#sq.fic

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exclusive

oscar piastri/max verstappen/charles leclerc, ongoing, (100k+ when complete), rated t

“You will be a vampire. Strong, fast, deadly. Unkillable.” “Dead,” Oscar points out. “Not human.” “Well, exactly. Much better for you, much better for me, much better for Max.” Or: Oscar falls out of a situationship with one vampire and in love with two.

the sequel to mutual, expecting updates at least every Monday and Thursday!

exclusive, on ao3, archive-locked

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in the loop

george russell/max verstappen, ongoing, rated t

“This makes no fucking sense. It’s twenty miles between here and Brixworth, that’s basically three towns in medieval bullshit England, we can’t feel like this.” George leans back. Max’s couch is shitty but his body’s relaxed. George assumes it’s delighted to be in its soulmate’s company. George can’t say he feels the same. He has nothing against Max except not wanting to be tied to him.

in the loop, on ao3, archive-locked

part of the @f1blrforaid event, commissioned by @likelyliexa!

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PLEASE number 7 with russtappiastri (for the prompt thing) it would be so funny

- @jusst-you-race <3

ahem. this got away from me. thank you so much for the prompt!!! prompt: 7. Trapped in a room/closet/elevator george/max/oscar, 1.4k, post-singapore quali presscon, also on ao3

“Blimey, it’s hot in here.”

Oscar huffs a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, sprawling further across the floor. “This better not happen tomorrow, or I’m phoning the FIA.” 

“Mate, you don’t have to do that, George will anyway make it part of the briefings,” Max says, lifting his head from the wall. “How does a fucking lift break anyway? Fucking bullshit, and no signal also, like we are in the 80s.”

“Dunno, mate, never had a broken lift in Monaco?” George jabs. 

“No, of course not. What kind of shithole are you living in?”

“One that doesn’t cost half a million a year.”

Oscar grins. If he has to be trapped in a lift in Singapore, he’ll take in-flight entertainment, up to and including fist-fights.

“Right, because Toto doesn’t pay you enough.” 

Oscar pulls himself back to sitting. He’s not going to miss this. Max is grinning at George, and there’s a reluctant smile on George’s face, even as he runs his sleeve across his face to wipe away the sweat. 

“Of course you’d bring him into this. Did you go back to Sardinia for the weekend?”

Max’s grin, inexplicably, disappears. “No, fuck off.”

George looks a little taken aback, hurt, eyes impossibly wider. “What did I say? Now your boat next to his is too personal?”

“Of course not,” Max says, face red either from the heat or something else entirely, “but that is just not what happened last weekend, okay?”

George opens his mouth, then, uncharacteristically, closes it again. Oscar looks between them, a little worried now. He’s pretty sure they were both enjoying this a minute ago. He’s spent enough time in the middle to recognise the difference.

“Guys,” he says, and then when their eyes snap to him, he panics. “Um. D’you think the stewards will say anything about Lando?”

Max’s forehead creases. He’s looking at Oscar like he’s stupid, which is fine, because at least he isn’t looking at George with unhappiness and murder in his eyes anymore. “They didn’t even note it,” he says. “If they have not now they will never change their minds, you know this.”

“Right. Red Bull not appealing it, then?” he asks, because Canada was more fun than murder fuel.  

George purses his lips, just like he does when he’s about to say something reckless on live TV. Oscar tries to keep in his smile. “They’d have to find a way to pass the bribe off as catering.”

“I of course don’t know what you’re talking about,” Max says, flat, and Oscar imagines the Red Bull going up to his lips, hiding his mouth as he stares George down like he’s a reporter. 

“Absolutely not, mate,” he agrees, grinning at George. “Nothing to see here.”

Max laughs like he’s been holding onto it, eyes turning into crinkly moons, and Oscar’s heart does something odd and fluttery. 

“Fuck,” he says, to take the edge off the feeling. “D’you think they’ll ever let us out?” 

“Dunno,” George says succinctly, “but I’m boiling here.” He’s opening the collar and shrugging his shoulders out of his race suit as he speaks, and Max laughs again.

“Of course you are taking your clothes off already,” he says, eyes fixed on the exposed cooling tubes on George’s fireproofs. Once he starts looking, Oscar finds that he’s having the same problem. He tears his eyes away, only to find George frowning at Max.

“I’ve been wearing it done up since quali,” he points out. “You changed.”

Max did. The arms of his race suit are splayed out on the lift floor, his special edition Red Bull shirt clinging damply to his chest. Oscar’s starting to feel hot around the collar.

“Yes, but I am not the one putting my tits out on Instagram.” Max’s cheeks are still stubbornly pink. Oscar can’t imagine he’s doing much better.

“That’s not even—hang on, hang on,” George says, fumbling for his phone. He’s exposing a sliver of his abs. “Ah, sugar. No signal.” 

“Obviously there is no signal, that’s why we’re here,” Max snaps, and Jesus Christ, the blush is creeping down his neck and Oscar’s not strong enough for this. “What are you trying to do, anyway? Post a video of you stripping in this lift?”

“Yes, because you’d like to see that, wouldn’t you.” George drops his phone to the floor, hands neatly on his thighs. 

Max inhales sharply, nostrils flaring. Oscar watches, helplessly fascinated, as he crosses his arms. His biceps bulge. “Yes. I would.”

George’s mouth drops open, eyes bugging out of his head. He stares at Max for one beat, two, three, and then his eyes fly to Oscar. “Um.”

Oscar doesn’t say anything. His heart’s hammering against his ribs, maybe even up in the 60s. He can’t remember if this watch is logged in or not. He won’t be able to explain this to Artturi. 

It feels real. Not real. Oscar can’t tell anymore. He could wake up with a banana in Baku and believe this was all a dream, it’s that weird. The heat feels real, if nothing else, the stuffy air and sweat that hasn’t had a chance to dry.

George swallows. “Fuck. Bit of a jam, huh?” he says, looking somewhere between nervous laughter and taking his top off.

“Well?” Max demands. Oscar swallows, anything he might say suddenly stuck in his throat. 

“No,” George decides, smiling with his teeth. “I beat you, remember? Maybe you should be the one stripping.”

What the fuck, Oscar thinks. 

Max’s hands twitch. Arms crossed like that, Oscar can see it, long fingers gripping the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head. Max shakes his head, stubborn. “No. It’s just pole.”

“It’s two tenths,” George snaps, and then, slowly, their heads turn. Oscar feels time go sideways. 

“Two tenths,” Max breathes.

“Four tenths.” 

Three point seven six, actually, Oscar wants to snap, but that’s so not the point here, is it. “Sure,” he says, casual, heart in his throat, and drags off the ice vest that stopped keeping him cool long ago. 

“What the fuck, mate,” Max complains, and George just groans. “Not fair.”

Oscar shrugs, holding in a grin. Three can play at that game. “Takes more than that to get my shirt off.”

“Like what?” Max leans in, and if Oscar didn’t know better he’d say Max was interested, not just trying to pass time in a stuck lift or one-up George. “Dinner?”

“No, hang on.” George catches Max’s hand where it was just about to touch Oscar’s knee, what the fuck. “If anyone’s taking Oscar out to dinner, it’s me.” Max opens his mouth to protest. “I know better restaurants.”

“Meal plan?” 

“Negotiable.”

“Monday?”

“If you fly me home.”

“Deal. You book, I’ll pay. Nothing French.” 

George nods, serious, and then deigns to look at Oscar, who’s seriously unsure about what just happened. “Okay?”

“Um… Yeah?” Oscar says tentatively, because on the off-chance that he was just invited out to dinner with both George and Max, he’s definitely not saying no. 

“Great. You’ll be in Monaco on time?” Max does reach his knee this time, squeezing it. Oscar’s barely adjusted to that when George’s hand lands on his trap, a burning brand through his shoulder. “Oscar?”

He blinks at Max. “What?”

“Monday. You have a flight?”

Oscar tries to think about it. Monday. Dinner. Monaco. “Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” 

Max shrugs. “I have space if you want it.” 

“Great, that’s sorted,” George says in his literal GPDA voice.

Oscar stares between them.

“What the fuck?” he asks, breathless. There’s an awful beat of silence, just long enough for Oscar to contemplate drowning himself in his ice bath, and then the lift echoes with laughter.

“Yeah,” Max agrees.

“Not too sure myself, mate,” George adds between laughs. “If someone dies, blame Max.”

Max scoffs. “He was probably a serial killer in another life, and anyway I would not kill anyone on a first date.”

“You’d just wait for the second?” Oscar feels himself blush when Max laughs, loud and real, and then realises—“Date?”

Max stops laughing. They stare at each other, daring the silence to end, and then Max scrambles closer, knees poking into Oscar’s hips as he straddles him, and says, “Date.”

George shoves Max’s face aside right as Oscar’s eyes slide shut. “Polesitter,” he snipes, and long fingers turn Oscar’s head towards him, breath puffing hot onto Oscar’s lips. “But yes, I think it’s a date.”

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for the touch prompts 51 with galex maybe?

51, sitting on the other’s lap, george/alex, ~1250 words, also on ao3

George isn’t feeling well. 

Actually, George has been feeling like he’s coughing up a lung for a couple of days now, but at this exact moment, he’s really not feeling well.

On a more positive note, he isn’t coughing up a lung anymore! No, he’s coughing up hairballs, because he’s a fucking cat.

He tries to paw at his phone, to do literally anything about this situation, and he can’t, because his phone operates on Face ID and/or a beautifully complex swipe code that his cat paws simply can’t operate. 

Alex’s cats made it look so easy.

Alex. Now there’s a thought. If there’s one person who he can explain his situation to without speaking and blackmail into never mentioning it to anyone else, it’s Alex.

He gets out into the paddock without too much trouble, shaking himself away from all the people saying oh, look, a cat! and here, kitty! and psss, psss, psss. 

It’s surprisingly easy to find the Williams motorhome, and he makes a few rounds, rubbing up against the legs of the people he recognises, the people he built a points-scoring, no-longer-dead-last-in-the-constructors’ car with. 

After that, and after a moment’s thought, he simply plops down inside the door and begins to neatly brush his fur. He ignores that one itch down near his bum. He’s not grooming there in public, thank you very much.

Predictably, Alex appears within minutes, doubtless summoned by one of the many, many mechanics who know his reputation. George deigns to look up at him when he crouches down—he’s bloody tall, is Albono—but decides that there isn’t anything interesting coming his way and returns to his grooming. 

“Aren’t you lovely,” Alex murmurs, and the part of George that’s still 14 and looking up to a 16-year-old Alex Albon preens. 

The part of him that’s unconcerned cat doesn’t react. 

Large, warm hands slide around his belly, and then he’s being lifted high into the air and cradled to a nice-smelling Alex chest. When he looks out, it’s this view that looks odd, rather than the cat’s-eye view he’s been getting used to.

Maybe George doesn’t want to be human again. As a cat, he doesn’t find the idea of being a sick human in a roaring, fiery inferno of metal and carbon fibre particularly appealing. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” Alex says, cupping his head and protecting it from the loud noises all around him. George tucks his head into Alex’s chest and gets scritches in return. It’s an excellent deal.

He barely registers being walked away, out of the noise and into a room that’s quiet and smells entirely of Alex. Alex sits down, legs spread out, and deposits George into his lap.

It’s comfortable there. George is going to curl up and have a nap, thanks. 

Turns out he can purr.

“I’ve got to go, sweetheart,” Alex says, and it’s all the warning George gets before he’s lifted and unceremoniously dropped into the warm spot Alex was sitting in.

Well. Alex was very gentle about putting him down, really, but he’s also abandoning George so he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt!

Alex doesn’t react to George’s full-body, open-mouthed hiss, just runs a hand firmly down his whole body, just the way George likes it. 

“I won’t be long, promise.”

He’d better not be. George curls up grumpily, flicking his tail over his body to imply that he is not accepting further pets, and very nearly falls asleep again.

And then he realises that Alex has left his phone behind. 

Score. 

It’s quick work to turn it on, and Alex has a very simple four-digit pin that he changes once every two years if he changes it at all. It’s not hacking if Alex told him it, drunk in Monaco the week after the last change. Even in his cat brain, George knows this.

There isn’t really much he can do right now, like send a message, but Alex has a few iPhone games downloaded. George goes for Subway Surfers, because Alex has everything unlocked after that one incident with Lily. 

Turns out that he is, as a cat, still acceptable at this children’s game.

“I’m back!” Alex announces from the doorway. George doesn’t look up, which turns out to be the wrong decision because oh, what would he have given to see the face that went with that squeak. 

The door bangs shut, and then George has a large, hulking Albono crouched down very close to him and staring. 

“This isn’t normal,” he’s muttering. “It’s not normal for a cat to be on my phone, cats don’t play Subway Surfers, Sushi couldn’t play Subway Surfers, I’m probably delusional, there’s a magnet coming up—now I’m talking to the cat who’s playing Subway Surfers”—

He’s so distracting, actually, that George crashes, ending what was a damn good run, considering that George doesn’t currently have opposable thumbs. 

He meows his frustrations at Alex, who startles. 

“Good kitty?” he says tentatively, reaching out to brush his fingers along George’s head, and oh, that feels good. George throws caution to the winds and headbutts his hand, purrs erupting through his whole chest. “Oh. Good kitty. Very weird, very good kitty. I didn’t realise cats played Subway Surfers, my bad.”

George huffs. It comes out as a sneeze, one that makes him shake his whole body out to get rid of the feeling. At that point, he decides to step back, to look around the room and find a way to explain the situation to Alex.

A-ha! The latest George-poster-in-Williams is him doing his first ever T-pose—not very recent, but he’ll take it. He skids across the room to it, tilting his head to better assess.

He points. Alex laughs. “That’s Georgie,” he says fondly, proudly, and oh. It’s not what George was looking for, but it’s all he can do to stay where he is and not bowl himself straight into Alex’s lap. 

Instead, he lifts himself up as straight as he can go and stretches out his front paws in what he hopes is a passable imitation, given the restrictions of his current anatomy. Alex laughs again, strangled.

“Aren’t you clever,” he says, delighted, and walks over to him, looming like some kind of Thai giraffe. “How would you feel about a trip to England, old boy?”

George would feel amazing about that, but he does have a race to win first. Alex is so thick. 

He does the cat equivalent of a sigh, and then, resigned to his fate, recreates the failed somersault that Alex has never, ever let him forget. 

He’s splayed out on his back, belly exposed, when Alex kneels next to him, eyes wide. “George?” 

George meows.

Alex scoops him up, zero regard for personal space, congratulations, Albono, and drags him back to the couch. 

“George?” he repeats. George fixes him with a singularly unimpressed stare. “Yeah, sure, you’re the paddock cat. Makes sense. Always did know how to cause a stir, didn’t you?” 

George nips, gently, at his thumb. 

“Okay, then. Do you know how this happened?”

George shakes his head.

“Right. Or how to change back?”

That doesn’t even deserve a headshake.

“Yeah, yeah. Think we just have to wait this out, then?” Alex asks, and George is so grateful he has an Alex, because what other friend would immediately make it a we?

He sighs, cat-like, and settles himself more firmly into Alex’s lap, kneading impatiently when Alex doesn’t immediately start stroking him. 

He’s a cat. He has rights.

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canine loyalty

oscar/george, oscar/charles, oscar/george/max/charles/carlos/lando/arthur, ongoing, not rated (nfsw)

Oscar is going to fix this. Oscar decides that the Charles-George power struggle is his business.

part 5 of coven or harem? who can tell, on ao3, archive-locked

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red lights, stop signs

oscar piastri & max verstappen, oscar piastri/carlos sainz, 8k, rated t

Max’s beautiful, beautiful Cayenne is an absolute wreck. Oscar might have to kill someone about it. or, someone tries to kill Max and hurts Oscar instead. Max and Carlos are perfectly normal about this.

red lights, stop signs, on ao3, archive-locked

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something sweeter everybody needs

oscar piastri/carlos sainz, oscar piastri & max verstappen & charles leclerc, 12k, rated t

One thing led to another, and Oscar nearly bit Lando’s hot older Spanish ex-roommate-situationship, and when Max and Charles finally let him out of the pack house, he had to go and apologise. or, Oscar becomes a werewolf and creates problems for himself.

something sweeter everybody needs, on ao3, archive-locked

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5+1 for 5 times Oscar got jealous and the one time Carlos did for carcar if you're taking prompts (it doesn't even have to be 5+1, it can be 1+1 lol)

5+1, oscar/carlos, ~1250, also on ao3. the video in question

Oscar’s not even slightly obsessed with Carlos Sainz. 

For one thing, it’s not his fault that there was a two year period in which Carlos made it a point to crash his car into Oscar’s. For another, it’s not his fault that Carlos has the biggest, most expressive brown eyes in the world, or the kind of hair that gets a L'Oréal modelling contract. 

And for a third thing, lying horizontal on his couch and watching YouTube compilations of various F1 marketing videos isn’t obsessed behaviour. Obsessed behaviour would be if he made a burner account on TikTok purely to get his feed full of Carlos, preferably shirtless.

Which he hasn’t done, and definitely doesn’t want to.

Anyway. There’s a video on the side subtitled Carlos Sainz getting along with everyone, which means that it definitely won’t have any jumpscares of Oscar in it.

The video opens to an extraordinarily young Carlos, tufts of hair poking out of his Toro Rosso cap, sitting next to a Max who’s very obviously barely hit puberty. He’s singing. It’s not even slightly attractive.

It only gets worse from there. Carlos barely looks at Max, but he’s laughing like Max is the funniest thing he’s seen, and then there’s a clip that Oscar rewinds to more than once.

For one thing, Oscar’s pretty sure that Carlos pulling off a tux like that should be illegal. He’s clearly still a rookie, talking about getting to know Max, but he looks so much better than Max it’s ridiculous.

And for another. For another, he’s looking at Max with literal hearts in his eyes, talking about their very long conversation that Max laughingly, secretively says was not really about racing cars.

It makes Oscar very reasonably annoyed, maybe because he’s heard Carlos talking about things that are not racing cars and Max is a literal minor, so maybe those things aren’t appropriate.

Thankfully, that’s the last clip of Max.

Oscar’s spared the sight of Carlos’s hair for exactly fifteen seconds. Those Renault caps are ugly.

And then the video shifts, and suddenly he’s confronted with a much older Carlos with his hair perfectly coiffed, sitting in a bright yellow room that somehow makes him look good. And he’s singing to the fucking Hulk.

Oscar very nearly turns his phone off. He doesn’t.

The ugly as fuck Renault cap comes back, and Carlos is for some reason so happy about making Nico Hulkenberg laugh that the fucking video captions him as very proud of himself. It’s insane.

The Lando clips are actually fine. Carlos’s face is covered with an awful papaya mask nearly all the time, and Oscar can watch teenage Lando making a disaster of himself with reasonable fondness. Lando was never the problem.

He’ll have to find out if Lando still knows any of that Spanish. He looked like he was really trying, bless him.

And then there’s a clip of them trying Italian food together, and Oscar’s suddenly and violently angry at the sight of Carlos’s uncovered face falling apart with laughter at Lando’s hysterical giggling.

When he looks back at the screen, it’s just Lando interviewing Carlos about his move to Ferrari.

Oscar’s definitely not obsessed with Carlos. Lando’s obsessed with Carlos. Lando went onto Charles Leclerc’s stream and publicly complained that Charles stole his teammate. 

Like seriously, who does that.

If Lando moved somewhere else, Oscar would—well, he probably wouldn’t be jumping for joy, because he’s got used to measuring himself against Lando, but he certainly wouldn’t whine about it in public.

Carlos and Charles together is genuinely uncomfortable to watch. See, Oscar knows that these are two smart, reasonably competent Formula One drivers, multiple race winners, whatever. 

And they’re stupid together. They’re just completely, bafflingly, ridiculously stupid. They spend all their time bickering, staring at each other like they’ve been married for years, and calling each other beautiful. It’s sickening.

Also, one of the clips seems rather focused on the hair on Carlos’s arms. Oscar really didn’t need to see that. Nobody needs to see that.

Oscar’s honestly never been so glad for a video to end.

“That’s enough phone for the night,” he tells himself sternly, and very pointedly doesn’t create any TikTok accounts until the next morning.

Oscar’s not sure whose idea a joint Ferrari, McLaren and Williams PR video was, but whoever it is has just had the curses of six drivers rained on their heads. 

Oscar’s maybe more than anyone else, because while trying to stop Lando from ruining their papaya-iced cake completely, he’s also being forced to watch Carlos allow Alex Albon to spoon icing into his mouth.

What the fuck.

At least someone (Lando) is laughing. Oscar isn’t. Oscar’s ready to tear his hair out, because as someone who’s perfectly normal about his teammate, he thinks it’s actual, literal torture to be trapped in a room with Carlos and three people he’s literally never been normal about. 

It’s especially torture when the team barriers break down and Carlos comes over to laugh with Lando. It might actually be violating the Geneva Convention when Charles sees what’s happening and bounds over, smearing red icing onto Carlos’s face. 

Oscar finds himself completely ignored, even by the cameras, which would be great if he wasn’t in the seventh circle of hell right now.

He’s not sure how he finds himself playing padel with Carlos, Lando, and Alex, but it’s surprisingly not all bad.

Well.

Apart from the way Carlos stares at him between points, when Oscar’s fist-bumping Lando or doubled over trying to catch his breath, it’s fun. Even Alex ragging him about his supposedly abysmal padel technique (Oscar’s actually been getting better, thanks) isn’t as annoying as it could be. 

They line up at the net for a picture at the end, the obligatory snaps that will end up on all of their socials at some point or the other, and Carlos grips his waist so tightly that Oscar’s almost worried it’ll bruise.

“What the fuck, mate?” he hisses under his breath, keeping his smile on for whichever one of Carlos’s minions is behind the camera. 

In the corner of his eye, Carlos turns his head, frowning, lips parted. Lando and Alex step away. Oscar tries to follow and is stopped by Carlos’s hand on his waist and another on his wrist.

“What?” he asks. 

Oscar uses his free hand to swat his waist free. “What the fuck?” he repeats. 

“You are looking at me like, like I have done something weird,” Carlos says, frowning harder.

“Osc, you coming?” Lando calls from the other side of the court, like something weird isn’t happening right here. 

Am I hallucinating, Oscar thinks blankly, but the warmth on his wrist is very much real, Carlos’s thumb a loose circle. 

“Yeah,” he says, shaking himself free and walking away. 

Carlos follows. “Oscar,” he says urgently, and when Oscar turns, falters. “No, it’s nothing. I will see you—you’ll be in Austin.”

“Um,” Oscar says, eyes wide. “Yeah?”

The awful thing is that it might not even be the weirdest thing Carlos has ever said to him.

“Okay. I see you there, then. Bye.” Carlos pushes past Oscar, shoulders brushing, and Oscar looks at Lando. Lando looks back.

“We going?” he demands, like that didn’t just happen.

Oscar probably is hallucinating, come to think of it. Maybe you can hallucinate touch. Sound. Smell, even, of padel balls and expensive aftershave. Oscar’s going to have to mention it to his psychologist.

Maybe he’ll leave out some of the details.