writing soft carcar moments during my commute to soothe my annoyance at the hungarian gp 2026
ficlet under the cut
The time for words only comes after.
After all the adrenaline has been spent, after they've torn each other apart with rabid hands and greedy mouths, once they've stopped panting, once they've stop shaking, once the sweat on their naked bodies has cooled down enough that the AC makes Oscar shiver through the thin, damp sheets he's curled up under.
Carlos is lying on his back, eyes closed, plump lips slightly parted, and his bare, glistening chest heaving slowly, evenly, peacefully.
He seems to be asleep, but Oscar knows he isn't, for reasons far more embarrassing than the one he's about to admit.
"I know it wasn't your fault," he whispers to the silent room.
Carlos' face twitches—his eyelids shift without opening and a corner of his lips hikes up in a grimace.
"I wasn't even that mad at you, really," Oscar continues, voice still a murmur, barely louder than the AC.
Carlos now opens his eyes, deliberately slow, and blinks at the ceiling a few times before letting out a sigh.
"I know," he says, matter-of-factly but not quite as smug as Oscar would have expected.
Oscar huffs, then swallows a stubborn resurgence of frustration. He knows Carlos isn't going to coddle him—and isn't that why he's here, naked in his bed?
"It just sucks. This season—nothing seems to ever go actually right. I just don't know what to do anymore." He fails miserably at keeping his voice even, now, and hates how whiny he sounds, but he can't help it.
"Yeah," Carlos sighs. "I know." He, too, can't hide the emotion in his voice, but for him it's a deserved bitterness, a reasonable exhaustion.
Oscar knows he has no right to complain to Carlos about his career, but Carlos will still take it, will still hold him, like he did last year through the aftershocks of his failed championship campaign, and Oscar is too selfish to give that up.
At the back of his mind reverberates the echo of a dozen of voices—Andrea, Zak, Tom, Emma, Artturi, Mark. Debriefs in Woking, meetings with his management team, dinners with Mark, and then visits to Red Bull, calls with Ferrari, emails from Audi. Options and choices, possibilities and rejections. Everyone urging him to do better, do more, take more decisions, make fewer mistakes.
The season is only half way through, but Oscar is tired, feels lost, smothered by doubts, each day less certain of the path his career is going.
And if he only drove faster, if he only placed better—then maybe, maybe, maybe.
He sighs. Carlos has closed his eyes again, and his breath is now heavier. His left hand is now on his chest, but his right is still lying at his side, so Oscar reaches out to take it. He wraps his fingers around his wrist, damp hair meeting his clammy palm, and the voices already start fading.
Carlos' long lashes flutter open, even slower than before, and he finally turns to look at Oscar. He looks exhausted, but his eyes are warm and the curve of his lips is soft, all the stiffness from his media obligations melted away in their earlier wrestle for power and pleasure.
His hand moves to shake off Oscar's grip and find his fingers instead, tangling with them before tugging at him. Oscar doesn't hesitate—he takes full advantage of that gentle invitation and scoots closer to Carlos until their bodies are flush to one another, every part of them slotting perfectly together with practiced ease.
The low hum of the AC now melds with Carlos' soft breathing, and no kind of white noise can compete.
When Oscar nests his face in the curve of Carlos' neck, when his lips find the salty surface of his tan skin and his nose fills with his musk, all the voices die out and all his worries evaporate into a sweet haze that engulfs his brain and finally brings him some peace.
Maybe they'll talk more later, maybe they'll argue again at breakfast over who had the right in their incident, or maybe they'll just commiserate together about being let down by their teams.
But now, silence descends over them again, and they just hold one another as they fall asleep.
Summary: Carlos reflects on Hungary 2026 and everything that came before.
Relationship: Carlos Sainz Jr/Oscar Piastri
Word count: ~1k
(my first ever fanfic, yesterday just gave me a lot of feelings.) H/t to @sainz100 for the juxtaposition of these images together used for the header.
Carlos Sainz Jr. has always found it easy to be abhorred. His family name, the nepotism of following his father in a similar career, the general air of entitlement that surrounds those in his circle — most people have minds set on him before he even has a chance to grace them with his presence, so it’s really not worth trying to change their minds. He has his inner circle, those who know him, the true him, and that’s perfectly fine; let everyone else have their opinions. Honestly. He’s built up a thick skin capable of withstanding pain.
Because of this, he’s found that when something penetrates, he wants it to last. “Ask him again in Spanish”. A push to the ground. “We just want to focus on Andrea Kimi Antonelli, he is our future. Carlos has done a fantastic job, but out of fairness we want to prioritize younger talent.” A kick to the gut. “Typical Carlos.” A spit in his face.
And now. After a season that has brought nothing but disappointment, mistruths, pain, and has required every ounce of his deeply ingrained Ferrari PR training, he’s ripped apart a wound that only recently had started to heal. Carlos lies back on his nondescript hotel bed. He had prepared for bed, welcomed this self-flagellation into his nighttime ritual as a form of showing it all of the most vulnerable parts of himself. No overpriced linen shirts or idiotic Men’s Expert gel to act as armor — he wants this to cut deep. He starts the video on his phone again, hears the voice of the interviewer from offscreen.
“Carlos told us he had no blue flags on the steering wheel, he wasn’t informed.”
He watches Oscar’s lips tighten, imagining the fury and vitriol that is about to come spewing from them as shards of glass aimed directly at parts of his exposed skin. I deserve this. We both know I do.
Oscar’s PR woman Sophie shoots him a wary glance before he speaks. Carlos has always liked her. During the #PapayaRulesYearofHell2025, he remembers many times when Sophie was one of Oscar’s sole sources of positive reinforcement at McLaren. They’d never outright say they were boosting Lando, of course not; but sometimes what’s missing is enough to make you notice it. And isn’t that what brought Oscar and Carlos together to begin with. Two people with hard edges looking for a soft place to land.
Carlos watches the flush he has grown to recognize color Oscar’s face. For someone the media was so quick to brand an “Iceman”, he has no pokerface. He remembers the flush appearing during their initial post-race spats. During awkward run-ins during cycling outings in Monaco. When Carlos kissed his favorite mole under Oscar’s left ear.
“That’s no excuse, that’s got to be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen on a race track.”
Carlos had known Oscar was next to him. Of course he had. He’s been a driver for 12 years, and while the blue flag system malfunctioning sucked, that’s absolutely not what this is about. But, how is he supposed to make Oscar realize that. Oscar, who entered F1 with McLaren on their upswing and has never had anything but a mid-high level car. Oscar, who was raised with such humility and humor by his supportive family. Oscar, who may not be McLaren’s golden boy but is still beloved enough for them to hold onto through times thick and thin.
That’s not where Carlos is anymore. Maybe when he and Oscar had first gotten to know each other, and the former had believed the words his perfidious team principal was whispering in his ear to tempt him away from the deals at Audi and Alpine. He had believed in Williams. He had believed in James. He wanted to differentiate himself from his father. And look how that turned out.
He’s now out there fighting for every opportunity. Lucky to be battling with Nando for P14 because at least he’s a relevant driver and it may be shown on a replay; on other weeks, he’s down with Cadillac and Stroll, wondering if there’s a point to showing up at all.
And that’s the divide. That’s why he has found himself watching this video on repeat, wishing he could do in actions what he so desperately wants to do in his thoughts. But he was taught to bite or be bitten. Don’t apologize. Don’t show weakness. He admires Lando for winning the championship his own way, but had always told him not to tear himself down so much in the media. He’s struggled with Alex’s self-deprecating nature this year; how can he be so blatantly critical to the team and himself, while also maintaining his nice guy persona? Stiff upper lip, that’s the Carlos Sainz way.
Accepting blame here would be taking a small hammer to the carefully constructed house of lies he’s built around his life.
2025 Dutch incident with Lawson? I’m sorry for calling you inexperienced and causing unnecessary conflicts; just recognizing in you what I see in myself. The crack widens.
2024 Barcelona contact with Charles? I’m sorry for dismissing your valid concerns; my sadness around the final home race I would have in a race-winning car isn’t your fault. The foundation shakes.
2023 Belgian DNF with Oscar? I’m sorry for falsely saying your “lack of experience” had anything to do with this crash; the truth is, I was completely enthralled by you. Carlos’ house of lies falls around him.
Mini-Oscar has continued to talk on his phone screen while Carlos is throwing a pity party for himself. He debates dropping the phone on his face to see if that would make him feel something, but he knows this next part will do the trick.
“You don’t plan the strategy for getting taken out by a…backmarker.”
The scab has been torn off. Blood drips from the gaping wound of their “relationship”. When he went to check their WhatsApp conversation today after the race, he found he’d been blocked. He knows this injury will not close again.
He remembers Oscar’s soft smile at him during their combined fan stage this weekend. The brief moment they during the driver’s parade where they almost grazed hands. He’d never felt so alive.
Carlos takes a final look at Oscar’s face in the media pen; crestfallen, captivating. He had known whatever it was they were doing couldn’t last; Oscar was too earnest, and he too jaded. Better it ended this way. He’s fine with being hated.
shameless timezone reblog; come poke at the bruise of my own making. "You stupid b*tch" from Crazy Ex-Girlfriend may or may not have been running through my head while writing this.
Summary: Carlos reflects on Hungary 2026 and everything that came before. Warning: abandon all hope for warm fuzzies ye who enter here.
Relationship: Carlos Sainz Jr/Oscar Piastri
Word count: ~1k
(my first ever fanfic, yesterday just gave me a lot of feelings.) H/t to @sainz100 for the juxtaposition of these images together used for the header.
Carlos Sainz Jr. has always found it easy to be abhorred. His family name, the nepotism of following his father in a similar career, the general air of entitlement that surrounds those in his circle — most people have minds set on him before he even has a chance to grace them with his presence, so it’s really not worth trying to change their minds. He has his inner circle, those who know him, the true him, and that’s perfectly fine; let everyone else have their opinions. Honestly. He’s built up a thick skin capable of withstanding pain.
Because of this, he’s found that when something penetrates, he wants it to last. “Ask him again in Spanish”. A push to the ground. “We just want to focus on Andrea Kimi Antonelli, he is our future. Carlos has done a fantastic job, but out of fairness we want to prioritize younger talent.” A kick to the gut. “Typical Carlos.” A spit in his face.
And now. After a season that has brought nothing but disappointment, mistruths, pain, and has required every ounce of his deeply ingrained Ferrari PR training, he’s ripped apart a wound that only recently had started to heal. Carlos prepared for bed, welcomed this self-flagellation into his nighttime ritual as a form of showing it all of the most vulnerable parts of himself. No overpriced linen shirts or idiotic Men’s Expert gel to act as armor — he wants this to cut deep. He starts the video on his phone again, hears the voice of the interviewer from offscreen.
“Carlos told us he had no blue flags on the steering wheel, he wasn’t informed.”
He watches Oscar’s lips tighten, imagining the fury and vitriol that is about to come spewing from them as shards of glass aimed directly at parts of his exposed skin. I deserve this. We both know I do.
Oscar’s PR woman Sophie shoots him a wary glance before he speaks. Carlos has always liked her. During the #PapayaRulesYearofHell2025, he remembers many times when Sophie was one of Oscar’s sole sources of positive reinforcement at McLaren. They’d never outright say they were boosting Lando, of course not; but sometimes what’s missing is enough to make you notice it. And isn’t that what brought Oscar and Carlos together to begin with. Two people with hard edges looking for a soft place to land.
Carlos watches the flush he has grown to recognize color Oscar’s face. For someone the media was so quick to brand an “Iceman”, he has no pokerface. He remembers the flush appearing during their initial post-race spats. During awkward run-ins during cycling outings in Monaco. When Carlos kissed his favorite mole under Oscar’s left ear.
“That’s no excuse, that’s got to be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever seen on a race track.”
Carlos had known Oscar was next to him. Of course he had. He’s been a driver for 12 years, and while the blue flag system malfunctioning sucked, that’s absolutely not what this is about. But, how is he supposed to make Oscar realize that. Oscar, who entered F1 with McLaren on their upswing and has never had anything but a mid-high level car. Oscar, who was raised with such humility and humor by his supportive family. Oscar, who may not be McLaren’s golden boy but is still beloved enough for them to hold onto through times thick and thin.
That’s not where Carlos is anymore. Maybe when he and Oscar had first gotten to know each other, and the former had believed the words his perfidious team principal was whispering in his ear to tempt him away from the deals at Audi and Alpine. He had believed in Williams. He had believed in James. He wanted to differentiate himself from his father. And look how that turned out.
He’s now out there fighting for every opportunity. Lucky to be battling with Nando for P14 because at least he’s a relevant driver and it may be shown on a replay; on other weeks, he’s down with Cadillac and Stroll, wondering if there’s a point to showing up at all.
And that’s the divide. That’s why he has found himself watching this video on repeat, wishing he could do in actions what he so desperately wants to do in his thoughts. But he was taught to bite or be bitten. Don’t apologize. Don’t show weakness. He admires Lando for winning the championship his own way, but had always told him not to tear himself down so much in the media. He’s struggled with Alex’s self-deprecating nature this year; how can he be so blatantly critical to the team and himself, while also maintaining his nice guy persona? Stiff upper lip, that’s the Carlos Sainz way.
Accepting blame here would be taking a small hammer to the carefully constructed house of lies he’s built around his life.
2025 Dutch incident with Lawson? I’m sorry for calling you inexperienced and causing unnecessary conflicts; just recognizing in you what I see in myself. The crack widens.
2024 Barcelona contact with Charles? I’m sorry for dismissing your valid concerns; my sadness around the final home race I would have in a race-winning car isn’t your fault. The foundation shakes.
2023 Belgian DNF with Oscar? I’m sorry for falsely saying your “lack of experience” had anything to do with this crash; the truth is, I was completely enthralled by you. Carlos’ house of lies falls around him.
Mini-Oscar has continued to talk on his phone screen while Carlos is throwing a pity party for himself. He debates dropping the phone on his face to see if that would make him feel something, but he knows this next part will do the trick.
“You don’t plan the strategy for getting taken out by a…backmarker.”
The scab has been torn off. Blood drips from the gaping wound of their “relationship”. When he went to check their WhatsApp conversation today after the race, he found he’d been blocked. He knows this injury will not close again.
He remembers Oscar’s soft smile at him during their combined fan stage this weekend. The brief moment they during the driver’s parade where they almost grazed hands. He’d never felt so alive.
Carlos takes a final look at Oscar’s face in the media pen; crestfallen, captivating. He had known whatever it was they were doing couldn’t last; Oscar was too earnest, and he too jaded. Better it ended this way. He’s used to being hated.
if carlos admits that he wronged oscar today, he must also admit that the battle with aston martin was nothing, that what he's doing with williams right now is nothing, that the current path his team choice has taken has, this season, amounted to nothing. & he can't do that! it's too destabilizing! he has to stand stubbornly in the idea that it was an unfortunate racing incident, that oscar also must know it was an unfortunate racing incident (he doesn't) or the entire foundation of his current career comes crashing down
I think Carlos knows very well he’s in the wrong but he’d NEVER say that. He knows what’s it like to fight at the front, and he’s too good of a driver to not be aware of blue flags waved by the marshals.
But the guy would never admit he’s wrong about something because that would mean admitting he’s been wrong about a number of things in the last years.
izzy806
ellievsbear
