Chapter Text
For weeks—no, months—the pieces didn’t quite fit. The missing hours, the late nights, the bruises, and all the lies… Something was definitely off about Oscar Piastri, other than him being a huge deal in Formula 1 and a total nerd. But you just couldn’t figure out what. More than once did you wonder what your roommate was doing when he was missing from home, your thoughts straying to different possibilities. Maybe he was actually a serial killer, performing his dark deeds in the empty alleys of New York. Or he simply had a sweetheart on the side, one he wasn’t ready to show to the hectic world of F1 just yet.
But no. The truth is much simpler.
Because Oscar Piastri, he’s… not just fast on track, but also while swinging through New York in tight spandex.
And you’ve got the receipts to prove he is Spider-Man.
Evidence #1 — He vanishes at night.
Okay, true, that… that doesn’t sound so damning. People are allowed to go out to the club and return at dawn drunk as hell. They don’t have to tell their roommates every time they do, right? It’s not your business, anyway, who Oscar hangs out with during his time off, and you’re not the type to pry into his private life. Others do that enough…
But that’s not who Oscar is. At least the part that you know. In the four years you’ve lived together in this fancy apartment in New York, you’d rarely seen him go out willingly. Sure, he has the occasional work meetup with the McLaren team that he has to attend—it’s his job after all. Or the times Lando Norris (bless him) tries to make him loosen up by inviting him to parties Oscar hates but goes anyway because he has a sweet spot for the British driver.
Each time, Oscar is back by midnight or earlier like the good boy he is. Just in time to catch you halfway through some random movie or show. You’d make room for him next to you and he’d wordlessly drop onto the couch, not even bothering to tell you how his night went. They all go the same, anyway: “Lando got drunk again. The music was good, though.”
It’s become your quiet ritual: two idiots falling asleep to the bright light of the TV, the movie forgotten in the background, with neither of you wanting to admit how much you actually like this something between you.
So you don’t quite buy this… secret night life Piastri has going. He’s simply too domestic to suddenly become a party fuckboy—and Lando’s not that persuasive. You’ve thought about it hard: maybe he’s actually in big trouble, the kind that threatens all his loved ones. Though you can’t for the life of you imagine what Oscar could do to step on someone’s toes. He’s just too… Oscar.
You didn’t pay too much attention to his escapades. Not at first. It was odd, yes. But it wasn’t long before his Be right back’s turned suspicious. He’d go out late, way past his bedtime. He’d not even bother to come up with excuses. He’d return early in the morning, exhausted and bruised. For a while, you thought the pressure of the World Championship was starting to get unbearable—and that’s fine, Oscar doesn’t need to share that with you, even if you’ve always been supportive of his career. But you can’t shake the feeling that your roommate isn’t just sneaking out for a midnight drive to clear his thoughts anymore.
Because whenever he goes out… Spider-Man appears. Saving people from a fire. Stopping criminals from robbing a bank. Fighting Rhino for the second time this week.
Was it a coincidence? Maybe. But you’ve done your homework. So!
Evidence #2 — He has weird gadgets in his room.
Before jumping to conclusions, no, you don’t usually make a habit of snooping into Oscar’s room. It just so happened that his door was open, practically inviting you in. And you desperately needed your charger back: you’d wanted to binge watch a show you’ve been obsessed with lately, but from the comfort of your bed.
And okay, maybe a teeny tiny part of you wanted to find some clues about where Oscar vanishes every night. If your roommate ever asks about a misplaced item or catches you in the act, you have the perfect excuse.
Anyway—
That night, Oscar was gone. You know because… well, he’s not as stealthy as he’d probably want to be. Though he stopped using the front door, surely tired of coming up with excuses as to why he’s gone for so long, you heard the door to his balcony open. It made a certain sound only your ears are attuned to, so you recognized it instantly. You had to admit, it was a creative way to get out of the house, seeing as you’d never climb down those rackety emergency stairs.
Still, you knock on his door, cautiously muttering his name in case Oscar just likes to sleep with the window open in the middle of such a cold Spring night. But he’s not there, as you’ve already guessed, so you enter into Piastri’s space with newfound confidence, trying to look like you belong there. You’ve rarely glimpsed Oscar’s room, but it’s as pristine as ever. His bed’s done, his clothes are neatly folded in an open wardrobe, his F1 trophies shine dimly in the moonlight on a shelf above his desk.
So… Oscar. It makes you smile softly.
Feeling more at ease now that you’ve seen it’s just a normal young man’s room (who also happens to be an Formula 1 driver), not a den filled with spider webs and red and blue costumes, you step into it, intent on searching for your charger. That’s it.
So it’s not really your fault the charger was on his desk, but Oscar’s for being a messy boy, his desk the only thing cluttered in the room. Your hand was dead set on grabbing the charger, honest, but something else caught your attention. A… you don’t exactly know, a disk? No, not quite. When you peered closely, it looked more like a wrist watch. While that shouldn’t be unusual, your body still freezes, gaze trained on that odd gadget you’ve never seen Oscar wear. It’s unbranded, which makes it even weirder. And the colors—red and blue, so similar to the one Spider-Man wears, now that you think about it.
Your breath hitches in your throat, heart suddenly fluttering wildly in your chest. No… it can’t be. Right? That watch must be a toy; you’ve seen kids wear those, pretending to be their favorite superhero. Oscar, he… you had no idea he was such a Spider-Man fan. Whenever the masked vigilante came up in conversation (and someone always brought him up), Oscar would just keep to himself, preferring not to offer an opinion on the matter.
But—why? Everyone loves Spider-Man, whether they’re idolizing him or debating his actions. Young men like Oscar are supposed to want to be him, not avoid the subject like it might put his life in danger.
You have to see if the watch is a toy or… real. Finger tips barely brush the cool metal when you hear keys in the door. With a gasp, you quickly grab the charger, the object you’ve come for in the first place, and rush out of Piastri’s room, closing the door behind you with a thud just as you spot Oscar. He stops at the edge of the living room, obviously not expecting to see you up at this hour. For a few breaths, you stare at each other without moving, giving you plenty of time to notice how he keeps tugging at his sleeve as if trying to cover something.
Huh.
He’s the one that breaks the standoff, raising a curious eyebrow at your silence and obvious position in front of his door. You raise the charger to show him you weren’t trespassing or doing anything untoward. “I needed it,” you offer as an explanation, chuckling awkwardly. “Bingewatching.”
“Ah. Can I join?” A small, tired smile breaks onto his face, the slump of his shoulders a telltale sign of his exhaustion. Once again, you wonder where he went, what he did at night, why he looked so beaten. But it’s obvious that’s not a conversation Oscar wanted to have right now—so you smile back in a reassuring manner and take on his offer.
Leaving the question—why did he use the front door and not the balcony—unanswered.
Evidence #3 — His mood always shifts when it comes to Spider-Man.
Not a day goes by without Spider-Man being mentioned in some way or another. ‘Spider-Man saved a child from drowning’ or ‘Spider-Man is actually a menace to society and must be stopped!’ If you don’t know about this masked vigilante and his latest deeds, you must live under a rock—because he’s everywhere. In merch. On the news. Grafittied on walls. All of New York talks about him; those who hate him, those who love him. He’s a celebrity at this point, more so than Oscar Piastri. And it’s clear to see why: he’s extremely lovable with his humble and endearing attitude.
Naturally, he’s also been the subject of many conversations among your group, as both you and Lando (and a few others) have massive crushes on the superhero. You debated over everything: the physics of his swinging, where his webs come from, even if he’s actually hot under that mask (“He must be, right?”).
You didn’t notice anything unusual, not at first, too engrossed in gushing over your favorite superhero with other fans. But ever since you started suspecting Oscar is actually him, well… you realized the driver never really joins in when people mention Spider-Man. He’d go quiet, doing anything in his power to look uninterested in the topic. Poker-faced, Oscar would nurse his drink or play with the hem of his shirt, as if you guys were talking about the most boring thing in the world.
Sure, he’d give a polite nod if someone looks at him for acknowledgement, a half-smile if someone says something funny. But he never outwardly expressed a positive or negative feeling regarding Spider-Man; he’s too indifferent to be normal. Because you either love or hate him. There’s no in between. So you can’t just… not care like Oscar does.
To test your theory out, you’d try to slip Spider-Man into every conversation as casually as possible, just so you can see the Aussie’s reaction. What do you think about this new video of Spider-Man saving a cat, Oscar? Hey, look, I’ve bought a new Spider-Man shirt (RIP wallet), do you like it? Oh damn, that punch must’ve hurt!
Each time you wait for something. A flinch. A hint. A look.
But Oscar plays it cool. Maybe too cool. The Aussie gives vague, neutral answers like “Yeah, wild,” or “Guess he’s keeping busy.” So nonchalant—as if Spider-Man wasn’t doing anything impressive or impossible.
You almost gave up, seeing that Oscar really had zero interest in one of New York’s biggest heroes. As you were pondering new ways to test him, furiously scrolling on your laptop for anything, really, a news anchor’s voice catches your attention. The headline: Spider-Man stopping a runaway truck — 5 people injured, no fatalities.
Uh-oh. That means one thing… J. Jonah Jameson is gonna have something scathing to say.
Glancing up from your laptop, you watch the footage play. There is Spider-Man, diving across the traffic in a streak of red and blue, the truck skidding to a halt in a shower of sparks. The video is blurred, so you can’t really see much; but you hear cheers in the background as the camera shakes, and you know Spider-Man did it again.
The screen changes and you see the all-too-familiar face of Jameson, veins practically popping through the monitor as he launches in his signature tirade. “This menace has once again endangered the good citizens of New York! How long are you gonna let him—”
You roll your eyes, tuning the enraged man out. “Bastard… Osc, can you believe this—” But you stop as soon as you see Oscar’s expression, who’s been sitting at the kitchen counter, peacefully eating his breakfast. The young man’s entire body is tense, a muscle feathering in his jaw, his fist opening and closing as if he’s trying to contain his rage. Eyes glued to the screen of the TV, a mix of frustration and disappointment written in them. You call out his name softly, taken aback by this sudden display of emotions on the Aussie’s face; Oscar snaps out of his daze, an almost guarded look in his eyes. You take a deep breath, feeling compelled to reassure your roommate and break the tension, “Don’t listen to him.”
Letting out a low laugh, he attempts to brush his earlier reaction off, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m not, it’s just…” he trails off, words dying in his throat. There’s a sudden defensiveness about him as if he’s embarrassed he even said something, so Oscar averts his gaze from you, unsure whether to say something or stop there. You wait with bated breath as the young man decides to not leave you in suspense after all. “He’s just trying to help,” he mutters, voice quieter than before. Like he’s afraid of having said too much…
You don’t answer straight away, face serious. This is the most you got out of Oscar when it came to Spider-Man, and he’s… pissed on his behalf. Like he’s sick of hearing people tearing him down.
And his silence, the way his shoulders stay tense, say more than words ever could.
“For the record,” you start, feeling like you’re a bit closer to the truth than you’ve been a few minutes ago, “I think Spider-Man is pretty amazing.”
You mean it.
There’s a flash of guilt, pride, vulnerability? in his pretty eyes, something unguarded slipping through his defenses. And for a second, you think that he’ll confess to something he can’t take back. Just as quickly, the feeling is gone: the Formula 1 driver snorts, rolling his eyes playfully at you. Back to the calm, composed Oscar Piastri you’ve come to know and love. “Yeah. Okay.” There’s amusement in his voice, which is a valid feeling. He’s heard you fangirl over Spider-Man a thousand times before, even endured a few of your more questionable comments about the masked hero’s… ahem, physique.
You think the moment’s over, crisis averted. But it’s only when Oscar turns to clean his plate that you catch him slipping up.
The tiniest of tells. Because you could’ve sworn you saw the tips of his ears go dark red.
Evidence #4 — Has unnatural reflexes.
You’ve come to learn that every move matters in Formula 1. Because one mistake, a single twitch of the wheel in the wrong direction, and you might find yourself spinning into the wall or another driver; before you blink, you’re out of the race and left with the bitter taste of defeat in your mouth.
You’ve seen it happening before, both to other drivers and Piastri (who you root for, obviously). And it’s never a pleasant sight: debris flying everywhere, the car spinning out of control, that terrifying second when everything moves in slow motion and everyone wonders if the driver’s okay…
Each time, Oscar saves it somehow. Spins off track, yet still manages to turn the car around and continue the race. Crashes into the wall with minimal damage if he really has no way of saving it. Narrowly avoids an incident happening right in front of him, expertly veering to the side before he can join in the pile.
You know that being a driver comes with a certain level of reflexes. And you have to admit, Oscar is good at reacting. It’s literally his job.
But sometimes… they’re too good. Everything goes too smoothly for him. And while people praise him for his reactions, you have the feeling they’re supernatural. It’s like he has a sixth sense for this kind of stuff, as if he can predict when something will go wrong and position his car to avoid an accident.
Almost like he’s… Spider-Man. Duh.
Maybe you’re grasping at straws and he’s a really, really, really good driver—the kind of freakishly talented guy who makes impossible things look easy. Maybe you’re overthinking it and everything you’ve noticed, the moments you’ve replayed a thousand times under the safety of your covers are just a string of coincidences.
But there’s a part of you that’s unconvinced, the part that’s whispering ‘I know exactly what you are, but if I am right… what the fuck do I do?’
Because you’ve experienced his unnatural reflexes on your own skin, and once you did, it’s hard to pretend it was nothing. You know they’re real.
Like that one morning when you accidentally knocked over a cup of juice, too tired to pay attention to objects in your vicinity. In your haste to save whatever you could, your phone slipped out of your hand. Since you’re just a regular human and not Oscar Piastri, you reacted too slowly, unsure what to save first—and making the mistake of going for both. Too late do you realize that you should’ve gunned for your phone since it’s more precious, the cost of a shattered screen infinitely worse than spilled juice. Heart dropping, you watched helplessly as your phone fell—
And never reached the floor.
Oscar’s arm shot out from somewhere beside you, and you flinched, not expecting him to be there. But in the blink of an eye, he catches your precious possession, safe and sound in the palm of his hand.
Not even breaking a sweat—just effortless precision and a fluid motion.
The young man straightened casually, like nothing unusual happened. If you didn’t know him at all, you’d think Oscar catches phones for a living, not drives super fast cars all around the world. For a few stunned seconds, you stare at him with eyes wide open, even as Oscar’s expression remains blank and unreadable, his familiar polite smile plastered on his lips.
“You’re such a klutz.” Said endearingly, handing your phone back to you.
You take it with trembling hands, unsure whether to thank him for saving your phone, to ask the question that’s been begging to be let out for a while now, or to simply wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him gratefully.
“That was…” you breathe out, settling for bewilderment instead. Because that move was… no, actually, the realization that Oscar Piastri is truly… your stomach twists, the possibility of this being the truth sharp and dizzying. “How did you…?”
“Occupational hazard,” the Aussie shrugs nonchalantly, throwing jazz hands awkwardly in the air to make a point.
You narrow your eyes. “You drive a car, Piastri. You’re not a fricking ninja.”
That earns you a small, cocky smirk, distracting you from the truth settling in your gut. “Guess I’m just built differently.”
Yeah. No kidding.
And sure, maybe Oscar was different from the others. Faster. Stronger. Flexible. But that doesn’t explain how he could easily catch a couch pillow you threw at him without warning, even though he wasn’t looking at you. The way he sidestepped a wayward ball coming in his direction in the paddock, like his body already knew what was gonna happen before he did. And have you seen him play tennis? It’s like… either pure skill or just instinct. Piastri moves gracefully on the field, hitting everything with a cold precision, his eyes tracking every motion like his brain is wired differently.
You’ve only ever beaten him when Oscar suddenly remembered he wasn’t supposed to be that good, conveniently starting to trip over his own feet and miss every shot till you finally claimed victory.
“Good game.”
Bullshit.
If that wasn’t enough to change your mind that Oscar Piastri is actually superhuman, the day he saved you from a very nasty fall certainly changed your mind. It started out pretty innocently: both of you were in another city for one of Oscar’s races, staying at a fancy hotel in a shared suite. There was a party scheduled a day before the race, one he had to attend; you, on the other hand, were planning on staying in, enjoying the luxury of room service and fluffy robes. But when Oscar invited you as his plus one, you couldn’t refuse. Not after the way he asked you so sweetly, a cute smile tugging at his lips.
“I’ll have more fun with you there.” Your heart definitely skipped a beat at that. But then, as if realizing that what he’d said was a bit too personal for Oscar Piastri, he quickly tried to save face: “And uh… the boys missed you.”
You missed them, too. Before becoming Oscar’s roommate, you hadn’t really cared about Formula 1. But somewhere along the way, after the Australian invited you once to join him at a race (“As my friend.”), you became a full-blown fan. It didn’t take you long to find a spot right beside the two McLaren drivers as their unofficial mascot; or to become friends with most of the grid.
Besides, saying ‘no’ to Oscar Piastri has never been your strong suit. Not when you have an inconvenient debuff when it comes to him: a not-so-tiny crush.
Anyway. The party. You’d put a little extra effort into your outfit that day. Nothing too dramatic, but just enough to make you feel confident. You didn’t think too much about it till you stepped into the living room and Oscar looked up from his phone.
The last thing you expected was for him to go completely still, eyes widened in shock. “Wow.” The word slips out of his mouth before his brain can stop it. You froze mid-step, pulse spiking; you don’t understand. He’s seen you dressed up plenty of times before, but Oscar never reacted like this. His dark gaze roamed over your figure, briefly tracing your silhouette before realizing what he’s doing.
The young man clears his throat and looks to the side, a small blush dusting his cheeks. “You, um… look nice today.”
It was obvious the odds were stacked against you right from the start. Between the compliment and the faint warmth of the champagne you’d downed earlier to calm your nerves, you were already flustered. Not to mention that Oscar… he looked unfairly handsome that night in his black tux. You’d been to plenty of F1 parties before, but you’d never seen Oscar Piastri so sharp, the kind of handsome that made your brain short-circuit and stirred a fire in your belly.
Would it be wrong to kiss him? To risk being late to the party just to get lost in the moment, even for a little while? People already assumed you were secretly dating simply because you live together—so why not flirt with the idea of being friends with benefits?
But the sad truth is that nothing ever happened. No matter how much you wished it had.
First, you didn’t think Oscar was interested. Unlike other drivers, he keeps his private life carefully locked away. Not even you know everything about your roommate. Second, being a WAG isn’t for the faint of heart; the scrutiny alone is exhausting, and you don’t want to be judged for not living up to some imagined “standards.” Third, it never seemed like the right time to talk about your relationship. Conversations like that… belonged to other people, reserved for another life, it seemed.
So you stayed quiet.
You had so much on your mind that it wasn’t surprising you weren’t paying attention to where you were going. Your phone also kept buzzing in your hands with messages from Lando Norris; and honestly?
Wearing stilettos was already tempting fate.
You barely registered the misstep as you were climbing down the stairs. Your heel caught the edge or your ankle twisted from under you—it didn’t matter. In mere moments, you were stumbling forward, the staircase rushing up to meet you. No one can save you now; Oscar is too far behind to catch you on time, so thinking this is the end, you brace for the sharp kiss of the floor—
Yet it never came.
Instead, a firm arm wrapped around your waist, steady and unyielding, successfully stopping your fall. Before you realize what’s going on, you’re turned around, spread flush against someone’s chest.
Oscar’s chest.
You blink, dazed, hyperaware that the Australian’s face is just inches from yours. His uneven breath fans across your lips, while his dark brown eyes flicker over your face, wide with something between worry and fear. Despite the closeness of your bodies which you should be focusing on, you can’t think about anything else but how did he close the gap so fast? You swear he was standing several feet away from you a second ago; now you’re cradled in his arms as if he’s been waiting for you to make a mistake.
For a long, suspended moment, neither of you move. The hallway is quiet, but your hearts aren’t, hammering loudly in the small space between your chests. In the back of your head, you’re aware of his palm pressed against your back, heat seeping through the thin fabric of your dress and leaving a searing mark. It’s the only thing keeping you anchored to reality when everything around you falls apart…
“You okay?” Oscar murmurs, voice lower than usual and laced with worry. His gaze keeps slipping down—to your lips, then back up to your eyes—like he’s fighting intrusive thoughts and his reason is winning.
You nod, barely breathing. At this close proximity… Did Oscar always look so good? Hair slightly mussed, freckles and beauty marks catching the soft light, something you can’t name flickering in his gaze.
“Y–Yeah,” you manage, though your brain is still buffering. “You, uh… caught me.”
Despite the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Oscar’s mouth quirks in a boyish half-smile. “Guess those fast reflexes come in handy off track.”
You force a laugh, but your mind is spinning. You almost died—or get hurt pretty badly. And Oscar Piastri saved you. His reflexes… they weren’t just fast. They were impossible. No human, not even a talented Formula 1 driver like him, should be able to move like that.
“You were like Spider-Man.”
Your pulse skips a beat; you shouldn’t have said that. Because Oscar freezes, his fingers twitching where they’re still resting on your back. He checks you one more time before stepping back, as if the atmosphere between you suddenly got too hot.
“Spider-Man?” he echoes, forcing a short laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “That’s kinda random.”
You try to grin and brush your sentence off as a joke; but you’re more truthful than you’d like to be right now. “I mean. Yeah. The reflexes, the speed… you swooped in out of nowhere and saved me like a superhero!”
Oscar runs a hand through his hair, a tell that tells you he’s hiding something. “Lucky timing.”
…
Right.
You hum in response, but before you can pester him further, Oscar clears his throat. “You sure you don’t want a change of shoes?” You eye him, making him backtrack immediately. “Don’t get me wrong, they look great, but— Um… nevermind. Try to be careful.”
The thought of him being Spider-Man isn’t funny anymore. It’s a real possibility. And as much as you’ve tried to chalk it up to a combination of training, reflexes, and whatever makes F1 drivers superhuman, you couldn’t anymore. The bruises, the late nights, and the way Oscar vanishes whenever there’s a Spider-Man sighting on the news…
Which takes us to the definitive piece of evidence.
Evidence #5 — You can recognize that sexy back anywhere.
The final piece of the puzzle, the one that confirmed your suspicions that Oscar Piastri was truly New York’s beloved superhero, came out of nowhere. You didn’t go looking for it. You didn’t even want to manifest it anymore.
It simply… fell into your hands. A matter of being in the right place, at the right time.
The hour was late, a time when New York quieted down to the hum of distant sirens and the bright glow of streetlights reflecting on the wet pavement. You’d been walking home from another exhausting day at work—coat pulled tight against the chill, mind already set on the glass of wine waiting for you at home.
It was one of those rare days when Oscar had other business to attend to, so you were alone for the night.
Your plan was to get drunk as soon as possible and sleep the lonely hours away.
As you were walking down the boulevard, a commotion down the street caught your attention. Lifting your gaze from your phone, you spotted a crowd at the end of the street—cheers, shouts, the click click of phone cameras flashing in the relative dark. What the hell was going on? You got closer, curious to see what the fuss is about, and—
Ah. There he is. Spider-Man. Or… Oscar, if your hunch is right.
You’ve never seen your favorite superhero this close before. Up until now, your glimpses of Spidey were reserved to news footage, blurry fan photos or videos, and okay, more than a few thirst traps edits online. This is your first time seeing him in person—and it was… exactly what you expected: amazing.
He was standing on the hood of a car like it was a normal thing to do, the beautiful backdrop of buildings beautifully complimenting the red and blue suit clinging to every line of his frame in a scene ripped straight out of a movie. You stopped a few feet away, at the edge of the crowd, trying to get a better view of him.
Fuck. He was real—and breathtaking. You’re unable to look away from that form you’ve drooled over countless times, the young man’s muscles taut as he poses for a picture. You’re tempted to take a photo, too, your fingers itching to grab your phone just as someone from the crowd shouts his name. Spidey turns his back on you for a second—
And that’s when it hits you, a punch straight to your chest that takes your breath away. That back—
You’d recognize that back anywhere (except in photos, it seemed).
Broad shoulders layered with muscles, the subtle slope of his waist molding in a shape you’ve seen a hundred times before, but you’ve been too blind to actually see it. You had your arms wrapped around that body, inhaled that chocolatey scent, felt the muscles rippling beneath your palms.
The only difference is you’ve only seen it in a fireproof suit rather than a superhero costume. Or while leaning over the laptop, brows furrowed in focus. Reaching for something on the top shelf for you, T-shirt raising just enough to reveal a teasing strip of skin. Pulling off a hoodie or stretching after a workout or driving a car—you’ve witnessed that back doing so many miracles, it’s…
Gods, you’re so blind. How many times have you drooled over Spidey’s or Oscar’s back before? You have a wallpaper of it on your phone.
There’s no mistake now. While the evidence you’ve gathered during these months is already damning, you have no more doubts. Spider-Man is definitely, irrevocably Oscar Piastri.
Even so, you still pinch yourself to make sure this is not a dream. But your brain isn’t playing tricks on you: Spider-Man’s still there, moving in a painfully familiar way. It’s not a mirage. It’s real.
At that moment, a laugh cuts through the noise inside your head, bright and familiar, making your heart instantly leap in your throat: you’ve heard that sound before. That high-pitched, wheezy laugh that belongs to no one but your roommate, slipping out only when he finds something genuinely funny. Which is not as rare as some journalists want to make it seem, mind. Oscar is perfectly capable of having human emotions—are people that blind to the heart eyes Piastri has for every other driver on the grid?
When the superhero doubles over, a hand over his stomach just like Oscar would do when he can’t hold his laughter in, your body moves on its own. One second you’re stepping off the curb, intent on crossing the street and getting some answers one way or another; the next, you’re distracted by the buzzing of your phone.
A message from Lando, a news article attached about something stupid like “Piastri’s mysterious girlfriend.” As if it’s true… you’d know if he had one.
Worrying your lower lip, you switch to Oscar, typing a few letters—
A blaring horn pierces the air, making your head snap up just in time to see headlights blinding you, a car skidding through a red light, tires screaming. You freeze on the spot, your feet refusing to move—guess the idiom ‘deer in the headlight’ is actually true. But as time stops around you, life flashing before your eyes, pulse roaring in your ears, you’re surprisingly not afraid.
You’re dimly aware of your name splitting the air, terrified and distressed—
But in the next second, you’re saved—just like you knew you’d be. After all, Spider-Man is literally next to you; he won’t let anyone, especially after realizing it’s you, die while he’s there. Right on cue, a streak of red and blue flashes in front of you and, before your brain can catch up, you’re picked up in a rush of air and whoosh of movement. Your body collides with something solid and warm, knocking the air from your lungs for a brief moment. Yet at the same time, you’ve never felt more protected than in the strong, unyielding arms that cage you, holding you like you’re the only thing that matters.
The world comes back into focus sharply: the car screeches to a halt a few meters from where you were a few blinks ago, and you’re on the sidewalk, heart pounding in your ears as you cling to the man who saved you. The driver gets out, apologizes—but you don’t care. Because you press your nose to Spider-Man’s chest, murmuring a soft ‘Thank you’ before inhaling deeply—
Chocolate.
Of course. You lift your head, your eyes locking with Spidey’s, wherever they are under that mask.
Aaaaand press.
Ping.
A soft, familiar chime—your alert, the one Oscar set for you, coming from somewhere in Spider-Man’s suit. The man doesn’t react as your lips part in relief because finally, finally you have an answer. You caught him redhanded. HAH!
Too bad you can’t see his face—
“Are you alright?”
But Oscar pretends he didn’t hear anything, his worry obvious in his words. Oh. No, wait. Forgot Oscar is partially deaf. He might really not have heard the message tone. But it doesn’t matter—now that you’re hearing his voice more clearly than on someone’s distorted video, Oscar’s accent is noticeable. Barely, but it’s there.
It’s him. It’s him. It’s him.
You grin brightly, wrapping your arms around his neck. For a second, you feel him relax in your embrace. But then, you make the mistake of whispering his name. “Oscar!” And you don’t get the reaction you were hoping for. Because instead of finally coming clean with his secret identity, Spider-Man completely freezes.
“You have me confused with someone else, lady.” He still lies, though his voice is gentle. Oscar pries your arms from around him, holding your wrists for a brief second while he gives you a once over. “Seems like you’re okay. Can you go home by yourself?” A bit disappointed by the casualness with which he talked with you, you wonder if you got it wrong. Shoulders slumped, you nod. “Next time, be more careful and look both ways before you cross.”
And then he’s gone: a quick step back, a web to the nearest lamppost, and Spider-Man—your Oscar Piastri—vanishes into the night leaving you to deal with the excited crowd that gathers around you, asking questions about how it felt getting rescued by the superhero.
Welp, that didn’t work. Now what? How can you pretend everything is normal when you have Spider-Man as a roommate? Or maybe you got it wrong—
No. No, you didn’t. And you’re gonna get to the bottom of this.