebrow.
"Listen, I'm not stupid, OK?" Carlos reached out halfway, stopping himself from grabbing Oscar's hand. Instead he let it rest on the cushion between them. "I know something's been bothering you these past few days, alright? And I don't know if it was anything I've said or done-" Oscar opened his mouth, but Carlos rushed on, "I want you to talk to me, please? I don't like this between us, I want you to tell me what's going on, if you can? Please?"
Oscar's eyes were getting misty, and Carlos coughed self-consciously, turning to reach in the shopping bag as his feet. "I just, I wanted to say I'm sorry for whatever it is I've done, and I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me about it, so-" Carlos presented the snack with two hands. "I got you these."
Oscar stared. "What are those?" His voice was small, but it looked like he was trying to not cry, eyes blinking rapidly as he sniffed.
"Uh," Carlos flipped around the package to check the label again, suddenly doubtful. Did he fuck it up? "Tim Tams? Is it not an Australian snack? I thought so, Mark has a stash and I know you like to steal them-"
"No, yeah, yeah." Oscar nodded, and he was definitely crying now, two fat tears slipping over his wide smile. "But why?"
"Because-" Carlos took a deep breath. "I love you, and I want-"
Oscar threw his arms around Carlos, crushing the snack between them as they tumbled back on the couch. Carlos huffed out a laugh, readily wrapping his arms around his boyfriend.
Oscar muttered something from where he was buried in Carlos' neck. The words were nearly incomprehensible, but Carlos knew the metered beats well, smiling as he felt them vibrate against his skin.
"What was that?" Carlos still teased, gently tugging Oscar's hair until Oscar raised his head. His eyes were almost as pink as his cheeks, mouth turned down in an adorable pout.
"I love you too." The admission was a begrudging mumble, but Carlos still felt his heart soar as it did every time Oscar told him so.
"So," Carlos hummed, leaning forward to kiss the frown off his boyfriend's mouth. "Because you love me so, will you tell me what I did wrong?"
He felt Oscar's body stiffen atop his. ""S real stupid." He muttered, ducking to hide his face once again in Carlos' chest.
Carlos reached down to the floor where the Tim Tams had fallen. He shook the container, letting the cookies rattle obnoxiously as a teasing reminder of his atonement.
Oscar sighed and relented, but he still turned his head to the side and refused to look Carlos in the eye. "You said you were faster than me."
"What? When?"
"When we were playing Mario Kart on Charles' yacht." Oscar mumbled, getting indignant when he turned and saw Carlos' disbelieving face. "You said you could easily beat me! That I sucked and wasn't good and- and-"
"Oscar," Carlos fought to keep the smile from his voice. "You drive a McLaren-"
"Don't say it."
"-and I'm in a Williams."
Oscar groaned, flopping his head back on Carlos chest, yelping when Carlos teased his ribs. "Stop that- no, you know what I meant!" He gasped on a laugh. "I was so humiliated!"
"Look, just because Ollie was able to be win Rainbow Road-"
"Don't remind me."
Carlos finally relented his tickling, and Oscar flopped, gasping, to settle back on his chest. They laid there for a moment, letting their breaths sync in tandem. Finally grabbing the Tim Tams, Oscar worked the package open, taking a cookie gingerly out to not spill the rest and nibbling on it.
"Where did you even find these, anyways?"
Carlos sighed, Oscar's head buoying up with the motion. "I had to drive all the way to Cannes."
"What?" Oscar blinked up, eyes wide.
"You know how hard it is to find an authentic Australian store that carries these?"
Oscar rolled his eyes in joint exasperation, popping another into his mouth. "Thank you," he said after a moment.
Carlos smiled, smoothing down his boyfriend's hair to press a kiss to his head. "I love you too. Now give me a cookie."
maxcar + 4. kissing in the middle of an argument :)
word count: 1.9k
rating: mature
tw: drinking, internalized homophobia
Max Verstappen 22:08
Wyd?
Oscar snorted at the notification, trying to ignore how his stomach flipped. It was a Thursday night, and not even a race weekend. Why the fuck was Max Verstappen texting him?
Oscar Piastri 22:09
What are you, my gf?
Max Verstappen 22:11
You wish
Oscar stared at the message. Somewhere in the background, Love Island continued playing on his TV.
Max Verstappen 22:14
But don't be stupid
I'm bored
Oscar Piastri 22:18
What do you want me to do about that?
Oscar watched as ellipses appeared as Max typed, then disappeared. Then reappeared.
Max Verstappen 22:21
I know what you need
Oscar pulled at the collar of his hoodie, his neck suddenly hot.
Oscar Piastri 22:21
Oh? And what's that?
Oscar watched as two blue check marks appeared beside his message. One minute passed. Then two.
What the fuck what the fuck.
Oscar threw his phone to the side, grabbing a pillow from the spread behind him to hug it to his chest. What was Max doing? They didn't text like this. Oscar might get a don't worry about it mate after a bad race weekend, and if he was lucky, Max might react with a thumbs up to some meme Oscar sent to the drivers groupchat. But not . . . this. Not the banter. Not the flirting.
His phone vibrated, and Oscar swore he strained a muscle as he leapt to answer it.
Max Verstappen 22:25
Come for a drink
What the fuck. Oscar's fingers hovered above his keyboard. He typed out an answer. Deleted it. Typed it again, backspacing before he was halfway through. How do you even respond to that?
Max's texts came in quick succession.
Max Verstappen 22:27
Cmon mate
You've been so uptight lately
It's not good for the championship
It was that last text that broke Oscar's trance. Right. The championship.
Oscar Piastri 22:29
Fuck off.
Maybe one drink.
Oscar knew he was making a mistake. He knew it when he slid into the passenger seat of Max's sports car a few minutes later, and he especially knew it when he didn't question where they were going until it was too late.
"What the fuck, Max," Oscar balked at the curb, the neon sign advertising the strip club above the door bright and incriminating.
Max drew to a stop, looking back and forth from Oscar's incredulous look to the waiting entrance. He shrugged. "They've got good drinks here, mate. And cheap." As if that was a good enough explanation, he disappeared inside, leaving Oscar alone and conflicted on the side of the street.
Oscar could have walked away then. Could have gone back to his empty apartment and shitty reality tv. Could go jerk off in the shower and have his lights out before midnight.
Oscar sighed, and followed Max inside.
The club was deafeningly loud. Base reverberated throughout Oscar's body as he trailed after Max through the crowd. It was crowded, and Oscar fruitlessly ruffled his hair in an attempt to obscure his features, achingly aware of who he was. Max didn't seem to mind, confidently guiding him through the throng. Oscar kept his eyes on those broad shoulders, making it a point to not look at the stage. At the male stripper poised around the pole. Oscar didn't look at the way the man's tiny, sequined thong flashed with the light of the disco ball above.
The booth that Max led them to was in a corner, partially secluded by a beaded curtain that gave an illusion of privacy. Oscar balked when he saw a few men from Max's sim racing team already there, swallowing a bolt of self-conscious fear as introductions were made. He tried not to make his anxiety show as he quickly shook their hands, but none of them batted an eye at his added presence. Oscar sat with his back to the room, running his sweaty palms along his thighs. The rest of the guys didn't seem to take notice of him as they returned to their conversation that Oscar could barely make out over the music.
Oscar avoided looking at Max, who sat across from him. He was leaning leisurely against the cushions, spread thighs straining in those goddamn skinny jeans-
A tray of shots were presented, and Oscar gratefully accepted his. He barely waited for the others to toast before throwing it back, quickly enough he barely tasted the liquor. The next round of mixed drinks Oscar sipped more slowly. The alcohol was good- Max had been right. After all, this was why they were here, wasn't it? Oscar could pretend it was ok. All he was doing was enjoying a good drink with a friend at a nightclub, it didn't have to mean anything-
"Well, look at what the cat dragged in."
Oscar nearly jumped out of his seat. A stripper was standing beside him, holding the beaded curtain aside as he looked at their group coyly. Oscar cast a nervous look around, gauging how the mood shifted. Lulham was grinning like the cat that got the cream, patting his knee as the stripper sauntered over to take a seat. Benito looked on appreciatively as the stripper started a slow grind, and Max- Max was staring at him. His gaze met Oscar's over the brim of the gin and tonic he had poised before his mouth, a small smile at the corners of those full lips.
Oscar forced his gaze downwards, raising his forgotten drink to quench his suddenly dry throat. This was something Max and his friends did- often, it seemed. Their conversation casually continued, the lapdance that Lulham was receiving as natural as all hell.
Oscar took a sip to hide the burst of heat he felt upon his cheeks, nearly choking as he felt a hand land on his shoulder. He looked to see an attractive stripper at his side.
"Hello, handsome."
Oscar swallowed thickly. The man took a seat next to him. The club lights made his smile fluorescent against dark skin, his naked chest oiled and glittering silver with what looked like a sort of body spray. A knot curled inside Oscar's chest.
"Ever gotten a lap dance?"
Oscar shook his head dumbly.
"You want one?"
"I-" Oscar looked at Max. Another stripper had come into their room and was now straddling Max's lap. "I don't-" The stripper's g-string did nothing to hide the flex of his ass as he ground up and down Max's thigh. "I don't- I mean, I'm not-" Max's eyes found Oscar's over the man's shoulder, blue and piercing.
"Relax, sparky," the stripper beside Oscar laughed, trailing one coquettish finger along Oscar's thigh. "I go easy on new-timers."
Oscar bolted to his feet, shaking his head quickly. "No, sorry, I'm- I-" Biting his lip to stop from saying something stupid, Oscar turned and pushed through the crowd. The flush of bodies around him tightened the breath in his chest, the pounding music echoing the beat of his palpitating his heart. Oscar zeroed in on the red exit sign, the flash of bare skin in his peripheral vision making his vision spin. He shoved open the door, letting it bang against the brick wall as he stalked down the short steps into the cool night air.
Even when the door swung shut, the beat of the club throbbed in his temples. Swearing, Oscar stalked across the short alleyway to lean his forehead against the cement wall, giving measured breaths to slow his heart.
He should have never answered Max's texts. Should have never gotten in his car, should have never come to this goddamn gay strip club-
"Mate, are you alright?"
Oscar swore, lurching around as Max stepped out from the club. He crossed his arms and leaned against the railing. The single light above the door encased him in a halo, casting his face in shadow so Oscar could not read his expression.
Oscar only scoffed in reply, crossing his arms in a mimic, leaning back against the wall behind him. Casual.
"Mate-"
"Fuck you." The curse burst forth, making Max stop in his descent down the steps. He didn't say anything, and Oscar took that as enough of an invitation.
"Why did you bring me here, Verstappen?" He stalked forward
"Mate, it's okay. Like I said," Max shrugged, the nonchalance making Oscar's heart twist in his chest, "the drinks-"
"'The drinks are cheap.'" Oscar spat, taking another step closer. "You've got bottles on your yacht that are more than my contract. Fuck that." He stopped at the bottom of the steps. At this angle, he was forced to look up at Max's face through the scant inches between them. "Why did you bring me here, Max?"
Max's expression softened. "Oscar, I think-"
"You think what?" The words tore out of Oscar's throat, his voice tight with anger. "You think that I'm a- that I'm some kind of- that I'm like Lando?"
"Oscar-"
"No," Oscar shook his head, throwing out his arm to gesture harshly. "I know you're a four-time world champion, but you can't just- you can't mess with me like that." He swallowed, hating how his voice broke. "If this is some, some game you've constructed with your buddies to fuck with me? Now that Red Bull's finally pulling through in the championship, you wanna- wanna play gay to fucking taunt me? Well fuck. You. If you think-"
Oscar didn't register the kiss right away. In one moment, Max had grabbed his face and yanked him forwards, forcing Oscar onto his tippy toes. He instinctively grabbed Max's biceps for balance as Max descended towards his mouth.
They held that position for one long, agonizing moment. The gears in Oscar's brain stalled like a broken clock until Max's forearm tightened around his waist to pull him closer. An imperceptible groan fell between them, everything ticked back into place. Oscar's mouth opened, the slip of Max's tongue against his making his knees buckle. Max had one strong hand on his lower back kept him upright, the other gripping deep in his hair and forcing Oscar's head back to deepen the kiss further. His stubble was rough against Oscar's cheek, the taste of gin and heat making him dizzy.
When they were forced apart to catch their breath, Oscar rocked back on his heels, his calves burning from where he had stretched upwards to meet Max's mouth. The step backwards put space between them, the cool air swirling down his front where he had been pressed against Max's body.
Max was breathing heavily. A satisfied smile was on his lips, and standing elevated on the step like that; the light above the door giving him a golden halo, Oscar thought Max looked like he was on the podium. Like he had won something.
Fuck.
"No." Oscar shook his head quickly. "No," he repeated when Max opened his mouth. "I can't. I'm not- I don't-" Words knotted in Oscar's throat, threatening to choke him. He turned away so he didn't have to look at Max's face. At Max's no-doubt smug expression, knowing that he got the best of Oscar yet again.
"Oscar-"
"See you next weekend, mate." Oscar bit out, refusing to look back as he dug out his phone to call an Uber.
⤷ pairing : max verstappen x gianpiero lambiase
⤷ wordcount : 2.8k
⤷ rating : explicit
⤷ genre : mile high club
⤷ summary : after the chinese grand prix, red bull team principle laurent mekies boarded max verstappen's private plane, with manager raymond vermeulen, technical director pierre waché, and engineer gp lambiase. they no doubt had lots to discuss about the disastrous weekend … or maybe they fucked about it.
⤷ authors note : this fic was supposed to be a silly little drabble, and here are, almost 3k later. woops. not beta read!
"I know what you want, GP." Max admitted quietly. "I . . . I can't. I don't want to." His shoulders sagged with the weight of the admission. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the disappointment on GP's face. This wasn't something he had ever objected to doing before. Gang-bangs were end-of-season celebrations with the team, or something to boost garage morale. But not . . . this. Not when Max had just been let down so badly. Certainly not when Pierre fucking Waché was the problem. "Please don't give me over to them."
GP inhaled sharply. "You think I'd let that happen, Max?"
⤷ genre : second chance romance, porn with feelings
⤷ summary : when a double dnf in austria leads to two old teammates drinking together, who can they blame when old memories - and old feelings - resurface? who will pay for the consequences?
⤷ authors note : requested by @ivyquity, thank you for patiently waiting for this fic. it was a labour of love, trust me ♡
⤷ 🎧 : silver springs by fleetwood mac, do i wanna know? by hozier (cover), flatlining by holly humberstone
"What do you want me to say, Max?" Carlos' accent was a purr, thick and flirtatious. "That I would fuck Charles to replace you? That it never worked? You have no right to be jealous, Verstappen - not when tonight you'd fuck him because you couldn't have me."
"And what if I could?" The question tumbled out of Max's mouth before he could stop it. He bit his fist, preparing for Carlos to scoff or jeer at the vague proposition.
"And what, Max?" Carlos asked, so soft Max had to strain to hear him. "What would that change?"
Max let himself look at Carlos, fully taking him in: leaning back in his barstool; pants tight where they stretched over his spread thighs. His forearms were bared, dark with hair and flexing with muscle as Carlos ran a thumb over his bottom lip. His undone collar dipped open, revealing deep olive skin that made Max's mouth water.
He snapped himself out of it. "Nothing. We can blame it on old times' sake, yeah?"
⤷ summary : charles and max collided in barcelona in a fight for podium. when cars collide, so do bodies; nothing to say for the sparks that catch in the heat of racing.
⤷ authors note : i joked about lestappen fucking nasty after the spanish gp, then went 'wait a minute. jk jk. unless?' and was overcome by the rabid rpf disease as i dusted off my word document to pour my soul into two grown men rawdogging. enjoy.
⤷ 🎧 : bedroom warfare by one ok rock, teeth by 5 seconds of summer, slow down by chase atlantic
"With the consideration of both parties involved, and by the decision of Red Bull and acceptance of Ferrari, the charges against the driver of car 16 by car 1 will be dropped. We will do no further investigation at this time." The steward looked at both team principles for confirmation, and Charles could see in his peripheral vision Fred Vassur nod before shaking Christian Horner's hand. He kept his eyes on Max.
The Dutchman was sitting across from him, jaw tight as his gaze locked somewhere beyond the confines of the steward's room. Though Charles was relieved he could enjoy his win today without the threat of a penalty hanging over his head, he couldn't bring himself to be truly grateful. Not when he knew why Red Bull had bigger concerns than some bumped wheels.
Now, he stared as Max sat deathly still. His whole body was taught, full lips pressed thin as a muscle consistently flexed in his jaw. Angry.
Charles didn't want to admit just how much it turned him on.
