#fic teaser

Im not discipline guys.. i keep getting distracted and stop finishing this hobi fic but here u go😞

So this is what I have of my Hungary fic so far. First draft as it’s absolutely not finished, but you might as well read what I have if I’m not going to to be finishing it for a while 🧡

Summary: Oscar gets driven into by Carlos Sainz of all bloody people before his gearbox chokes fourteen laps from the chequered flag. He’d had the win in his grasp until the dumb incident put Lando back ahead.

Safe to say, he’s pissed.

Word count so far: 829

Rating: T

~

He sees the two battling in front of him, an Aston and a Williams, as well as the blue flag panels flashing brightly in his peripheral. He’s the race leader. He has priority and they need to move over. His engineer assures him they will. Alonso and Sainz.

There’s been non-stop traffic since he came out the pits. A bloody nightmare. He’s trying to hustle through them so Lando stays behind him once he takes his final stop.

It’s him against his (boyfriend) teammate for the race win. Their first time this season. Lando went deep into turn 2 from pole position, Oscar then snatching the lead. It’s been that way since, with him getting priority strategy as per their team rules.

Except now he’s getting held up by two backmarkers fighting for absolutely nothing. He’s net leader in fourth, with Lando hammering fast laps out in front. Extending his second stint in clean air, something that Oscar does not have.

They approach turn 2 and Sainz goes wide, so Oscar slots himself alongside to be let through, exactly how he got the lead of the race. Sainz, however, has other ideas, and cuts right across him like he’s not even there. Their tyres rub together and he’s lucky not to get a puncture as he’s forced off into the dusty grass. The car slides and he fights to save it, cursing Sainz to high fucking heaven as he gets back on track.

“Dude, is he fucking stupid or what? Get outta the fucking way, you idiot! Oh my God.”

“Car looks okay,” Tom reassures.

It doesn’t help. It’s cost him precious time. Lando pits two laps later and comes out ahead of him. Jesus Christ.

“Oscar, that’s Sainz that cost us that. Target is to get to the end on this tyre.”

“Mate, it’s better you don’t fucking talk to me now.” He doesn’t need further embarrassment that can be broadcast to the fucking world. Now he’s back in dirty air, around a track that’s impossible to overtake, following his teammate who’s got the higher tyre offset.

The team boxed Lando knowing he’d been compromised by Sainz. They hadn’t made the world champion wait.

“Nice of you guys to factor that one in by the way. Thanks,” he adds sardonically. He wishes he could turn the damn thing off. Unplug it and drive in silence for the next thirty laps.

Oscar’s been shafted. Lando’s been gifted the win.

And then his gearbox chokes fourteen laps from the chequered flag.

Just fucking great.

~

“I’m thinking of going out to the club later after dinner, you in? Hattie and Flo already said yes. It’ll be nice to show them the nightlife.”

Lando’s hovering in his driver room doorway, brand new suit hanging from his hips ready for the media pen. If he comes any closer he’ll still reek of champagne. His curls look both sodden and crisp, a brand new number 1 cap gripped in his large hand. Any other day, he’d be tugging him closer and tasting his skin. Showering him with praise.

Today, he’s not in the fucking mood.

“Go and celebrate with Sainz. I’m sure he’s over the moon he got you the win.”

It comes out sharper than he intends, but he folds his arms over his chest and sinks against the wall anyway. Lando rockets upright, his expression flickering.

“Osc, what? No! I wanna celebrate with you! I always wanna celebrate with you.”

He takes a step inside the room and Oscar shakes his head. Fawning journalists await him, ready to shower him in compliments and watch him preen as his abundance of white teeth shine.

“Yeah whatever, you have him to thank for the track position, so go and buy him a drink.”

Lando steps back, brows furrowed. He glances behind, back at Oscar, then steps inside and shuts the door behind him. Oscar huffs, fidgeting where he stands.

“Are we really doing this again? Here of all places!” Lando hisses and Oscar’s hackles rise. “I’m sorry for how your race ended, okay, but that doesn’t mean you take it out on Carlos! These things happen in racing, you have to learn to let go of it.”

“So if I drove into Carlos, you’d have the same reaction?” He and Sainz have unfortunate collision history in previous seasons, back when he drove for the prancing horse. Fucking magnets. Lando’s always been awkward about it with him, failing to be neutral, the Spaniard among his closest friends.

“Carlos isn’t racing for anything anymore! You gave up a double podium because you couldn’t be patient!”

“So it’s my fault my car broke?”

“Welcome to the club, baby!” Lando yells, the number 1 cap flapping as he gesticulates. “Fucking sucks, doesn’t it! Only happened to me multiple times this year.”

“But not for the race win!”

“Zandvoort,” Lando bites pointedly. “And that could’ve cost me the World Championship.”

He gestures to the cap, the number 1 glaring up at him. “But it didn’t, did it?”

~

you’re the kindest, thank youuuu 🤍🤍🤍

genuinely there’s so much but also hardly anything to share?? i will say one thing,,,,,

Emma spoke for the first time in an hour. “At least his family is safe. That poor man…” She trailed off, and all three of them recalled the gaunt impression he’d left during his most recent trip to Houston. So different from the jovial man of ’83, who had celebrated Aleida getting her hands dirty, who had tried all the treats that Emma had left on her desk: peanut brittle, saltwater taffy. “Do you know much about his family?

We moved past the group gathered around the fire pit and made our way over to who I could only assume was the dealer Margot had been texting in less than a minute.

“Ric?” Margot asked as we approached him.

My heart tripped in my chest with a mixture of anticipation and wariness as I stared at what little of his side profile I could make out beneath his hood, silently weighing the odds of whether he was a potential psycho or just another guy doing whatever he had to do to get by.

“Eric,” he corrected without looking in our direction.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat at the sound of that voice.

No. It couldn’t be him.

I watched in agonizing anticipation as he pulled the cigarette he’d been holding between his tattooed fingers from his lips and flicked it to the ground. The movement took all of two seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

My mind was playing tricks on me. It had to be.