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“Okay,” Oscar says, pushing past the ridiculous comfort weighing his eyelids down to shift and face Carlos on the side. It’s both the best and worst time to do this, when they’re come drunk and floaty and very, very stupid in the head. “You go first.”

Carlos makes some sort of offended face, but he’s the—the most dopey looking thing after an orgasm, and Oscar can’t ever get over the way his features go in every direction after he comes, like they’re no longer woven together by bone and sinew, so the face he makes just looks like. Oscar doesn’t know how to describe it. He just stares. Memorizes every fragment. Stares some more.

“Why do I go first?”

“Because,” Oscar says, with lips that aren’t stitched close for once, “it has to be you first, or I won’t be able to do it.”

“Okay,” Carlos says, a little surprised, a lot pleased. Almost as if he’s figured out Oscar had just called him the braver of the two. Which. Oscar had. He likes that Carlos is getting better at reading between the lines. “Okay I’ll go.”

“Okay, go.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, so,” Carlos begins, before trailing off and making a couple of false starts, uhms and ahs. It’s possible they’re both equally embarrassed, but unable to hide when the canvases of their bodies are so blatantly on display. Like this, softly gleaming and sore.

“Come on,” Oscar says, close to whining. Anticipation ticks under his skin, makes it yearn for touch. “Stop stalling.”

“Do not laugh,” Carlos says, as stern as he can manage while looking like—like that. Cheeks an unfairly pretty shade.

“I can’t,” Oscar says. “Or you’ll laugh at mine.”

“Okay, okay,” Carlos says. “Eh, so, ah. I’ve thought about you in a dress before.”

“What colour?”

“What colour!” Carlos says, like he’s insulted that that would be Oscar’s first question. “Red.”

“Ew.” Oscar forgets about the heat that’d rushed down south at the mention of Carlos thinking about him in a dress for one second, and wrinkles his nose. “How are you still repping Ferrari?”

“This has nothing to do with them,” Carlos says with force. “You would—you look good in red. That’s all.”

“I’ve never worn red,” Oscar says weakly.

“Tell my imagination,” Carlos says.

“Okay, so, um.” Oscar clicks his tongue, which is something he never usually does, but his body forgets to function the way it should around Calros. “What kind of dress?”

Carlos makes some funny little groan, flopping his big paw on the bedside for his phone, and it takes awhile for Oscar to realize that’s Carlos sounding both awkward and excited.

“No way,” Oscar says. “You have it saved?”

“You want to see or no?”

“Yes, yes,” Oscar says hastily. “Let me see.”

All things considered, not the worst dress Oscar could have conjured up in his mind. Fleur du Mal, that’s the brand, he thinks? It’s very sleek, very shiny. Short, too. Rucked up at the bottom in what Oscar assumes is a classy way with some lace peeking out. It’s very—

“Very you,” Oscar says.

Carlos has his bottom lip jutted out, on his way to sulk city. “You mean that in a good way, or?”

Oh for the love of— “Are you buying that for me, or do I have to put it in the cart myself?”

“Oh,” Carlos says, nearly toppling over in eagerness. “It’s in cart, already.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m buying now!”

“Fine,” Oscar says, as red in the face as the dress. If it arrives a week or two from now, Oscar could bring it to the next race. And maybe he won’t just be taking a trophy home, as satisfying as that is, but also the look on Carlos’s face when Oscar shows up in that tiny thing. He doesn’t even know how he’ll manage to put the dress on. He does know he’ll probably seize up with embarrassment all through the entire process, question every single one of his life choices that has led him up to here. Naked in bed with Carlos. But Carlos did pay over eight hundred dollars for it. Oscar is anything but wasteful.

“Now you,” Carlos says, chucking his phone to the side. He’s as awake as a Labrador two seconds from being promised a W-A-L-K now. “Now your turn.”

Why had Oscar agreed to this, this—exchange of information? What was it, Oscar saying something snarky in response to Carlos fishing for compliments, all to cover up the fact that Carlos was turning him mortifyingly gooey during sex, and Carlos saying something haughty back, like, well if you just told me what you really wanted I’d be able to give it to you, and Oscar’s brain kinda went offline at that, at having to tell anyone anything, blank and staticky like a radio with no signal, but then his mouth had to catch up and go, well fine, I’ll tell you my greatest fantasy about you if you tell me yours, and now he’s expected to pony up.

Carlos is looking at him, too earnestly. “I promise I can take it,” he says. A promise not to run. Oscar’s reading between the lines too. “What is it?”

“Maid outfit.”

Carlos bursts out laughing. “Nice try, Oscar.”

Every encounter Carlos peels back another layer. Oscar’s this close to having nothing left. “How would you know, huh?”

“You’re not that nice,” Carlos says pleasantly. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“It changes every time,” Oscar says, and already that feels like too much of a giveaway. That there are a number of fantasies Oscar entertains.

“Tell me,” Carlos says, hands clasped around his knees like he’s saying his prayers or something, “the one you keep thinking of.”

On shit weekends, whether precipitated by his own pathetic mistakes or McLaren’s genius way of doing things, on those weekends he has to look up from a step and pull his lips into a facsimile of a smile, Oscar makes it better by thinking of Carlos. He isn’t nice about it though; Carlos was right about that somehow, damn him. Oscar imagines Carlos tied up, gagged, stuffed so full he can barely breathe through the stretch, tears in his eyes and on his knees begging for Oscar to touch him, even just a little, while Oscar takes his time and observes the pre beading on Carlos’s cock. On better weekends Oscar’s just as depraved, and maybe in the confines of his mind he shoves Carlos up against the glass windows of his hotel room, high from the victory and the champagne, and fucks Carlos into a dumb stupor while everyone below watches, and wishes for the prizes only he gets to have.

But Carlos hadn’t asked for the filthiest. Just for the one that came up the most.

“You’re making pancakes,” Oscar says. His stupid voice is wobbling.

“Ah.” Carlos has that serious furrow in his brow, the one he gets when he’s parsing through telemetry. He’s trying so hard to understand Oscar. They’re trying so hard, with each other. Oscar is flooded with enough warmth to make him feel hotter than the midday sun. “Am I wearing clothes?”

“Optional,” Oscar says.

“Seems fair.”

“It’s ten,” Oscar says. “Wait, no. It’s eleven, at least. You let me sleep until eleven.”

“Oscar,” Carlos moans. “The pancakes will be cold.”

“Why don’t you just make them later, huh?”

“Pancakes are a morning food,” Carlos says. “Eleven is not morning.”

“Is this my fantasy, or yours?”

“Sorry,” Carlos says immediately. “You can continue.”

Oscar looks at Carlos’s polite, clasped hands. Hands he’s trusting to hold him up. Counts three, four, five beats before he says, “That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Carlos asks, frowning.

“Yep,” Oscar says, staring straight ahead now. He waits for Carlos to laugh. Instead, he’s quiet. Quiet for so long that Oscar wonders if he should have gone for the tied-up version. Oscar digs his fingers into the sheets, wanting nothing more than to curl his exposed belly away. A few months ago he would have scrambled out of bed, probably. Now he just waits, prickly and aching.

Carlos is still frowning. “I am doing the math,” he says finally. “If you want to be woken up at eleven and still have warm pancakes, I can only start at ten twenty.”

“Oh,” Oscar says. The warmth gets warmer. It’s like a fever up in Oscar’s goddamn head.

“What will I do from eight to ten twenty?”

Oscar shrugs. “Whatever you usually do from eight to ten twenty.”

“That’s not much of a fantasy,” Carlos says. “That’s just life.”

A part of Oscar’s convinced Carlos can’t mean what Oscar hopes he means, when he says it like that. It’s just Carlos being kind. And the other disastrously tender part of Oscar recognizes that Carlos means exactly what Oscar wants him to mean, if he says it like that. Oscar will figure it out eventually, when he figures out what he wants it to mean himself. Maybe. It’s too hot in here to think.

“I suppose I run,” Carlos grumbles. “Shower. Drink two espressos while I wait.”

“Maybe three.”

“Then at ten twenty—”

“You get naked.”

“You said optional.”

Oscar crosses his arms. “I changed my mind.”

“Fine,” Carlos says, indulgent. “Apron is a must, though.”

“Of course. No point, without the apron.”

“You are right,” Carlos says. “Apron on. I make pancakes. Then at ten fifty—”

“Eleven.”

“Ay, dios. Eleven. I wake you up.”

“I get up,” Oscar agrees.

“Hm.” Carlos taps his chin with one finger. “Is doable, no?”

Oscar swallows past the lump of something thick in his throat. He’s got the sudden, insane urge to check for a tracking number for some stupid dress. “We can try tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Carlos says. “I set my alarm for ten twenty.”

#athy fics #fanfic #rpf #carcar

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The sleeves of his McLaren hoodie are too long on him, which means they are too long on Carlos. Oscar tries not to dwell on the fact, because eventually he’ll start thinking about how they match each other length for length (hah), palm to shoulder an almost perfect fit, which then gets Oscar all gooey and atrociously warm, and he can’t have that. Especially not in this moment, with Carlos attempting to hold Oscar’s hand discreetly using the too-long sleeves. At least one person has to keep their head screwed properly on their shoulders.

“Not subtle,” Oscar informs him.

“What,” Carlos says, but it’s Carlos, so it’s more like a whaaaaaat? “You’re shy, Oscar? Don’t tell me you’re shy.”

“I’m shy.”

“You’re no fun if you don’t protest,” Carlos says, still flapping his orange paw around the vicinity of Oscar’s hip.

Feeling a little too indulgent, Oscar lets Carlos chase his fingers while he half-heartedly tries to escape. Halfway through play-fighting in the middle of a street like children, Carlos’s palm slips out of his sleeve like a nervous squirrel and envelops the whole of Oscar’s. Victory! the grin on Carlos’s face says, and yep, that, among a million other things concerning Carlos, Oscar’s barriers have no hope against. The joy exuding out of Carlos’s pores when he stands on a podium, dragging Oscar right out of the doom symphony playing in his head on fortissimo in Qatar. The delight when he steals the last pancake out from under Oscar’s nose. And the apparent pleasure Carlos gets from simply holding Oscar’s hand.

Oscar allows his hand to be held, very much a conscious decision. Even to be swung around merrily.

“This okay?” Carlos asks.

“Uh huh,” Oscar says immediately, even though he means Obviously Not.

The Obviously Not comes in the form of a couple of blurry photos, and suspiciously nonchalant questions thrown around at testing. The ill-fitting length of Oscar’s sleeves remains a lifesaver. Held up in court, no one can definitively claim if Carlos’s hand was actually curled around Oscar’s (it was) or not.

“I was cold,” Carlos says, just as nonchalantly, except it’s Carlos, so it’s more like a cooooooooold. “Oscar was very kind, eh? Lending me his hoodie.”

“Didn’t really have a choice mate,” Oscar says. “You were moaning a lot.”

Carlos opens his mouth.

“Don’t,” Oscar quickly interrupts, “offer a demonstration.”

“Hm,” the journalist says, fascinated. “Hm,” Lando says. “Hm,” the rest of the paddock with two eyes says.

Even in promo snippets and the videos they film for Grill the Grid, they’re getting a little careless with it. Who would you go to a desert island with? Who has the best hair? Who’s the best cook? Have you ever been to the house of another driver on the grid? Who?

Carlos. Carlos, I feel like that’s going to be a very popular answer, because, duh. Carlos. Yes. Carlos.

Years of PR training kick in, and Oscar begrudgingly remembers to throw in other drivers for pepper and spice. Having a singular answer to all these questions should be worrying. It’s putting all his eggs into one basket. It’s poor planning, Mark would say. But as myopic as it may be, Oscar can’t stop his teeth from forming around the vowels in Carlos’s name each time.

At least it doesn’t seem to be a game he’s playing alone. When they’re apart, when Oscar’s feeling a particular kind of way, lonely and dressed down, he pulls up the video where they’d sectioned the drivers’ faces into three, and you had to make guesses. It was clear Carlos wasn’t trying to be obvious, but he had taken one look at Oscar’s lips, and knew.

Maybe it had been obvious only to Oscar. Maybe.

Eventually, the unwanted attention grates and chips away at them, and the third time he’s asked Oscar wants to take the journo’s head off. His skin itches with agitation. He starts to wonder if they’ve finally gone too far. He starts to wonder if there’re clearer photos. Unwittingly, the edges of his body turn sharp. Sensitive even to the most minute of fractures in Oscar’s expressions, Carlos withdraws. And continuing the cycle of misery, Oscar will resign himself to three weeks of distance before Carlos feels comfortable enough to take Oscar’s hand in public again.

Carlos meets him after testing’s done, orange hoodie carefully folded up and hidden under one arm.

“Thank you for letting me borrow,” Carlos says.

“I don’t need you to return it,” Oscar says, failing spectacularly at disguising his hurt. “Since when do we return each others’ clothing?”

“Ah.” Carlos scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s better. Less questions.”

“Coward,” Oscar mutters, and Carlos flushes red. Between the both of them, it’s Carlos who is the most honest. His arm is still tight around the hoodie; he hasn’t handed it back to Oscar. As reluctant to part with it as Oscar is to receive it. Back of neck scratcher, face flusher, heart on sleeve wearer.

“I meant less questions for you,” Carlos says angrily. “You want me to wear it to the next press conference? Then they’ll ask you, hey, and what will you say?”

A couple of things become clear at once. First, that they can’t be protecting each other in circles. Second, that there are exceedingly few things in a racing career and even less things in a racing career mixed up with another racing career that Oscar can stand absolute on. Only that Carlos swung their hands between them, fingers interlaced, that night. And the world isn’t ending yet.

“That I gave it to you,” Oscar says. “What else? I gave it to you.”

“Fine,” Carlos says, jerking his arm back almost violently. “It’s mine. I’ll wear it when I want. Maybe now, even.”

Oscar wants to kiss the stupid man, cameras be damned. “Good.”

“Good.”

“I said it first.”

“Well.” Carlos tugs the hoodie back on, too-long sleeves and all, and the soft part in Oscar packed with yearning cheers. “I said it better.”

#athy fics #fanfic #carcar

continuation of this

“Carlos,” Oscar says, “we are not dropping you on a descender.”

Carlos’s pout appears in full force, but after more than six months of prep and filming, Oscar’s defenses aren’t wavering (a lie) in the face of it. He folds his arms across his chest, and Carlos has the decency to look slightly abashed. Good thing Logan had heard about those secret conversations happening on set between Carlos and James and had dutifully reported back to Oscar. Hey, uh, the director and your actor might have been discussing the falling stunt? Namely, if your actor could do his own falling?

#athy fics #stunt coordinator oscar and actor carlos #fanfic #carcar

the only way off a mountain is down

6k; carcar

“I think.” Oscar tries creaking open the sealed gate of his teeth to allow some honesty to pass, without explicitly saying the words, I think I’m driving myself mad. “I need to go somewhere different. Somewhere so cold my ass freezes over and I won’t be able to think about racing. I can’t lay on a beach for a month, at least, or the wheels in my head will just keep turning.” Hattie sniffs, unimpressed. “You’re punishing yourself.”

#athy fics #fanfic #carcar #an excuse to write there's only one bed and a white christmas all in one #happy holidays everyone <3

“I have come to clean your stables,” Oscar says. “In a single day.”

“Boy,” the King says slowly, like Oscar is stupid. “I’ve lost count of my livestock decades ago. To properly clean my stables would take you several moons.”

#athy fics #carcar #pardon the most indulgent greek mythos au ever #this all started because hercules called the son of augeas to testify against his father #and the son did #in my head hercules and augeas's son live together happily ever after #don't boo me #fanfic #rpf #twelve tasks au

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Halfway through the flight, after Carlos stupidly opens his mouth and tells Oscar about L'Oreal, after Oscar grins, like he doesn’t find it strange that Carlos would share such information, and instead decides it suits Carlos, very seriously tilting his head at Carlos and considering him like a cat would before its meal, Oscar makes a point to fall asleep.

Carlos does not begrudge Oscar falling asleep. He does however, find it exceedingly infuriating that Oscar would choose to leave Carlos alone with his thoughts after throwing the equivalent of a boomerang into Carlos’s face. Saying something ridiculous like, the deal couldn’t have been a better fit, all the while smiling at Carlos like he meant it. It’s not fair leaving Carlos to simmer like that, without someone he can talk at. Mark Webber’s sitting two rows down, and he hasn’t even done anything to earn Carlos’s ire, just looked between the two of them with a weary squint, before shuffling away and muttering something about kids.

Also Oscar snuffles lightly in his sleep, a fact Carlos files away as equally important as it is annoying, if only because it’s endearing.

Contrary to what his father must think, Carlos hates losing. After fifteen minutes of fidgety waiting, after he’s almost a hundred percent certain Oscar isn’t faking sleep, Carlos picks up the teaspoon leftover from snack time. He waves the teaspoon in and out of Oscar’s slack, open mouth, testing the waters. Acting so much like a child sticking a hand into a cookie jar, greedy and guilty. Mostly greedy.

Oscar sleeps on, blissfully unaware. Tufts of hair stick out from beneath his orange hoodie. The steadfastly deadpan expression he so often wears as armour has smoothed out into something wondrously soft. Carlos isn’t allowed to touch, so he leaves the teaspoon balancing on Oscar’s lower lip, an extension of his own finger. It wobbles precariously at first, but then hangs on for dear life, see-sawing up and down. As attracted to Oscar’s mouth as Carlos is.

If Mark chooses this exact moment to turn around, he’d probably see fit to file a HR complaint to the FIA for bullying. Manhandling. And several other things Carlos has zero explanation for. Carlos sneaks his phone out and takes so many photos of Oscar deepthroating a teaspoon that if his phone ever were to get stolen, HR would be the least of his worries. Some of the photos are crisp and clear. Some of them are blurry, with Oscar’s fringe in the focus instead. Carlos's hands must be shaky.

Carlos leans back into his seat and considers his collection. The slant of Oscar’s nose, and the three spots on his left cheek. As an afterthought, he remembers to remove the teaspoon from Oscar’s mouth.

“Hey,” Oscar says throatily, when they deplane. His eyes are bleary, but they sharpen when they land on Carlos. “I’m sorry for, you know. Passing out on you.”

“That’s alright.” Carlos doesn’t know what prompts him to say it. The need to get an edge in, probably, after spending ten minutes or two hours staring at Oscar’s sleeping face. “I got some good photos of you sleeping.”

However Carlos expects Oscar to react, he doesn’t anticipate this:

Oscar going pink, Oscar’s eyes going wide and panicked. His perfect mouth making a surprised O. It arouses something catastrophic in Carlos’s chest.

“What,” Oscar hisses. “What do you mean good photos?”

See, what he said about winning? Carlos likes the feeling. “I could sell them and make a fortune,” Carlos says seriously. “Retire with the earnings. Quit driving entirely.”

“Carlos,” Oscar says, clambering all over Carlos to reach for his phone in his right hand, now held as far away from Oscar as possible. “What photos do you have, come on. Show me.”

Carlos laughs, bright, delighted. In front of them, Mark finally turns around to glare, before rolling his eyes and leaving his poor charge to fend for himself. Oscar clutches at Carlos, trying to get the leverage he needs. He makes two pathetic hops into the air, still swiping for Carlos’s phone, and bumping his chin so hard into Carlos’s shoulder that Carlos suspects it’ll bruise. Good.

“Carlos,” Oscar tries again, voice suspiciously close to a whine. “That’s not fair.”

“I didn’t expect you to care,” Carlos says.

Oscar’s expression ripples, even though Carlos hadn’t meant it as a dig. “Of course I. I mean. The photos. Of course I care.” He worries his lip. “Was my mouth open?”

“Yep,” Carlos says.

“Asshole.” Oscar redoubles his efforts to steal the phone. “You. You’re terrible. Show me, show me.”

“Fine,” Carlos says. “Just this one.” He swipes through all the blackmail material, settling on a suitably flattering photo. Or as flattering as one can be with a teaspoon hanging from his mouth. Oscar makes it work. “Look, not too bad, right?”

The teaspoon is out of focus, so really, it isn’t too bad. Oscar stares at the photo, scowling. As inconvenienced as a cat doused in water. And then, three, two, one, his frown smooths out by sheer force of will, like he’s made peace with the fact this photo now exists in the world.

“At least I can be prepared,” he says. “For whenever you release this to the papers.”

“Oh you don’t have to worry,” Carlos says absently. “These are just for me.”

Oscar glances up quick. There’s that waver in his face, a crack in the geode, a hint of something shiny underneath. The one Carlos likes so much, gone in a blink of an eye. Oscar settles on elbowing Carlos in the ribs, hard. Fair play.

“Remind me never to sleep in front of you again.”

“Hah,” Carlos says. He slips the phone into his back pocket, safe. Heavier now with a hundred photos of Oscar in it.

Challenge accepted.

(he really talked about incriminating photos and expected me not to do anything about it)

#athy fics #fanfic #rpf #carcar

carcar band au

“Look out,” Logan says. “Carlos is doing that thing again.”

Oscar, while being fully aware of what thing it is, says, “What thing?”

“You know. This thing.” Logan stretches his arms over his head in an exaggeratedly casual manner, and then flops it over Oscar’s shoulder, leaning in with an audacious smile. “It’s working on everyone but you.”

#athy fics #fanfic #rpf #carcar #and then they really do it together they really do

They both text—terribly. As if their sentences had their shirttails tucked in and tie all done in a double Windsor. So Oscar made it a point to type it all in lowercase. It seemed an important distinction to make. He was being spontaneous, he was being sexy.

what are you wearing

#athy fics #fanfic #rpf #carcar

“Why do I go first?”

“Because,” Oscar says, with lips that aren’t stitched close for once, “it has to be you first, or I won’t be able to do it.”

“Okay, go.”

“Okay.”

“Come on,” Oscar says, close to whining. Anticipation ticks under his skin, makes it yearn for touch. “Stop stalling.”

“Do not laugh,” Carlos says, as stern as he can manage while looking like—like that. Cheeks an unfairly pretty shade.

“I can’t,” Oscar says. “Or you’ll laugh at mine.”

“Okay, okay,” Carlos says. “Eh, so, ah. I’ve thought about you in a dress before.”

“What colour?”

“What colour!” Carlos says, like he’s insulted that that would be Oscar’s first question. “Red.”

“This has nothing to do with them,” Carlos says with force. “You would—you look good in red. That’s all.”

“I’ve never worn red,” Oscar says weakly.

“Tell my imagination,” Carlos says.

“Okay, so, um.” Oscar clicks his tongue, which is something he never usually does, but his body forgets to function the way it should around Calros. “What kind of dress?”

Carlos makes some funny little groan, flopping his big paw on the bedside for his phone, and it takes awhile for Oscar to realize that’s Carlos sounding both awkward and excited.

“No way,” Oscar says. “You have it saved?”

“You want to see or no?”

“Yes, yes,” Oscar says hastily. “Let me see.”

“Very you,” Oscar says.

Carlos has his bottom lip jutted out, on his way to sulk city. “You mean that in a good way, or?”

Oh for the love of— “Are you buying that for me, or do I have to put it in the cart myself?”

“Oh,” Carlos says, nearly toppling over in eagerness. “It’s in cart, already.”

“Oh my god.”

“I’m buying now!”

“Now you,” Carlos says, chucking his phone to the side. He’s as awake as a Labrador two seconds from being promised a W-A-L-K now. “Now your turn.”

Carlos is looking at him, too earnestly. “I promise I can take it,” he says. A promise not to run. Oscar’s reading between the lines too. “What is it?”

“Maid outfit.”

Carlos bursts out laughing. “Nice try, Oscar.”

Every encounter Carlos peels back another layer. Oscar’s this close to having nothing left. “How would you know, huh?”

“You’re not that nice,” Carlos says pleasantly. “Come on. Give it to me.”

“It changes every time,” Oscar says, and already that feels like too much of a giveaway. That there are a number of fantasies Oscar entertains.

“Tell me,” Carlos says, hands clasped around his knees like he’s saying his prayers or something, “the one you keep thinking of.”

But Carlos hadn’t asked for the filthiest. Just for the one that came up the most.

“You’re making pancakes,” Oscar says. His stupid voice is wobbling.

“Optional,” Oscar says.

“Seems fair.”

“It’s ten,” Oscar says. “Wait, no. It’s eleven, at least. You let me sleep until eleven.”

“Oscar,” Carlos moans. “The pancakes will be cold.”

“Why don’t you just make them later, huh?”

“Pancakes are a morning food,” Carlos says. “Eleven is not morning.”

“Is this my fantasy, or yours?”

“Sorry,” Carlos says immediately. “You can continue.”

Oscar looks at Carlos’s polite, clasped hands. Hands he’s trusting to hold him up. Counts three, four, five beats before he says, “That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Carlos asks, frowning.

Carlos is still frowning. “I am doing the math,” he says finally. “If you want to be woken up at eleven and still have warm pancakes, I can only start at ten twenty.”

“Oh,” Oscar says. The warmth gets warmer. It’s like a fever up in Oscar’s goddamn head.

“What will I do from eight to ten twenty?”

Oscar shrugs. “Whatever you usually do from eight to ten twenty.”

“That’s not much of a fantasy,” Carlos says. “That’s just life.”

“I suppose I run,” Carlos grumbles. “Shower. Drink two espressos while I wait.”

“Maybe three.”

“Then at ten twenty—”

“You get naked.”

“You said optional.”

Oscar crosses his arms. “I changed my mind.”

“Fine,” Carlos says, indulgent. “Apron is a must, though.”

“Of course. No point, without the apron.”

“You are right,” Carlos says. “Apron on. I make pancakes. Then at ten fifty—”

“Eleven.”

“Ay, dios. Eleven. I wake you up.”

“I get up,” Oscar agrees.

“Hm.” Carlos taps his chin with one finger. “Is doable, no?”

Oscar swallows past the lump of something thick in his throat. He’s got the sudden, insane urge to check for a tracking number for some stupid dress. “We can try tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Carlos says. “I set my alarm for ten twenty.”

#athy fics #fanfic #rpf #carcar

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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

“Not subtle,” Oscar informs him.

“What,” Carlos says, but it’s Carlos, so it’s more like a whaaaaaat? “You’re shy, Oscar? Don’t tell me you’re shy.”

“I’m shy.”

“You’re no fun if you don’t protest,” Carlos says, still flapping his orange paw around the vicinity of Oscar’s hip.

Oscar allows his hand to be held, very much a conscious decision. Even to be swung around merrily.

“This okay?” Carlos asks.

“Uh huh,” Oscar says immediately, even though he means Obviously Not.

“I was cold,” Carlos says, just as nonchalantly, except it’s Carlos, so it’s more like a cooooooooold. “Oscar was very kind, eh? Lending me his hoodie.”

“Didn’t really have a choice mate,” Oscar says. “You were moaning a lot.”

Carlos opens his mouth.

“Don’t,” Oscar quickly interrupts, “offer a demonstration.”

“Hm,” the journalist says, fascinated. “Hm,” Lando says. “Hm,” the rest of the paddock with two eyes says.

Carlos. Carlos, I feel like that’s going to be a very popular answer, because, duh. Carlos. Yes. Carlos.

Maybe it had been obvious only to Oscar. Maybe.

Carlos meets him after testing’s done, orange hoodie carefully folded up and hidden under one arm.

“Thank you for letting me borrow,” Carlos says.

“I don’t need you to return it,” Oscar says, failing spectacularly at disguising his hurt. “Since when do we return each others’ clothing?”

“Ah.” Carlos scratches the back of his neck. “Maybe it’s better. Less questions.”

“I meant less questions for you,” Carlos says angrily. “You want me to wear it to the next press conference? Then they’ll ask you, hey, and what will you say?”

“That I gave it to you,” Oscar says. “What else? I gave it to you.”

“Fine,” Carlos says, jerking his arm back almost violently. “It’s mine. I’ll wear it when I want. Maybe now, even.”

Oscar wants to kiss the stupid man, cameras be damned. “Good.”

“Good.”

“I said it first.”

“Well.” Carlos tugs the hoodie back on, too-long sleeves and all, and the soft part in Oscar packed with yearning cheers. “I said it better.”

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continuation of this

“Carlos,” Oscar says, “we are not dropping you on a descender.”

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the only way off a mountain is down

6k; carcar

#athy fics #fanfic #carcar #an excuse to write there's only one bed and a white christmas all in one #happy holidays everyone <3

“I have come to clean your stables,” Oscar says. “In a single day.”

“Boy,” the King says slowly, like Oscar is stupid. “I’ve lost count of my livestock decades ago. To properly clean my stables would take you several moons.”

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Also Oscar snuffles lightly in his sleep, a fact Carlos files away as equally important as it is annoying, if only because it’s endearing.

“Hey,” Oscar says throatily, when they deplane. His eyes are bleary, but they sharpen when they land on Carlos. “I’m sorry for, you know. Passing out on you.”

However Carlos expects Oscar to react, he doesn’t anticipate this:

Oscar going pink, Oscar’s eyes going wide and panicked. His perfect mouth making a surprised O. It arouses something catastrophic in Carlos’s chest.

“What,” Oscar hisses. “What do you mean good photos?”

See, what he said about winning? Carlos likes the feeling. “I could sell them and make a fortune,” Carlos says seriously. “Retire with the earnings. Quit driving entirely.”

“Carlos,” Oscar says, clambering all over Carlos to reach for his phone in his right hand, now held as far away from Oscar as possible. “What photos do you have, come on. Show me.”

“Carlos,” Oscar tries again, voice suspiciously close to a whine. “That’s not fair.”

“I didn’t expect you to care,” Carlos says.

Oscar’s expression ripples, even though Carlos hadn’t meant it as a dig. “Of course I. I mean. The photos. Of course I care.” He worries his lip. “Was my mouth open?”

“Yep,” Carlos says.

“Asshole.” Oscar redoubles his efforts to steal the phone. “You. You’re terrible. Show me, show me.”

“At least I can be prepared,” he says. “For whenever you release this to the papers.”

“Oh you don’t have to worry,” Carlos says absently. “These are just for me.”

“Remind me never to sleep in front of you again.”

“Hah,” Carlos says. He slips the phone into his back pocket, safe. Heavier now with a hundred photos of Oscar in it.

Challenge accepted.

(he really talked about incriminating photos and expected me not to do anything about it)

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“Look out,” Logan says. “Carlos is doing that thing again.”

Oscar, while being fully aware of what thing it is, says, “What thing?”

#athy fics #fanfic #rpf #carcar #and then they really do it together they really do

what are you wearing

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