wisteriagoesvroom · 4 months ago
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you just got me started (i don't think i can stop it)
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🧡 a landoscar ficlet 🟢 rated G/T ✏️ 1.8k words 🎨 inspired by ki's beautiful art that just went up. + silverstone weekend 'cus apparently i'm still in my feelings about it. 🔗 read on ao3
preview:
“You sure you’re okay.” Oscar says.  “If you ask me again, I’m whacking you with the frickin’ console.” “Good to know you’re back to normal, then. Kind of.”  “Ha. It’s just.” Lando wriggles around a bit, but still doesn’t look up at Oscar. “Today was…”  Oscar understands this. How hard it is to put into words. But he kind of secretly likes it, too. When Lando relies on him to fill the blanks, put into words what he wants to say. It’s like they both operate on the same wavelength and Lando puts full trust in Oscar to carry him through when he can’t find the right frequency, when he can’t land the words to express the enormity of feeling he often carries inside himself. Oscar doesn't mind being his codex sometimes, because it is nice to be needed. “Incredible.” Oscar supplies, tangling one hand in Lando’s hair. He rubs his fingers in a slow, easy pattern, the way he knows Lando loves. Lando nods. And it wouldn’t seem possible for Lando to burrow deeper into Oscar’s touch, but he always does. 
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wisteriagoesvroom · 1 month ago
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sunshowers
🧢 🔶 a franco colapinto x lando norris fic 🌆 a sunset, from franco's pov ✏️ 2.1k words, rated g 🔗 read on ao3
preview
Lando, for his part, seems content to study the horizon. He used to talk so much, in every video, haphazard energy to fill the silence. These days, it seems he is happier to play the part of a wizened, if a bit eccentric, sage.  “How are you finding it? Like. Everything,” Lando asks. Franco does not look at him, but they are both looking at the clouds. “It is… a lot. It’s everything I ever wanted. And it’s all happening so fast.” “Completely understandable. It’s like, it’s normal, and you’re nobody, until you’re… not? And everyone wants a piece of you. And it’s nice, people, like, knowing your name and stuff. When it’s new. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it.” “Do you still like it?” Franco glances over at the other driver. Lando doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back on his palms, and tilts his face upwards as if to soak in the surreal, sundrenched sky.
and! thank you @ocontraire for the readthrough !!
taglist for those who wanted to read it... @rigmarole-07 @redbulldotgov @lovelylotusf1 @jusst-you-race @lyslsstuff @daughter-of-aphrodite
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wisteriagoesvroom · 8 months ago
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the sun (in your eyes) ☀️
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🍊 a landoscar fic 🌷🏙️ florist!oscar and ad agency!lando au 🖋️ 11.2k words 🔗 read on ao3
written for @maaxverstappen as part of the @f1playlistficexchange
preview:
The two of them stand: one behind the florist counter, endlessly patient. Lando, feeling vaguely warm in the face and wondering why he hadn’t left yet. “Didn’t get your name?” Lando says, hopefully. “Oh. I’m Oscar. Piastri.” Oscar Piastri runs a hand through his hair. “Ah! That explains the pi symbol?” Oscar grins, then. It’s slightly slanted, and his front teeth are slightly too big. The overall effect is very endearing. “Exactly. Anyway. Not sure why I felt the need to give you a last name. But there you go. If you need to like, contact me for legal reasons or whatever, you have that now.” “Thanks. I’m Lando. Er, Norris. I am not currently wanted or convicted of a crime in any country.” “Good… to know.” “The Australian immigration form did ask.” “Once again. Good to know.” “I’ll keep you informed if I do commit a crime. Don’t get caught at the scene, or anything.” Lando winks. “See you ‘round, maybe?” “Sure. Bye, Lando.” “Bye, Oscuh.” Oscar smiles again, dimples showing at the side of his face. Lando tries not to think too much about why it tickles him inside when that happens. On the way back to the office, Lando frantically googles things like shortest lifespan Australian wildflowers and vintage Ducati motorcycle facts and is love at first sight a real phenomenon like actually whatthehell. Then he almost drops his phone on the curb, and has to settle for shoving his phone in his pocket and trying to dodge the mass of cyclists that have inconveniently spawned on the road right for some reason. Very rude of them to do that at rush hour.
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wisteriagoesvroom · 4 months ago
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alter ego
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🔵🟠 a maxoscar fic 🍾 in which they spin the bottle (right round, right round) 🖋️ 5.5k words 🔗 read on ao3
preview:
“It’s just a kiss, mate. Not a marriage proposal.” Max deadpans. Oscar is the one who steps closer. “Hm.” “It might be good practice for you.” “Oh, so I give off the impression that I need practice, do I?” Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “You ask many questions.” “I like definitive answers.” “But somehow your statements are always a bit of both. You’re still uncertain.” Oscar crosses his arms in defiance, and mirrors Max, then. They’re so close that their shoes practically touch, so close Oscar can make out the off white of the other man’s shoelaces when he glances down and up again into Max’s curious expression. If Max liked flirtation, then two could play this game. Oscar acts like he isn’t interested in the game, but really, he’s just lacked the opportunity to practise.
(i fought tooth and nail with my brain for this one but y'know, here it is.)
thank you @maaxverstappen and @alphatinies for the readthrough <3
tags for ppl who might be interested - @landoom @nyoomfruits @kingkestrel @calebwidgast @scuderiabs
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wisteriagoesvroom · 7 months ago
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blow 🎂
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🟠 a landoscar oneshot 📄 1.9k words rated e or, hey, remember the birthday blow job fic i joked about 🔗read on ao3
preview (nsfw):
The floor is hard against Lando’s shins. But he’s very good at enduring in the name of a great thing. And watching Oscar teeter on the edge of self control, breath growing heavier as the only giveaway of the effect Lando has on him — that definitely falls in the Venn diagram of pleasure and tolerable pain. Oscar shifts his right hand, firmer on the back of Lando’s skull. His nails have gotten on the longer side again, and they scratch Lando’s scalp in a pleasant way. Lando doesn’t need to look up to know that Oscar’s red-faced, hair mussed. He’s always like that when they do this, eyes focused on him like Lando’s a particularly tricky chicane that Oscar’s still trying to figure out. “You had to do that in front of the camera, didn’t you? Oscar says. Lando, mouth full of aforementioned teammate’s dick, shrugs. “Cheek.” Oscar adds. He pushes Lando down harder. Lando doesn’t expect that, so he chokes a little, and makes a gagging noise.
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wisteriagoesvroom · 3 months ago
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at a constant speed (ch.2)
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🔴🟠 a carcar fic ❓in which they keep circling and circling and circling each other 🖋️ 11k words, ch. 2/2 (complete!) 🔗 start here
preview:
What he doesn’t expect is to see Carlos there on a Friday night. With a girl. Oscar shoves his hands in his pockets, and shifts his weight to the balls of his feet. Oscar ignores the niggling memory that appears unbidden from the back of his head, of last week. When they’d been halfway to easy, casual sex because both of them were tired, and Carlos had tried to roll them both over, and they’d bumped their foreheads, and both tried not to laugh. Tried to keep their composure as athletes of their stature were supposed to do, before collapsing in a sweaty, shockingly comfortable heap. And afterwards, they’d ordered pizza, and Carlos had told Oscar to shut up as he picked all the spicy pepperoni off his slice because, contrary to popular beliefs, Piastri, I don’t actually like chilli, and Oscar told him I didn’t even say anything.
& thank you again @alphatinies for the beta reading, and her thoughts on the ending, which helped a great deal !
+ quick taglist for those who might care: @supercollide @scuderiabs @redbull-dot-co-dot-uk-dot-gov @antimonyandthyme @jusst-you-race <3
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wisteriagoesvroom · 3 months ago
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at a constant speed
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🔴🟠 a carcar fic ❓in which the situationship is situating 🖋️ 5.1k words, ch. 1/2 🔗 read on ao3
preview:
“You want to get out of here?” Carlos asks. “And go… where?” Carlos fixes him with a look. It’s like staring back at a searchlight. “You are many things, Piastri. But you are not stupid. No?” Oscar swipes the back of his hand on his mouth. He watches the way Carlos’s eyes track the movement, the entire time. The way Carlos’s mouth parts when his eyes catch on Oscar’s lower lip. And he gets a growing feeling of excitement, the same way they would on the track. The exact same feeling he gets from chasing Carlos down an S-Curve. Except there isn’t any filter of race pressure, or someone talking right in his ear, or him trying to keep his hands on the wheel and maybe not die. They aren’t going 300 kilometres an hour here. It’s just Oscar’s hunched shoulders, Carlos’s rumpled linen shirt. The thumping bass in the background, and this unspooling thing between them that Oscar doesn’t know what to do with, yet. Even if his instincts tell him differently. Even if his instincts are always right.
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wisteriagoesvroom · 3 months ago
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gonna go far
🍊 an oscarmark fic ❗so, the mentor/mentee dynamic... in this essay i will– 🖋️ 1.7k words, rated T/M 🔗 read on ao3
preview
Mark pulls the door shut. The light is always bright in here, harsher. Oscar’s teammate seems to like the dimmer, but Oscar barely adjusts anything. The driver in question sits on the floor, with his back against the rectangular sofa. Elbows on his knees, hands wrapped around his third place trophy, copper against the orange of the race suit still tied at his waist. Oscar’s face is downturned, obscured by a team cap. Mark cannot see his eyes.
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wisteriagoesvroom · 6 months ago
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all of us, merely players
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🟠 a carcar oneshot (with background implied landoscarcar, if you squint) ✏️ 2.2k words 🎭 theatre au 🍳rated T for the inherenT homoeroTicism of a workplace Throuple that oscar is trying to deny 🔗 read on ao3
snippet:
Oscar only remembers where Carlos’s hands go, the way they trail on Lando’s waist, for the purposes of stage blocking. Out of pure professional obligation. He is not starstruck by either actor or the way they recite their lines. He does not care that Lando sometimes makes calf eyes at Carlos out of sheer exhilaration from being around the Spanish nepo son. He is not jealous of the strange costar bond that they share. Or the communication they seem to exchange in silence, the rapport they’ve built where there was subtext in a single look. An unsaid cigarette break? in a single gesture, and the two of them would wander off to talk about god knows what gossip and vape flavour of the month. Oscar doesn’t need that distraction. Besides, there wasn’t production budget to hire a cast therapist for Oscar’s particular affliction anyway.
thank you @maaxverstappen for prompting this literally weeks ago, and @jusst-you-race for the once-over!
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wisteriagoesvroom · 6 months ago
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pardon my emotions
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🍊 a landoscar fic 🏙️ girl!lando and boy!oscar racing au (rule 63) 🖋️ 15.8k words 🔗 read on ao3
preview:
The first thing he notices about Lando in person is she’s actually just… more than he thought. Onscreen, her presence that fizzles between sprightly and serious, depending on the outcome of a race. But in person, she just seems to be thinking all the time. The way she can’t seem to sit properly. Pulling a leg under her, always in a stance that makes Oscar wonder if she’s going to hurt her back. Teeth gnawing the straw of her water bottle, contemplative as the team runs through data and engineering reports and design upgrades for 2023’s car. Lando doesn’t miss a beat, asking questions that make eyebrows go up, making inquiries about feasibility and feedback on the car from last year that make several pairs of hands go flying across keyboards, pens scribbling across notepads. She’s a formidable leader. And she’s barely two years older than him, which shows how much he has to learn.
tags: @scuderiabs, @lescarbille, @momimf1ne, @alwayssortbykudos
thank you to @monacotrophywife, and YL (not on f1blr) for the beta reading 🧡 and @alphatinies for the bonus cheerleading!!
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wisteriagoesvroom · 4 months ago
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HI LOVE!!!💖💖💖
pathetic + carcar <3
Oscar sits. The bed is firm beneath his palms. Carlos is on his knees.
The other man’s mouth is parted, gently pliant in a way he never is anywhere else. He's usually this way, crawling to Oscar in his need. Demanding with his touch, on edge after a race, after one of their racing incidents.
If Oscar were unkind, he might think Carlos, still bereft of a seat for '25, was starting to cause on track run-ins with him deliberately. For what reason, Oscar doesn't know, and Oscar doesn't wish to entertain that train of thought because it was a nonstop bullet to nowhere good.
Unfortunately though, he has always enjoyed driving on the limit.
"Is this how you like it? How you need me?” Carlos says, acrid with disgust. With Oscar, with this, with himself — who’s to say.
“I don’t need anything from you.” Oscar replies.
Carlos’s laugh is hollow. “That is a lie. I think you find a strange happiness in leaving me unsatisfied."
Oscar doesn't respond. Just peers at Carlos with his most neutral expression, mind turning. Piecing together the puppet that is Carlos. Heart too big. Talent overshadowed by others. The obvious and barely concealed inferiority issues that might as well leave the man bleeding openly on the side of the track.
Alpine 2022 means Oscar has had too close a brush to irrelevance, and he knows a little something about being unwanted. He has broken his ribs. Understands plenty about silent injury. How to push through pain. It's just the way it is, kid. Mark had said once. Luck of the draw. The words ring in his ears, in the silence.
Perhaps they have more in common than he wants to believe. Perhaps this is why he and Carlos compel each other.
"You are so quiet. I don't know who are you are fooling with your act." Carlos says, under his breath, perhaps more to himself than to anyone else. Trying to bait Oscar, twisting the nail with hope that it hurts.
Carlos clambers up from the floor, bringing himself eye to eye with oscar. "If they only knew what you are like in here, the way you beg me to let you come, the way you look when I–"
Oscar finds himself bored of this. The excessive verbiage, the posturing, when they could just call this what it is. A bad habit. A need.
Besides, Carlos’s arousal is evident the strain of his boxers, the deep maw of his eyes.
So Oscar peers steadily up at Carlos, and spits into his open mouth.
Carlos looks as if he's been slapped. There's a flash of danger in his expression.
Oscar counts upwards. The room is so silent that Oscar thinks there’s an element of truth to that saying about a pin being dropped. Oppenheimer could rise from the dead and remake his bomb, and neither man would probably move.
Then Carlos lunges at Oscar. Kisses him, shoves Oscar so hard back onto the bed that Oscar can barely breathe.
If it's destruction that Carlos wants, then Oscar can be charitable, just this once. He lets Carlos take what he needs, lets Carlos push and push with his tongue and his hands and his body. Lets Carlos take from him until Oscar's own mouth swells with the ache of it. And still, Oscar does not cede, and never does.
Carlos gasps when he breaks the kiss. It’s the surprising noise of concession, of defeat. But Oscar lets Carlos cage him in, hands at the side of his head, and he lies perfectly still. He doesn’t feel the need to posture all the time, to prove his power.
"Are you done?" Oscar says.
Carlos hovers, muscles tensed with anticipation, waiting for the gunshot. The next move from Oscar to push them over the edge, or end it all.
You're pathetic, Oscar thinks.
But watching Carlos spiral, watching him fall apart in the face of Oscar's glacial indifference - Oscar wonders if he is the pathetic one too.
As the person who keeps the door open for a kicked dog.
Who unfolds his hand, and lets him stay.
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wisteriagoesvroom · 8 months ago
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gax + corporate/law vibes + ‘The powerpoint was steadily taking over their relationship, something that Max was not willing to stand for.’
gax?? gax!!
power (you make some points): a gax ficlet
rated m, ~1.2k words now also readable on ao3
author babble:
bear in mind i wrote this before i knew more about the Gax Lore i.e. karting together, actually being nice to each other blablabla. you could also just retrofit the vibes and hopefully they still work. anyways!
will throw this up on ao3 when i’m not sitting bleary eyed in an airport
————
If there was one thing that Max Verstappen wouldn’t tolerate, it was George Russell having the monopoly on good PowerPoint presentations. Max had won all four years of debate in College, as well as the dubious title of “most radical deployment of Google Slides templates” at his MBA, and he was not about to be usurped by the other guy in his department who actually knew how to use an animate transition.
“You missed an indent there.” Max says, pointing at the monitor. Yellow and red lights wink at them from the outside, as if to say: you’re both in your mid-twenties, quit wasting it on a computer screen at 11pm on a Wednesday, maybe?
Max is not staring, very determined not to look at his teammate’s facial expression. But George is almost certainly rolling his eyes right now.
“Was coming back to that, alright?” George huffs back. Max is very professional most of the time. But something about how wound up George is, how insanely pedantic he is about everything from semicolons to coffee cup placement for the Directors to taking insanely detailed minutes that nobody except Max reads after the meetings – well. What is it that Nietschze once said? We hate in others what we most identify with about ourselves. Or was that from Twitter? Max does not really use Twitter except to look at Bloomberg News updates and cat videos, so he does not know. And anyway Nietzsche never made a six figure salary.
“It would just be easier if you would let me do it.” Max says.
“Fuck right off, mate.”
“Oh, wouldn’t you like me to.”
“Not now.”
“Just share the link to this. I’ll do it.”
“We agreed to take turns on this.”
“Yes, Russell. But sometimes, the rules are meant to be bent.”
George swivels his chair to Max, then. Fully attempts to pin him with his gaze, commencing an awkward stare-off that lasts way too many seconds and makes Max once again realise that George’s eyes remind him of the expensive fish tank he saw at the Partners’ sushi dinner once. Max doesn’t think those same fish were the ones they ended up eating. But he does remember that dinner because it was the one where the Partners had dangled the promise of a huge promotion if they could help carry the company merger across the line successfully. The problem is, there was only one spot.
George’s distracting aquatic orbitals aside, fortunately, Max (i) never backs down, and (ii) has been told that he has the dead-eyed emotional stare of a robot missing an empathy software upgrade sometimes.
And clearly, the powerpoint was steadily taking over their relationship, something that Max was not willing to stand for.
Max leans back in his chair, stance all mock-relaxed. “Do you want to be out of here before midnight, or not?”
“We’re expensing the Ubers either way, so it doesn’t make a difference to me, mate.”
Fine. If George is so hyperfocused on The Tasks that he’s forgotten the fun part of being Questionably Close Coworkers, so be it.
Max deploys the nuclear option.
He sticks his leg out, nudging the toe of his Pradas onto George’s slacks. And strokes his foot halfway up to a sensitive point on George’s thigh. Max may even flutter his lashes a little.
To his credit, George does not react. Merely swings his eyes like a lamp to Max’s face again. His hand does, however, goes still on the mouse.
“What exactly are you doing?”
“I don’t know.” Max feigns. He knows that George hates, more than anything, anyone getting dirt on his precious Ralph Laurens. But at least he has his attention now. “Was hoping we could move onto the more fun part of the typical evening activities. Maybe.”
“We shouldn’t be doing that again anyway.”
“George.”
“What?”
“That is not what you said the last, hm, fourteen times that we have done this, eh?”
“Who’s counting?”
“I thought you were the most careful of rule followers and data analysis, knapperd.”
George is a human being, but Max is almost certain the other man shakes himself like he’s preening right now.
“Well. It’s what the team likes me for, and it’s what I’ll keep doing.”
“Oh yes. Surely we must keep in mind the team. And the shareholders. They are very important.”
“Quite.”
“But should we tell them that you like it so much, George. When I do this.” Max says. Rising up, fully crowding George in, hands gripping the cool handles of the computer chair. Leaning in to nibble the side of George’s neck.
George swallows. Max watches his throat move.
Next, Max mouths the words onto the side of George’s jaw, stubble prickling his mouth. “And this.”
The click of the mouse continues steadily as Max moves his mouth to the shell of George’s ear. “And let’s not forget. This.”
Max tilts George’s face up fully, then. George’s face is flushed, eyes sparkling, all surprise at the sudden change of pace, but eager, too.
When Max seals his lips over George’s, George groans, and his hands shoot up to Max’s waist immediately. It doesn’t feel quite like winning a deal or a pitch does for Max, but the completion comes pretty damn close.
Max sweeps his tongue into George’s mouth. George opens willingly, like he always does. In the back of Max’s logical brain, a warning sign blares that the computer chair may not be able to support the weight of them both – because they spend a lot of time pretending they don’t work out together at the gym but Max knows exactly what George’s deadlift PB is and it’s pretty damn high for a scrawny looking dude.
And despite the keening protest of said chair, the two of them are both lost to it now. Max jams one knee between George’s legs, George nibbles hungrily at Max’s lower lip, Max thrusts his hips all needy, and maybe if Max is nice about it George might suck him off under the table, and–
Outlook chimes again.
“Blasted piece of shit.” George says, breaking away. His hands go still at Max’s waist. “Why we’re using G-Suite and Microsoft Office at the same time I will never know.”
George squeezes his eyes shut, as if making himself stop this is causing him physical pain. Maybe it’s that or the workflow incompatibility when George tries to move his custom Excel-Trello gantts into a third party API.
And Max won’t lie. He kind of likes it when George gets so irritated about these things. When he cares a bit too much. Because what is Max but exactly like that, too.
“Hazards of a merger, I guess. But without that, I would never have met you, no?”
George makes a noise like he knows what Max means. The other man straightens his shirt collar, and Max runs a hand through his hair. He’s been growing it out lately, because George had made a passing comment at the bathroom sink once about it looking good.
Sleeping with the person competing for the same Chief of Staff position is possibly the worst decision he could’ve made, and Max once dyed his hair platinum blonde. But, they’re stuck here together. Hell is a slightly more tolerable place when Satan’s right hand man looks this good. And knows his coffee order without asking.
Besides. Max is not bothered. He knows that the promotion is his. This is just a minor plot inconvenience.
Later, they will expense the uber back to George’s place, where Max will put his mouth on George’s arse, and give him a practical demonstration of the three different ways he’s learned to elicit pleasure from the male prostate.
George will whimper and whine the whole way through it, and after they’re both sated, they’ll both roll over to check their emails, barely concealing their smiles. They will pretend that what’s happening between them could be as clean as their zero-email inboxes. As if their connection is not violently seeping through containment.
All in the name of team bonding. For the firm. Yes.
(Or this is what they tell themselves, to maintain the illusion, anyway.)
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wisteriagoesvroom · 9 months ago
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two left socks
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a landoscar fic rated g/t 6.2k words read on ao3
preview:
Without ceremony, Oscar yanks his beanie off, and shoves it on Lando’s head. “What?” Lando says. “You wouldn’t shut up about your hair.” “But yours is messy, now.” “Doesn’t matter. We’re staying focused on the task at hand.” “I’ve been plenty focused on the task at hand!” Oscar arches one eyebrow. He has been told he has sharp eyebrows, and that they are the most telling part of his face, which otherwise carries minimal expression. (He tries not to think too much about how Lando may perceive his eyebrows.) “Besides, you have more of a hat head.” Oscar adds. “What do you know about my head?” Lando says. Oscar doesn’t know how to answer that in a socially acceptable way, so he just shoves his gloved hands in his coat pockets, and waits.
Or, what happens when i smash together clothes swapping, fluff, banter, and lots of pining?? this. a 6k fic from a tumblr prompt that took me too long to write.
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wisteriagoesvroom · 7 months ago
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WIZ ITS ELLIE. soft + landoscar please?
Oscar doesn’t know why they’ve found time to sneak down to Oakleigh. Or how, exactly. Just that he had a contact of a contact, and they were always going to welcome him back here. And they’ve given the both of them some race suits, free run of the track, and a “go have fun”.
They’d found this place, like a shared secret. Clattering through the gates and sneaking away from their handlers. Each making an excuse about quiet time. Nobody questioned either of them about it, chalking it up to the general air of celebration after Albert Park. That’s the beauty of being golden children, you see. When you win. Standing in the sun, silverware in your hands, in front of a camera. Oscar hadn’t even needed to pretend at all - he beamed at Lando because he really meant it. P3, P4. For the team. Nothing to do with the way Lando’s smile creeps into him like sunlight. Nothing like Oscar’s own reflection staring back at him from the dish, gently held in Lando’s hands.
Besides, Oscar knows he’s hungry. He wants more. But it’ll be his time.
And right now, he gets to relive his memory of karting, on the track where he started. Growing awkward into his limbs that didn’t work how he wanted to yet, a fierceness that he hadn’t tamed, conscious of the knowledge that there were boys always faster, faster, faster than him. And chasing people like them, chasing Lando, was like driving towards an apex and knowing you would hit it — it was just a matter of time. How fast you could launch yourself at it, come close to bending time. Oscar has tried, and he will try still. There is something in him that will not be sated, and it is in Lando, too.
But for tonight: they rest. Just him, and his teammate. The floodlights. Boisterously loud crickets. Their own helmets, in their own hands. Two karts. Back to the beginning. Except the beginning is here, it’s when he was seven years old and dad helped him climb into the kart. It’s him in an airplane with one stop going to a cold and wet country where vegemite has the wrong name. It’s Rokit and Prema and Alpine and lawsuits and loud chatter and media distractions.
It’s a sea of eyes assessing him, but only one person’s that he cares to remember. Blue-green eyes, daring to ask the question without words: who are you? what will you become?
Oscar knows, because he has looked into the mirror and asked himself the same, too.
Those blue-green eyes search his own now. Then they steady.
The two of them. Same height, barely two years between them. Same dreams.
Then Lando smiles. Eyes the colour of soft streaking sky, the way it is when Oscar’s in the car and has a chance to look up.
“Ready for me to kick your arse?”
“You won’t.” Oscar says, easily back.
It’s taken them a year, but Oscar thinks he gets it. Talking to Lando is like holding a bird in the palm of your hand. A fluttering thing, fast.
And he thinks of the journeys birds take. Of comings and goings, of the silent effort of flight. He thinks of being two years behind and too small, and looking at the boy in the go kart, on the screen of his phone, who believed in himself enough to do it too.
Oscar zips up his race suit. And he grins. Lando’s eyes glitter with promise.
“But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
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wisteriagoesvroom · 8 months ago
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drabble request! feel free to tweak/change especially if the pairing isn't your cup of tea: logan/oscar and morning coffee?
thank you and have a great day today!
okay!! i didn't think i'd have much to say about this pairing but. it turns out i'm a liar.
(ignore the fact that oscar won f2 in covid...in bahrain... and i don't think logan was in the same championship that year. something something artistic liberties)
-------------------
The carpet tickles Oscar's neck. He blinks his eyes open.
F2 celebrations were a blur. Logan dragged Oscar to some godawful nightclub, all bright lights and sweaty bodies and people pressing on him. Last night comes back in sparks. Jagerbombs, shoulder bumps, arms in the air like they just don’t care. Electro beat so loud it rattled his brain. 
They both ended up on the floor of Oscar’s hotel suite. Oscar’s not sure why that was, or what logic there was in that decision when they fumbled with the room key and tumbled in at the wee hours of the morning. 
Logan tosses a red team polo at Oscar’s face.
“Get up, dude.” 
Oscar makes a noise that sounds lot like ngggh.
“That was a total shitshow.” Logan says.
“Yeah. I know. Told you not to go, didn’t I?”
“C’mon man. Last day of F2 and you weren’t gonna celebrate?”
“I feel awful. This feels awful.” 
“But winning F2. Bet that doesn’t feel so bad.”
They both stare at the trophy, sitting sideways on a nearby sofa. Thankfully Oscar had the wits to deposit the silverware in his room before he went out to the party last night.
Oscar also thinks at some point that Logan’s arm ended up around his waist last night. Like really tight for some reason, but he can’t really remember. 
The trophy winks at them in the morning sunlight, as if in on a joke. 
Logan points at the trophy. “You should totally name it.”
“No.”
“Yeah you should.”
“My head hurts. What will it take to shut you up right now?”
Logan’s chest rumbles as he laughs. He’s spry, still, but Oscar knows from their training together that he’s getting stronger every month. There might be a day soon where Logan’s going to stand taller than him. 
He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that. 
“McBreakfast, maybe.” Logan nods to himself as if he's just invented a great new concept. “A McMuffin with double hash browns. Yeah.”
“You’re so predictable.”
“I feel like you like that about me.”
“Humility is a good look, Sargeant. You should try it sometime.”
Logan barks a laugh, and stands up. He reaches an arm out to help Oscar up. Oscar still feels like someone’s dropped a ton of bricks on his head, but at least there’s someone here to help. Or commiserate. Whatever. Maybe they’re the same thing, sometimes.
“What is it that adults are supposed to do?” Logan says, adjusting his shirt. 
“Get a coffee,” he adds, in a deeper baritone.
“Disgusting stuff. Don't get why people like drinking it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You drink stuff like my kid cousin.”
“Don’t chocolate-shame me.”
“I would never. You loser.”
“Who’re you calling loser?!” Oscar exclaims. He darts at Logan, and ends up pulling the other driver in a headlock. Logan’s hair is warm and a bit sweaty under Oscar’s hands. Also Logan screeches like an eagle the whole time. They’re probably going to get a noise complaint, but whatever. Oscar will take his F2 Championship privileges, if only to bully his friend. 
"Take that back!" Oscar says.
“Nah!”
“Right now!”
"Fuck's sake, man! Okay, okay."
Oscar releases the other guy, and Logan stands up again. His cheeks are very red. 
"Like I said. Feral. And I'm from Florida."
Oscar rolls his eyes as they both go get ready. He has to suppress a grin as they brush their teeth side by side.
Later, he and Logan end up going to a nearby McDonalds. Logan ends up getting his shitty coffee. They order McMuffins and three hash browns to share, and Oscar spends a full minute lecturing Logan about the health benefits of Milo. 
Logan doesn’t look like he believes a word of what Oscar's saying. Yet he listens the whole time, and laughs in all the right places anyway. 
And tomorrow, Oscar has meetings with F1 teams. Proper ones, to talk about his future, where he might actually have a chance to race. Mark's the one arranging them, and Oscar's supposed to be the star player now.
It's your time, Mark had told him, eyes sharp but patient. 
But today: Oscar still has a day left in F2. And he’s going to spend it, cosy in a booth at an unremarkable McDonalds, getting brain freeze from a milkshake, shooting the shit. Laughing until he snorts.
With one of the few people in his small circle who knows what it's like to be young, hungry, and maybe a little bit stupid.
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wisteriagoesvroom · 10 months ago
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hello hello! Are you still doing fluffy prompts? If so may I please ask for cuddling in a bathtub or something?
I'm not annoning I have no shame or dignity left
so your idea spurred another idea. it is tangential, but i hope it still delivers on the Soft Vibes. thank u for prompting 🫂
don't take too much (off of me)
📝 1.3k words 💟 lestappen 🟢 rated G 🔗 also on ao3
“Stop moving.”
“I’m not.”
Charles twirls the scissors between two fingers, hoping that his posture is authoritative enough that Max will quit squirming in his chair. They are in the middle of lockdown and neither is sure when their tentative friendship turned into this – at first it was innocuous knocks on the door to play FIFA, then it was to borrow a jar of pesto here and there. Then, trampling into each other’s apartments. Max knowing to wipe his shoes on the carpet, Charles helping pick up cat food on his regular run to the grocery store (in line with lockdown mandates, they’re only allowed to go to the store twice a week.)
And now they are here. Max sitting on a dining room chair, leaning back, a makeshift cowl around his shoulders that Charles had stolen from his maman’s salon. Max tries not to twitch or move, knowing that the process of hair cutting is a delicate process. Sure, he has sat for a haircut many times before, but never under the hands of this erratic ball of energy that is Charles Leclerc, who is currently brandishing a blade like a child would a spork.
“Do you trust me, or not?” Charles says. Indignant.
“I’m here, am I not?”
“Unhappily, it seems.”
“Kerel. You have wavy hair. You look like a Disney prince. Me? One wrong move of the scissors and there will be memes in my name.”
“But it’s kind of fun when they are making the memes about you. No?”
Max glowers. “It is when they’re nice ones.”
Charles makes a noise between a snort and a guffaw. Charles perched on a stool behind him, so he can’t see the other man’s expression. But when Max looks to the corner of his living room, Max can see Charles’s face in the reflection there. Just a sliver of his face, in profile. Max expects to find Charles’s eyes crinkled, maybe teasing. Max is used to it, after all. Being the an easy target, a convenient villain. Because a lion never roars back. Not outside of the track, anyway. Even if he sometimes hides in his apartment with his cats and licks his wounds instead.
Max’s shoulders tense, hackles up. But Charles’s eyes are very soft. The punchline never comes.
“Well. I think you very handsome, Maximilian.” Charles says.
Oh. Max’s throat bobs. He doesn’t really know what to say. He’s been called many things in the past. Handsome isn’t necessarily one of them. And somehow it has a greater weight, a different bearing, when it comes from Charles. Because Charles is someone he’s begun to acknowledge that he cares about, perhaps a great deal.
“And now! We are doing the short at the sides and long at the top, oui?” Charles says. Snapping straighter in his makeshift hairdresser’s stool, energy whipping through him like lightning. Changing the topic as if he hadn’t just confessed to Max the very same thing that Max has been thinking about Charles for weeks – or if he’s honest – years, now.
“Whatever you do, make sure it’s tidy, yeah?”
“Come on mate. I am always careful.”
“Like you were when you drove into the Copse wall.”
“That was an isolated incident. Due to a combination of unexpected mechanical factors.”
“Pfft. Okay. Save that response for Sky.”
“You’re nearly as annoying as them, sometimes.” Charles says, frown gentle before he lifts the scissors again. 
Comfortably back in their banter-y element, the chatter continues. Charles is careful about his work, the blades moving slowly and carefully. And what Charles lacks in finesse he makes up for in social skills, clearly inheriting this from his parents. Talking and filling the silence comfortably, wandering from topics as diverse as sailing on the Monaco coastline, to David Guetta’s recent bizarre fundraiser video, to the latest model of automatic cat feeder that has become available on the market. Charles’s fingers brush his jaw occasionally to adjust the angle, scissors glinting in the afternoon sun. Max deliberately avoids eye contact, only glimpsing at him occasionally to share a laugh. 
At the end, Charles uses a towel to brush the loose hair off Max’s neck. They both get up to stand at Max’s living room mirror, surveying Charles’s handiwork. Their reflections loom large, shoulder to shoulder at the same height. Besides, Max isn’t really looking at himself, and neither is Charles, either.
“It’s good, yes?” Charles says. Low, conspiratorial.
Max’s grip tightens on the towel that he’s holding. His pulse etches up. The whole afternoon has been gentle touch, contact that aches because the pandemic has made him even more pathetically wanting than usual. Contact that he’s been trying very hard not to think about or keep for more nefarious purposes later. 
The other man's gaze is warm in the mirror. Max thinks of fresh cut grass at Imola, his favourite corner in Silverstone.
“Yes.” Max says. It’s good. The haircut, him, them. This strange rhythm they’ve found together. The quiet space of each other’s apartment, each other’s company, temporarily safe from the world. The trust offered to one another: enough to let them run you into gravel and trust that it was worth the fight. Enough to hold a blade in your hand and only let one other person in the world come near you with it. Risk, and promise.
Then he’s turning towards Charles. Charles mirroring him. The light is bright and the sky blue in the window, but all Max can see for a moment is Charles’s face, his half open mouth ripe like a plum. The scent, this close, of Charles’s carrefour laundry softener and woody aftershave.
And they’re leaning towards each other, a boundary they might finally cross, let the cards fall where they fucking may, when—
A yowl. A screech. A mighty crash. 
“Sassy!” Max says, practically jumping out of his skin.
Both men whip around at the source of the noise. Sassy’s frozen on a shelf, a beige mass with yellow eyes. Paw half up, looking guilty – if a cat could look guilty– at a trophy that he has just knocked off a counter. Jimmy, on the other hand, is absolutely nowhere to be seen, already having escaped the scene of the crime.
Max groans into his hands. But then Charles is laughing, an asthmatic penguin noise that Max has really come to like. It melts the fire in Max a little, amusement tempering his frustration. (The trophy is not the source of Max’s current frustration, but Charles does not need to know that.) 
“I shall get the broom.” Charles says.
“Thanks.”
So the moment passes. They clean up. On their hands and knees, near, but not touching. The broken trophy is the one he got for his overtake on Nasr in his first year in F1, and offers a chance for them to reminisce about their races. For Max to joke a little about whether Charles will get his first WDC when the pandemic is over, both of them excited about the future, a future with both of them in it, still trying, still racing each other to the brink. It’s much easier to do this, than to talk about the almost-kiss, or break the seal on this moment that they know won’t last forever.
Debris cleared, and the cats shooed into the study, Charles mentions that he should go return his equipment to his mother. They stand at the doorway for a moment that stretches too long.
Max doesn’t know how long they have. Of this, of each other. Of being left alone, of the world not encroaching with cameras or demands for explanations or labels for what they are. Of getting to know each other not as competitors, but on their own terms, in their own time.
But for a long time, Max will always remember this moment. The two of them, a dining chair. His crazy cats, Charles’s toothy smile. Their partial reflections in the mirror, an afternoon unfolding with potential.
A warm hand on his back to let him know he’s cared for, and looked after.
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