#wiz.writing

[wisteriagoesvroom]

blow 🎂

🟠 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.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

the sun (in your eyes) ☀️

🍊 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.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

all of us, merely players

🟠 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!

[wisteriagoesvroom]

pardon my emotions

🍊 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!!

[wisteriagoesvroom]

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.)

[wisteriagoesvroom]

two left socks

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.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

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.”

[wisteriagoesvroom]

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.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

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.

[wisteriagoesvroom]

promptfill for @clearlyclairesblog!

P.s. I don’t know if this is the direction you wanted, but here is what I ran with…

++

Mercado lestappen Rated G for general audience vibes (and a bit of angst) Minor mentions of drinking 1.2k words (Also readable on ao3)

The supermarket is playing a mariachi cover of a radio song that Charles doesn’t know the name of, nor does he particularly care to. In the last year since he’s been to Central America he’s been racing in what the newspapers would call “beautifully”, “at a level that hasn’t been seen in over seven years” — and if the Twittersphere is also to be believed, “b for big slay”. But apparently it still, still! isn’t enough to beat the number one two nights ago at the Autódromo.

Charles swats away the thoughts. This is not time to dwell on the bad race. He is here to try and forget the bad race. He rubs his eyes and holds a bottle of what he thinks is tequila, the words abstract on the amber bottle. The lights are too bright in here, and the aisles too colourful. Driving on the track suits Charles because he can expend his energy hyper focused on what he needs to do, where he needs to go. It gives his anxiety a channel of relief, where high octane and being rabbit-quick serves a glorious purpose.

Here, in the real world, sometimes he is not so sure.

There are too many soda options that could go with the bottle that he's holding. (It behooves him, a son of Monaco, to at least have some kind of chaser. To keep this nominally classy, to make this self-pity show not entirely pathetic. Even Charles when sad has standards. Maybe grapefruit jarritos would make a good accompaniment for tequila and depression?)

Andrea would probably kill him, but whatever. There’s a reason Charles left the whole team at the hotel, wandered off with a cap and big hoodie in search of quiet time. Besides, abstinence from indulgence, in all its forms still hasn’t gotten Charles any further in the standings compared to last year. So he deserves a little boozy soda, non?

Of course, to add insult to injury, Max Verstappen’s face stares at him from a can of Red Bull. And of course Charles can’t help but laugh. Of all the endorsements in the world, of all the people to see now, it is the cause of his despair, Satan on hot wheels himself who deigns to make an appearance to haunt him in the Fresko.

That is what breaks him. It starts as a giggle, ends with his face buried in his hands, and Charles wonders what the world would make of him having un petit meltdown in the middle of a suburban supermarket.

“What the hell?”

The voice knocks him right off kilter. He would know that voice anywhere. No, it could not be.

But when Charles looks up, there he is. His rival, in the flesh. Equally in a cap and dark hoodie, holding a loaf of bread and a six-pack of Corona under one arm.

“Is that bread?” Charles says. He doesn’t know what to say, really. They do not share much off the track, him and Max. They live in the same city, but don’t cross paths. They are born sixteen days apart, but besides racing have almost nothing in common. They carted together for over a decade, fought in F1 together for almost another more and somehow Max has over quadruple the WCs and Charles has nothing to show for it except a couple of podiums, and maybe a lot of shame. (He tries not to think too much about the shame.)

Max, to his credit, doesn’t seem particularly ruffled about any of this. These days, Max has mellowed out, grown from defensive boy to assertive man, relaxed in his shoulders, laughs a little more easily. In contrast Charles finds himself trying not to sink into his car, to tell himself to smile more genuinely for the cameras that are now starting to feel more and more like a burden rather than anything fun, because years of expectation and being told you’re a winner, and for it to never be true, can gnaw at your self-esteem like that.

Slightly further down the aisle from him, Max tilts his head. “I was hungry.”

“That’s fair.”

“And thirsty.”

“Me too.”

Charles doesn’t miss the way Max’s eyes flick down to the shopping basket and back up.

“That bad, huh?”

That bad? Charles fumes to himself. Max doesn’t know what it’s like, he couldn’t possibly imagine what it’s like, to always be second, to aim for something and fight for it so hard, only for it to still fall out of reach—

“You raced really well.” Max says, factually. As if the sky were blue, as if the supermarket did not at all intellectually or spiritually affect his cognitive functions like it already has thrown Charles for a loop. Max pronounces his assessment as if it were an absolute, which is Max’s power, you see. To take destiny by it’s teeth and force it to heel.

“Evidently, what I did was not enough.” Charles says.

“You took every line that was needed.”

“I did.”

“Your tyre management has been the best I’ve ever seen it.”

“Thanks. But you were better.”

“Yes. I’m not going to apologise for that. You know well, how it is.”

Charles laughs, low, a little bitter. Yes, he does know well, how it is. “The rest of us are mice. Scrambling around the ankles of an elephant.”

Max, for his part, seems to chew on this. Shifting the bread a little higher in the crook of his elbow, eyes glancing but not really looking at the cans in the aisle. The music plays on for a few moments in the background, a cheery tune with lots of fast strumming. It’s a minor miracle that they’ve not been spotted, but this late at night, it seems the only person around is the disinterested cashier who is filing her nails at the checkout.

Somewhere in the distance the cashier coughs. Max taps the side of his thigh with his index finger, once, twice. Neither of them seems to know what to say.

Finally, Max yanks a Red Bull can off the shelf, closes the distance, and drops it right into Charles’s basket. This close, Charles can see the proud tilt of Max’s chin, the brown flecks in the other man’s eyes.

“A chaser.” Max says. Both of them aware of the double meaning. The drinks, their history.

Charles swallows. So fine, maybe it because it’s 2am, or maybe it’s the desperation. Here, face to face with Max, away from the cameras and the rest of the world, they can slow their strange dance, and Charles is able to say what he has really wanted to say. He wills it into his mind with more iron and fury than he truly feels.

“I will beat you one day, you know.”

His blood swims with it. He wills it to settle, to become familiar with the feeling, asserting himself in this way, speaking what he really means.

In turn, Max smiles. Genuine, this time, crinkling to the corner of his eyes. The rare ones he grants to the rest of the competitors on the couch after a good race, when he’s come off the track with fantastic pace. The one he has when he waves to his nephews.

Max doesn’t back off at all. He leans even closer. (Charles could count every lash. Tucks it away somewhere secret, somewhere with sharp edges that he can’t look too closely at, yet.)

“Absolutely, Charles.” Max says, all conspiratorial. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

[wisteriagoesvroom]

last line challenge as tagged by @monacotrophywife !

behold. some landoscar smut from a wip 🫡

————

“Whatever.” Lando says. “Are you letting me jack you off, or not?”

Oscar shrugs. Well, he shrugs as much as possible to shrug when he’s clambered on top of Lando and Lando is literally sticking a hand down the fireproofs that are pooled around Oscar’s waist.

Lando’s eyes glint. “You’re so hot when you’re trying not to be into me.”

“Alright, ego.”

“Mm.”

Whatever further protest Oscar was about to make gets swallowed, because Lando’s hand is rough and so right on his dick, and then his teammate is pitching upwards to grab Oscar’s neck with his other hand, pressing them together, friction sending sparks flying in Oscar’s brain.

They really shouldn’t be doing this. But in a way, that makes the whole thing even better.

————

lol @ me trying to write this one shot during bahrain fp1 and still not being done. but anyway. tagging whoever wants to play… + @souvenir116 @lovelylotusf1 @maaxverstappen @landoom @ocontraire maybe?

[wisteriagoesvroom]

For your drabble writing thingy🫶

Pairing: Carloscar

Word: satisfaction

Let the rarepair enthusiasts froth at the mouth (me included)! -lo

how satisfying (human behaviour)

a carloscar flash fic rated m 1.3k words read on ao3

dedicated to @lovelylotusf1 for the prompt, and @carlosheinz who is the resident carloscar preacher of the parish.

preview:

Today: Oscar’s hotel room. Too-big bed. Oscar catalogues sensations. A part of his mind, cold and detached. His life on exhibition, behind safety glass. A sign: not too close, please.  Mattress, softer than he’d like. Linen, scented in a forgettable hotel way. Minty mouthwash fighting the horrid cinnamon gum, an overwarm taste he has come to know as Carlos. Oscar spent time earlier, pulling different sounds from Carlos. Biting a point on Carlos’s neck, to feel the engine of him growling under Oscar’s own jaw. Minutes slipping onwards as he worked Carlos into a point of sharpened need. Now, Carlos is sprawled out on his back, beneath Oscar. Their two faces flushed, breathing just a little heavier. They’re both proud, and never like to let the effort show.

(this was meant to be a small drabble and i LIED, i'm sorry, the carloscar prompt was just too good. here i am submitting my application to be a permanent resident of carloscar nation.)

[wisteriagoesvroom]

29 please

29. Share a bit from a fic you’ll never post OR from a scene that was cut from an already posted fic. (If you don’t have either, just share a random fic idea you have that you don’t plan on getting to.)

from a kinkmeme omegaverse prompt about the FIA banning scent blockers, which idk that i’ll finish unfortch :(

——— mildly nsfw ———

Charles is fine. Has great self control. Has trained all the time for this. Never mind when he first presented as a teenager and Gianni was there and he spent a whole week trying to chop firewood and build a nest with his laundry and make pasta from scratch (the pasta was bad). That was long ago. He has better coping mechanisms now.

Max walks past, giving him a wave. The other man’s scent hits him like a truck. Motor oil. Musk. Pine. Oh, fuck, he’s going to be so sick.

His blood is about to vibrate out of his skin. He sweats bullets. Alpha, alpha, alpha goes the awful sound. Let us crawl in this place together, and never come out. I need teeth on my neck and your come on my skin and I need to make a place that is good for you that has only us, it will be us racing against each other forever, one breath in for you one breath out for me, alpha alpha alpha.

“Do you want to fuck?” Charles blurts out, in the empty hallway. “We don’t have to bite or anything.

Max’s mouth twists. “Charles… what happened to hello?”

“Ah. Hello. Also I am being very serious. I really need to get through this rut.”

“You’re not speaking from your right mind.”

Anger flashes in Charles. Always does, when he’s agitated. “What do you know about me being in my right mind? My mind is my own.”

“I know. But I also know you.”

“Then you know that I am just needing to make it through…” Charles gestures wildly. "This.”

“Isn’t there someone else?”

The omega in Charles is petulant now. There were some lines he would never cross with Pierre. And Carlos for some reason sprinted off to the McLaren side of the pits without warning after his engineering meeting, so there went his teammate option.

“There’s no one else. It's like this. I would never ask unless I needed to.”

It spins out between them. The fact that Charles is in championship contention for the first time in a long time, the fact that getting him through his rut tonight would mean Charles has the recuperation time to drive well by Sunday. They both know that a well-timed rut in elite sport constitutes a possible, and very legal, physical advantage. An advantage that the FIA seeks to exploit with its new regulations, for audience gain, but it’s not illegal to do this with their bodies for the price of a potential win. So be it.

Nonetheless, Max hesitates. He’s probably worried things won’t ever be the same between them again. Charles has no such concern. There are no feelings involved here, simply a biological fulfilment of his inconvenient second gender.

Charles grits his teeth. “Remember when you said that you owe me a favour? I must use it now, Max. Please.”

Curiosity, and something close to concern, flit across Max’s face. Max’s fingers seem to twitch on the cap in his hand, before he thinks better of it.

“Well. We are not doing it here.”

from asks here

[wisteriagoesvroom]

why not some snippets from all 🙏🙏 or one of your choose or whichever one is winning the poll. craving some wisteria writing rn fr

behold, not the winning wip from the poll, but enjoy a snippet from the girl!lando x boy!oscar fic… which i will finish when life gets less bonkers. 🍊🫡

————

In the flurry of departures, not many people seem to notice the rookie who’s no longer wearing an orange shirt. Ahead of him, Lando wipes her brow, wipes her eyes, pretends she isn’t angry-crying about her race result. But on the way out, flanked by Will and Jana and Charlotte, a girl shouts Lando’s name.

Lando turns, relaxes her shoulders, and puts on a smile. The girl’s parents look delighted, all warm and starstruck in the way that people usually are when driver’s talk to them like fellow human beings, when drivers manifest as a full three-dimensional person rather than a collection of 4K pixels on a screen. They look starstruck in a way that Oscar is pretty sure his own presence will never warrant.

“You did so amazing, Lando!” The girl says. She must be about eight. A wisp. Probably barely bigger than Lando was at that age. Oscar also remembers just a little older and being a grid kid. He knows how important and formative these experiences are. And it speaks to Lando’s generosity, the endless way she always gives maybe too much of herself, to pay it forward.

“I could’ve been better! But I really appreciate it, thank you. What’s your name?” Lando asks, grabbing the felt tip pen.

“Olive.”

Lando leans in. “Can I tell you a secret, Olive?”

Olive nods.

“Sometimes, I pick the olives out of my pasta. It makes my tongue feel funny.” Lando makes a face, and Olive laughs. “But I think you have a very lovely name. Do you want to maybe drive here one day?”

“Yeah! My dream is to be just like you.”

“Maybe better, ey? But maybe one day. Maybe one day!”

Charlotte is giving the stare like they really have to go. Lando turns and says some words to the parents, the usual thank you for coming, thank you for supporting us, platitudes that are usually platitudes but Oscar admires the way that Lando means them anyway.

The group starts moving away, before Lando stops, and turns. She yanks the cap off her head and presses it into Olive’s hands. The girls’ parents look delighted.

“Sorry. S’abit sweaty. But might come in handy one day, yeah?”

Olive beams.

And Oscar likes to think he generally is unmoved by acts of human emotion. But he thinks there’s a part of his permafrost heart that maybe cracks a bit at Lando’s warmth, too.

————

[wisteriagoesvroom]

foudre sèche (snippet)

charles is afraid of lightning. he goes looking for ice in the middle of the night, and finds max's room instead.

++

The storm outside seems to ebb, but the rain still comes down in steady sheets. Max’s hand twitches like he has half an impulse to do something, say something. His somatic response could give him away, but he stops himself just in time.

Instead, Max nudges Charles’s knee with the lip of his bottle. “The Austin drive. ‘22. What was that like?”

“Incredible, honestly. Like… racing sunlight. Touching god.”

“You believe in god?”

Charles snorts and clasps his hands in prayer. “I race for an Italian team. Of course I believe in God, Max.”

“Hm.”

“I believe in engineering that doesn’t fail, when we are at three hundred kilometres an hour. That, I believe.”

“No higher power.”

“I did not say none. Just that we do for ourselves enough, and the rest is not ours to control.”

Max leans in. So close Charles can count the freckles on his brow, the minor constellation at the left side of his face.  His stare is a blue knife’s edge, the difference between camera obscura and bright, yawning space. 

“And this. This in your control?” Max asks, softer. Surprisingly smooth. 

Charles is not sure at what point their interaction would sharpen to this point. Perhaps it was an inevitability, the way they were destined to be intertwined, sitting in this room. Sixteen days apart and not much to separate them except raw desire for something – victory, connection, a compulsive need – now turned towards each other.

Because of all the people who know him in the world, all the camera smiles he had offered, the handshakes he had shared - if they peeled away all the noise and layers of how each interacted with the universe, it boils down to this: they are just boys, inexplicably connected. Pushing each other to go faster and reach the line first.

++

full fic coming soon 🌃

[wisteriagoesvroom]

my first foray into galex - thank you for the prompt from the f1 wild side discord!

a galex drabble written from the following prompts: morning, window and cat. with the tone: content

--------------------------

Alex wakes to a terrible screech. It sounds like someone’s dying, or losing a tooth, or both. Bleary eyed, he drags himself out of the bed, kicking off half the covers off as he goes. When he makes his way to the hallway, George stands there, shoulders hunched. His morose expression is a jarring contrast to his fluffy bathrobe.

“What happened?” 

“Gucci.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“Alright. Gucci, as in resident menace, knocked the plates over.” 

Alex surveys the damage. It doesn’t look too bad, though whatever was on the plates - pancakes, from the looks of things, seem to be splashed halfway across the floor. 

His partner seems worse for wear.

“Typical ginger cat behaviour. Are you fine, though?” Alex asks. 

George nods, eyes all watery. Mouth pinched in a straight line, perfectly English of him, barely held together by his own tightly wound composure. He’s always been this way, since the days they’d been karting. Heart on his sleeve, feelings like rainclouds at the end of races.

Alex has seen him at his best and his worst, been there to hug him close or listen to him babble on about mechanical failures that were perfectly avoidable. Even let George drone for two hours with a PowerPoint on ways he could reform the GPDA for better driver solidarity until Alex had cut him off with a “you’re kind of sexy when you’re mansplaining to me. Even if I’m a man, and all”. Which had stopped George so short that he didn’t have anything to say for almost an entire minute.  

What happened after that was just natural, really. They'd clambred into each other's drivers rooms, held hands furtively at afterparties, kissed in the shadows of locations as exotic as Monaco and mundane as Milton Keynes. This was to none of the grid’s surprise, having seen their friendship blossom over the years, now into something else. Friends, however distant, who helped to guard their secret until they were ready.

“Today was supposed to be perfect.” George says, tugging Alex back to the present. It’s been two years since. Two good ones. 

George pinches his nose . “Christ, this is a disaster."

“We talked about this. No self-flagellating in the new year.”

“Right. Yeah. It’s just–”

Alex takes the other man’s hands. They’re large, and warm. Slender fingers roughened with callouses from gripping the wheel, capable hands for a capable man.

This close, George smells faintly like berries. Affection flutters in Alex’s stomach.

“We'll just start it over. It'll be fine, Georgie."

"I just wanted it to be perfect."

"Hey. This is my perfect. This is it, mate. You know that, right?”

George nods, softening under Alex’s touch. 

“Besides.” Alex continues. “It’s a little hard to take you seriously when your apron says do I look delicious. Which for the record, you do.”

George wipes his nose with the back of his hand, eyes darting down and up again. “You bought this, mind you.”

“I did.”

“And you love it. And me.”

“Yeah. I do.”

Alex pokes George in the side playfully, and George rolls his eyes. Attention diverted for the moment, smile finally back and starting to warm his eyes.

"Such an arsehole." George says, glancing at Gucci, who is walking calmy across the kitchen counter. Happily acting as if nothing has happened.

"I know. But he's our arsehole."

"Never say those words in that combination again."

"Our arsehole." Alex adds, emphatically.

To that, George only emits a long sigh.

And there is cleanup to come. Breakfast to be made again. But just for a moment, it’s the two of them. Spilled pancakes. Patience. tender love.

A miscreant tabby that happily suns itself under the window. 

Two of their hands perfectly intertwined. Room perfectly incandescent.