#liqfic

[wanderingblindly]

can we get a landoscar + 14? and maybe also like, accidentally? in a way it doesn't even click they kissed until sinks in? 🧡

ooooooh love a casual sort of kiss!! I'm never sure what defines casual, but I'm thinking like, habitual? Natural feeling? Anyways, have a little teacher x teacher landoscar <3333 Prompts!

Hot For Teacher

You know, people would assume that Oscar's the responsible one. They'd be right, probably, but at least not in this very specific instance. Lando fiddles with Oscar's phone as he paces down the halls – plastered with start of the school year notices and event flyers – and peaks into the doorways he passes.

Oscar always forgets his phone, left somewhere in the whirlwind of his frantic morning routine.

He'd avoid it, of course, if he just woke up when Lando did – enjoyed a lazy cup of tea, fucked around on Twitter for a bit before getting dressed at his own pace. But no, instead he huffs at Lando's alarm and shoves his pillow over his head, mumbling something about 'five more minutes', as if it doesn't always turn into half an hour. Minimum.

But if he avoided it, then Lando wouldn't get his favorite part of the morning: perching on the side of the bed, running his cold hands under Oscar's shirt, feeling the addictingly sleep-warm sleep-soft skin of his back, the relaxed muscles on the sides of his spine, as he whispers 'time's up, love'.

He smiles a little at the memory. His favorite memory, really. And the price to pay for it, it seems, is returning Oscar's damn cell.

He spots a familiar room to his right and comes to a stop, peering his head in subtly.

The kids are all quiet, eyes glued to their papers; Oscar mentioned he had an exam to administer today, Lando remembers, which means he can probably sneak in with minimal ribbing and 'ooooh Mr. Norris is here to see you, Mr. Piastri!'s.

Oscar's tucked away at a desk in the back of the room, red marking pen in hand and spare tucked behind his ear – just as focused as his students. He always makes Lando's heart flutter an embarrassing amount when he's like this, all charmingly professional but seemingly unaware of it. Oscar never notices that the girls in his class talk when his hair grows out a bit, when his bangs fall over his eyes as he looks down at the references on his desk; he never noticed that all their classmates in uni would stutter when he pressed a hand against their desk by to help them study, clad in some academic cliché of soft browns and wools.

But god, yeah, Lando noticed. Still notices, after all these years.

Oscar looks up before Lando can quietly pace over to him, flashing him a soft smile and raised brow. Lando waves his phone in silent response, rolling his eyes when Oscar instinctively pats his pocket in surprise – as if they haven't done exactly this a hundred times over.

"Good morning," Lando whispers, resting his hip on the table, smiling when Oscar leans back to look up at him, arms crossed against his chest. "Forgot something?"

"That's a first," He's a little flushed, and suddenly it feels like they're back in year ten – Lando perched on his desk between hours, Oscar looking up at him while unconvincingly complaining that he's distracting him from his novel.

He leans forward a bit, tone dropping so low that Oscar can hardly hear him. "Real appreciative," Lando raises a brow; it's Oscar's turn to roll his eyes.

"Thank you," Oscar indulges him with a grin, leaning forward too.

"That's better," Lando presses a quick kiss to Oscar's forehead, just like he always does before leaving for the day, and pops back to his feet. He's about to whisper 'love you' when he sees movement from the corner of his eye.

Lando freezes.

Oscar freezes.

Wait.

They both turn to look at the boy sat nearest Oscar's desk, who's staring with wide eyes, brows shot up towards his hairline. His pencil is frozen over his exam, completely stunned still.

It's a familiar look. One Lando – and little boys like Lando – would have given if they saw such domestic affection between two teachers. Two male teachers. With a quiet laugh, more a shake of the shoulders than anything, Lando holds a finger up to his lips.

'Lets keep this between us, yeah?'

The boy nods, still too shell-shocked to really look away.

[wanderingblindly]

hi hi hi, kiss prompt 29 anon here!! i totally understand, i was just going with the "safest" option. i am a lover of rarepairs my self so choscar, maxcar, maxlewis, are some examples i am currently obsessed with. but write with any pairs youd like or think fit the prompt best, im just here to enjoy your thoughts on them!! thanks in advance

thank you for sending a second prompt!!!! And thank you extra for understanding my previous response <33333333 have some Chocsar, set loosely before Monza! It's my first attempt, and I'd like to workshop it more but i fear doing so would... result in my never posting ever so. tadah! Prompts!

Hunting, Hunted

F1 is, all things considered, not that different from F2 – at least not to Oscar. There's the learning curve, there's the growing pains that keep him up at night, and there's the spotlight; it's not all the dissimilar from the F3 transition to F2, really.

But there's one thing that he hadn't anticipated.

It's a lot more… He shifts in his seat as he thinks about it, not paying nearly as much attention to the driver's briefing as he should. Charles looks over at him, sat between Max and Pierre, and his eyes are like pins in the wings of a butterfly – sharp, painfully sharp and oh so focused.

As fast as he looks at him, he looks away.

Oscar swallows.

It's a lot more like foreplay, like some really fucked up foreplay where everyone wants to claw out your eyes before they shove you down.

Frankly, Oscar's not sure if he's handling it well; he's certainly not handling Charles Leclerc and the way he can wrap anyone around his finger with a one dimpled smile. Lando's give him looks before, the silent one where Oscar's positive he's calling him an idiot, because he's caught him staring at Charles in the paddock – Charles laughing through interviews, Charles jogging after Carlos with his racesuit tied low around his hips.

But it's not the looks. Beautiful men, like many things about F1, aren't that new from F2.

It's Charles, and everything about him, specifically.

It started in Belgium, lap thirty-six.

Oscar managed to beat him on the outside line, managed to show him that he was that much more confident, that he was that much better. And it felt good, it felt fucking electric; Oscar nearly let himself smile in the car, and maybe he would have if he'd spared a look back – but he hadn't.

Somehow, that made it so much sweeter.

Charles had given him a look cold enough to freeze hell later that day, and Oscar had taken it in stride – literally. He kept walking by, not giving him the pleasure of even a raised brow. But that was normal, at the time, or at least Oscar wasn't alarmed by it. Competition is competition, and tensions run high. They did in F2, they do in F1, whatever.

But by Zandvoort, Oscar realized he was wrong.

Charles had sought him out after the race, still dripping champagne and rubbing at his eyes – trying to will away the blinding sting. In the fading daylight, he still looked shockingly alive, as if he drained himself in the weeks away from the podium like a sacrifice. Before Oscar could mumble out a disingenuous genuine congratulations, Charles beat him to it.

"No smart move from you today?" He smiled, all teeth and no sweetness.

It punched Oscar in the nose. As the crush of post-race circus swarmed around them, Charles drove a knife right into his smarting cuts. He twisted it.

"I was hoping for a better fight. From you, I mean." He continued, and all Oscar could do was stare, mind gone entirely blank. With a wink, one of his better attempts, Charles clapped Oscar on the shoulder and started to walk on – pressing him down like a disobedient dog. "Try harder for me next time, yes?"

Belatedly, at a speed entirely unacceptable for a racing driver, Oscar put the pieces together. Charles wanted to do more than beat him, dominate him. He wanted to consume him after breaking him down into miniscule pieces, but he wanted a fight; it makes his stomach twist, makes somewhere lower than his stomach ache.

Rolling his shoulders, mentally brushing off the feeling of Charles's hand on his fireproofs, Oscar moved on like nothing happened.

And now Charles is looking at him again.

Pierre turns and looks too, losing interest immediately and whispering something in Charles's ear. Charles swats at him blindly, still holding Oscar's gaze – almost as if to prove that he can. He needs to prove that he won't look away first, maybe. Or that, more importantly, Oscar will.

He doesn't.

Neither looks away as the briefing ends, pulled together by some invisible string amidst the casual chaos of the drivers dispersing. They stand nearly chest to chest; Charles smiles like he wants to lean forward and bit Oscar's nose off, spit it down at his feet.

They wait, peripherally aware of the room growing empty, the air becoming still. The wait until it's just them, just the sound of Charles's voice.

"This circuit is mine." Charles says, faux-casually. It's loaded with meaning, loaded with an unspoken 'so try and take it from me'.

Oscar raises a brow. "Thought it was Ferrari's."

"Is it not the same thing?" He leans closer, taunting.

"Guess so," Oscar agrees, voice not betraying his heart rate. "Beaten both before, anyways."

Charles laughs a little, haughty and toying – like a cat watching a mouse try and work out some clever escape. Their faces are too close together for Oscar not to feel it, for it not to leave a trail of blushed Ferrari red on his cheeks.

Charles still hasn't looked away. Neither has he.

"Make it a good fight, I want to earn it." Charles finally says, voice ringing in Oscar's ears.

"You think I'll just roll over for you?"

"I would never," His voice drops low, head tilting slightly to the left – lips parted like he wants something from him. "Because I want to rip it from you, the podium. So promise," Charles's breath is hot on Oscar's lips. So close. Their eyes stay open. "Promise to try and get me."

Oscar moves first, leans forward to steal Charles's lips in some sort of psycho-sexual moment of delirium. He takes Charles's breath, he takes Charles's hands in his hair, he takes every bit of Charles that he can get under his nails and teeth and tongue, as some sort of agreement – some sort of 'I promise'.

[wanderingblindly]

lestappen + 12?

grief is such an interesting one. I tried not to go the obvious route (character death, trauma, etc etc) and instead tried to think of like. What would feel like loss without being something tangible? Anyways, here's Max struggling with his 2024 dry spell. Thank youuu!! Prompts!!!

Faithless

For all that he's been in Max's shoes – and maybe he hasn't, really. Maybe he hasn't been as close as he'd like to think – Charles doesn't know what to say. Laying together on the sofa, legs intertwined and Max's face pressed into his chest, Charles isn't sure there's anything to say.

Max doesn't either, hand gripping Charles's shirt so tightly that it makes him wonder, passively, if the wrinkles will ever come out.

His tears are hot and cold against his skin, seeping through the cotton, but they're not easy. Max fights them, breaths coming in ragged gasps and teeth clenched so tightly that each exhale sounds like a hiss.

Charles's hand strokes Max's hair in lieu of words, waiting until he figures something out. He stares ahead, uncertain. A little useless.

"It's over." Max's voice shakes so hard that the words are almost unintelligible, so lodged in the back of his throat that it's like he's choking on the admission.

"It's never over," Charles whispers, hand continuing its gentle passes. "The season, it's not even halfway –"

He's never heard Max's laugh sound so cold, haunting like a death knell; he grips Charles's shirt tighter, more urgently, as the tears continue. "Not the season, everything. It's all over, they're not…"

The air goes still again, Max fighting himself for the words, Charles fighting his shaking hands. He can't force himself to look down, can't handle seeing Max look so unlike himself. It's selfish, really.

Max takes another shuddering breath. "They don't think I can do it."

Now Max doesn't sound like himself. Charles's hand pauses. "Since when are you caring what others think?"

He moves quickly, letting go of Charles shirt, shifting to sit up and look at him with red-rimmed eyes – a red-tipped nose.

He looks, somehow, reduced to a single thread. Worn thin.

"I never needed to care, Charles, it's…" Charles reaches for Max's hand on the sofa, resting his on top. He's running hot. "I always knew they believed in me, so I never even thought it could – I never had to consider –"

His voice is crumbling as he pushes on, tears streaking down his cheeks and catching on the corner of his lips. And Charles makes himself look, makes himself take in the nearly childlike blotchy red on his cheeks, the fearful set of his brow. It eats at him, not because it's not the Max he knows; it eats at him because he understands, at least a little.

The feeling of being faithless in a sport built on some indominable human spirit to defy the odds.

Spiraling from the loss of it all, Charles knows that feeling.

Charles moves, untangling their legs and sitting to face Max; with steady hands, he grabs the sides of his face, feels the impossibly wound-tight tension in his jaw as he tries to keep himself together.

"You will win without them." Charles says with a hushed fervor, like it's imperative that Max not misunderstand him. "You are always proving people wrong, Max. Because that's who you are, a winner."

Max tries to jerk his head away, tries to hide his tear-stained face from Charles's fiery eyes. But Charles doesn't let him, filled with the urge to speak to some amalgamation of their present and past – young and isolated Max, the version of himself that almost let Ferrari break him, the Max shaking in his palms. Their lines are blurred.

"It's…" Max stops fighting it, looking deeply into Charles. "They gave up. On me."

"But I won't." Charles pulls Max's face closer, their foreheads touching. He can feel Max's pulse, blood running close to the skin. "You may lose them, they may come crawling back. But I'm here. And you're here."

Max's eyelashes are dark, nearly black, as he blinks rapidly at Charles's desperate words.

"You'll never lose me, ok?"

Max nods, the gesture small in Charles's hands. "Ok," He moves slightly, lips seeking Charles's; seeking the comfort of home, seeking the comfort of family that – for once in his life – isn't conditional.

Max's lips taste like grief, taste like anger and sorrow and betrayal. And, as Charles hesitantly glides his tongue against tear-wet lips, he tries to wash it away – if not just for a moment.

[wanderingblindly]

possibly kiss 47 landoscar????? (maybe pr nightmare lando????)

Hmmmmm accidentally ended up with PR nightmare Lando and Oscar? Hope that suits! Feel free to send more prompts, I’m getting through them!

Something to Talk About

“I think you should try an original question. Maybe a good one, if you’ve got it.” Lando smiles as he says it, ever the media darling, but does little to keep the acid off his tongue. The interviewer freezes for a moment, mouth agape.

“Oh, uh.” He says, fumbling in his jacket for a notepad.

“Lotta chat about professionalism for someone with one question prepared,” Lando laughs — cutting and snide — as he leans back on the couch. Oscar shifts beside him, the tip of his boot grazing Lando’s.

For a brief moment, as the audience of the post-race conference clutches their pearls, Lando and Oscar catch each other’s eyes.

Play nice, Oscar reminds him, brow raised just enough for Lando to see.

He’s right. Because, if McLaren’s PR team is to be believed, the issue is “handled”. He’s meant to bite his tongue and not give the media a sound bite, an out of context headline about Lando Norris: Fallen from Grace.

He crinkles his nose back, a silent: Yeah, sure.

They told him to bite his tongue, and he will. But if the media keeps wanting to ask about edited paparazzi photos from winter break rather than his win, he can’t be faulted with biting more. If he pulls away with a pound of flesh between his teeth, certainly that’s just a natural consequence of the situation.

Another interviewer finally pipes up, “Oscar, maybe you would like to shed some light on Lando’s —”

“Well-earned victory?” Oscar smiles into his microphone with a good-natured laugh, clearly hoping to alleviate the tension in the room; it doesn’t work. He earns some nervous giggles at best, further highlighting the sour mood. “I mean, it’s been a strong weekend for the team all around. Maybe he could have done better in turn nine, sorry mate, but —”

“Actually,” The interviewer cuts Oscar’s perfectly trained response off, and Lando nearly sees red. He grips his microphone so hard that it creaks. “I was going to ask, as Lando’s teammate, are you concerned about his winter break —”

This isn’t Oscar’s fucking problem to deal with.

He raises the microphone to his lips, ready to tear into him, when Oscar continues.

Completely deadpan, eyebrows flat: “Actually, I want to talk about turn nine.”

It’s Lando’s turn to press a toe against Oscar’s, hoping he gets it. Hoping he gets that this isn’t his battle to fight. But Oscar doesn’t reply, leaning forward in his seat, elbows rested on his knees and staring at the journalist with startlingly calm fire in his eyes.

“And if you don’t want to discuss the race at the post-race conference, then maybe you should leave.”

“Oscar,” The moderator says, warning in his voice. “If you’d like to address the question, you can. Otherwise, we’ll take the next —”

Lando watches the back and forth like a tennis match, uncertain how he ended up on the sidelines of his own PR crisis. He raises his microphone up again, hoping to get a word in, when Oscar beats him, again.

“If you don’t want to talk about racing, fine.” He spits, turning to look at Lando with eyes he’s only seen once before: in a certain driver room, after a certain crash-out double DNF, right before a certain confession.

Lando’s eyebrows shoot towards his hairline, a brief moment to ask are you fucking sure?, before Oscar grabs his jaw with one hand. Into the microphone, “Then talk about this.”

Oscar’s microphone clatters to the ground, the feedback nearly deafening for a moment, but Lando doesn’t hear it. All he hears is his gentle hah as Oscar slams their lips together, fingers gripping his jaw so tightly the joint pops.

It’s not entirely dissimilar to their first kiss: Oscar — enraged — letting his carefully suppressed emotions get the best of him. And Lando, having long since given up on the possibility, freezing before kissing back.

The camera flashing and yelling is new, however.

Lando’s mind tunes back in to that bit, which is probably more important than running his tongue against Oscar’s race-dehydrated lips.

They separate with twin smiles, and Lando makes a show of wiping his mouth on his forearm before holding his microphone up. “Right, any new questions?”

[wanderingblindly]

oh! if you’re still interested in prompts — 48 for 814? (no pressure, obviously, but your writing is always delightful!)

"A kiss out of habit" kind of made me think of like.... the routine of goodbye kisses? maybe? hope this counts! here's the link for more prompts :)

Ignore That, Chat

Lando balances his phone inelegantly on his bag, shoved on top of the tiny table in the motorhome. "You guys see me alright?" He asks, squinting at the camera and adjusting it minutely. The angle’s shit, the lighting even worse, but it'll do. "Right then, wanted to show you all – oops," The phone tips over, clattering to the floor.

"Professional Twitch streamer, Lando Norris," Oscar calls from the couch sarcastically, just loud enough for the microphone to pick it up off-camera. Lando shoots him a half-hearted glare as he sets the phone back down carefully, curling his lip for good measure.

"Thinks he can do better, chat, can you believe it? This guy," He clicks his tongue, stepping back away from the camera. "Anyways, we're on shoot today. Figured you might want to see what goes on. They've got me in this frickin'… winter-thing."

"Parka," Oscar interjects casually, scrolling through his phone.

"Yeah, parka, duh. Kinda makes me look a bit like a worm, doesn't it?" He turns to the side, trying to roll his body like, uh. Not really a worm, maybe someone too drunk at the club try to stay on his feet. It makes him giggle, high-pitched and stupid, which earns him Oscar's full attention.

"That the best worm impression you've got?" He asks, dropping his phone down onto the couch and crossing his ankle over his knee – appraising with a raised brow.

It makes Lando laugh harder, face flushing red. "Oh, like you could do better?"

"I mean –"

"He's lying, by the way," Lando calls to the camera, suddenly remembering it's presence. "Oscar doesn't even dance."

"Not true!" He calls a little louder, mouthing fuck off towards Lando afterward.

"Since when?"

"Since forever, mate."

"Never seen you dance," Lando crosses his arms, ready to cite his evidence. After Miami 2024, when Lando was drunk out of his mind and could get Oscar off the wall, for one. At his sister's wedding, for two – bad boyfriend-of-the-best-man behavior. They're locked in a moment of visual-communication, Lando daring Oscar to call his bluff.

He’s not right often, but he's definitely right now.

Oscar shrugs in silent acquiescence. "Maybe we need to go out more, then."

"Dancing's good for team bonding – moral." Lando agrees, watching as Oscar checks a notification on his phone. Whatever it is makes him stand up from the couch, his shoulders with a soft smile on his face.

"Morale, Lando."

"Same thing,"

"Not really?"

"Got what I meant though, didn't you?"

"More or less," Oscar chuckles, stepping forward and placing a quick kiss to Lando's lips. "They need me on se–" A realization shoots between their single shared braincell, freezing them in place.

"That was just –!" Lando flails his hands, jumping away from Oscar like he'd be burned.

"I have to go." Oscar mutters, immediately turning to bolt out the door.

"'s just how we say goodbye, right?" Lando laughs awkwardly, diving for his phone and trying to end the stream with shaking fingers. "Very European for an Aussie. Anyways, ignore that. Bye guys!"

[wanderingblindly]

Oscar Piastri's (Full Homo) Guide to Fucking Your Boyfriend

Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, 10.3k words, Chapter 1/2

"Has my girlfriend ever kissed a guy before?" Oscar's eyes move to Lando's lips, lashes fluttering gold in the setting sun. Girlfriend. His mind goes silent, lips parted and eyelids heavy. It feels... nice. Hearing that. It feels good, even. Like Oscar's claiming him, possessing him. Girlfriend. He whispers back, feather-light. "No." Oscar looks back up, catches his eyes. "Do you want to?"

a treat? one that's pretty clearly EXPLICIT, please proceed accordingly :)

does someone wanna be nice to me. can someone pls be nice to be this is a public cry for help

[wanderingblindly]

On Intimacy (Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, 600 words, Drabble)

Written in a 20-minute sprint with some very supportive besties on Discord, who are single handedly prying me from my writing slump. For the prompt: "There isn't anything that I wouldn't do for you"

God, it's embarrassing. He's only 24 years old, he's a professional athlete. Allegedly, he's in his prime – he should be, at least. And yet, staring down at his trainers beside the door, he's not.

He leans forward a fraction of a centimeter, hardly visible.

His back twinges.

It shows on his face.

It's been like this for days; the double headers and endless hours on the plane are taking their toll, the rough tracks are the icing on the cake. Jon's doing his best to work on him, he's doing his best to take care of it, and yet. And yet.

He can't bend down to get his shoes on, back extra stiff first thing in the morning.

He could do it, really, if he just admitted that he had to do it differently. Bending at the knee, keeping his back mostly stiff – he could do it. But he shouldn't have to; he's Lando Norris, he eats his stupid trainer-approved food and sleeps early when his schedule necessitates it.

His cheeks start to grow hot, vision going blurry with a destabilizing wash of budding tears.

Embarrassing.

"You ready to go?" Oscar calls from the kitchen, closing the fridge and probably tossing a water bottle between his hands. He raises a brow at Lando when he approaches the entryway, noticing Lando's fixated stare at his feet – at his trainers just a step away. "Lando?"

"Yeah," He says, wincing at the wobble in his voice.

Embarrassing.

But he can do it, of course he can do it. So he leans forward before jerking still – unable to keep the wince off his face. The tears – hot and frustrated and pricking at him from the inside – lose their battle with gravity, sliding down his cheeks.

"You're meeting with Jon first thing, right?" Oscar asks calmly, closing the distance between them with a quick stride. Lando nods, rubbing harshly at his eyes like he can will the tears away.

He doesn't see Oscar slide down to one knee, but he hears his water bottle thud against the floor.

With his palms still pressed to his eyes: "Get up." Lando's voice cracks, awash with a new wave of mortification.

"It's fine," He says, and Lando looks; Oscar's looking up at him, he tilted slightly to the side, fingers making quick work of loosening Lando's laces.

"I don't need you to put on my fucking shoes," The words are harsh, but his voice is pathetic; he's not angry, but rather hurt – self-flagellating.

Oscar shrugs, putting the shoe back on the ground and grabbing Lando's ankle. "I know you don't," His voice is calm, gaze fixed on guiding Lando's foot into the trainer, tying it up.

Lando's breath catches at the delicacy of his touch, something about it burrowing deep in his chest.

One shoe on and the other in hand, Oscar looks back up at him – the thin skin under his eyes flushed pink, lips quirked into the soft half-smile he saves just for when they're alone.

"But I want to." He finishes, driving the point home by reaching for Lando's other ankle.

"It's –" Lando starts to protest instinctively. Degrading. Unnecessary. Awkward.

Oscar cuts him off. "You know I'd do anything for you." He ties the second shoe with a sense of finality, not leaving any room for Lando's poor attempt at pride.

"Yeah," Lando says softly, pulling Oscar's gaze back up to him. He stands slowly, not breaking eye contact – nearly nose to nose. "Thanks."

"Of course," He smiles, leaning forward for a chaste kiss. "We're gonna be late to the track."

It's dizzying. Lando feels like he's floating on air, images of Oscar looking up at him running behind his reddened eyes.

He fights the butterflies in his stomach to get it out: "Right."

[wanderingblindly]

7 (a kiss to shut them up) + landoscar?

in my mind, this is a uni au. but that's also like, not overly important? anyways, I wanted to try and have Oscar be the rambling one, hope it worked hahahhaha ^^; link for prompts!

Heartrates

Not that Lando's keeping track too intently, but he's fairly positive that Oscar's heartrate hasn't fallen below one hundred in the hour and a half they've been on the couch – tucked under a blanket, Oscar sort of spooned against him, Lando's arm thrown carelessly against his chest.

The movie they turned on, some overly artsy thing George said would make him look smart on a second date, is drawing to a close. The sun has long since set, the living room growing orange, then pink, then dusty blue.

Oscar's heartrate betrays his demeanor, the steady flutter of his lashes as he relaxes into Lando's chest.

Maybe Lando lied. Maybe his attention has been caught elsewhere. He hasn't watched a single bit of the film, far too focused on studying Oscar's minute expressions as he watches it. Which is, by his standards, basically the same thing.

Oscar's eyes flick to the side, meeting Lando's for a brief moment before returning to the TV.

His heartrate spikes higher, thrumming heavily against his chest.

"Oscar," He whispers into his ear, resisting a smile as he feels his heart dance again.

Oscar turns his head a bit, leaving them almost nose to nose. "Yeah?"

"It's not a scary film, mate," He smiles, eyes flicking down to Oscar's lips. He can almost taste them, and the thought makes his spine tingle.

"I know?" Oscar sounds confused, brows furrowed. It's one of the expressions that haunted Lando since they met at their seminar, the tension making his face sharper, addictive. But his response, again, doesn't align with what Lando can feel; he slides his palm over Oscar's chest – mentally cursing that he's still wearing a shirt – until it still over his heart.

"You nervous then?"

Another perplexed face. "Not really?"

"You're a good liar," Lando teases, tilting his head to the right, letting his lips part – inviting.

"Have I seemed nervous?" Oscar asks, tone a bit more urgent than Lando would expect from someone he's signaling to snog him. "I mean, like. I'm not sure what you saw? My mum always says that I'm hard to read, not that I'm being… defensive, or something."

Lando lets his tongue slide slowly across his lower lip before tugging on it, reveling in how Oscar's breath ghosts across his skin. He's listening, a little – attention focused mostly on how Oscar's mouth moves when he talks, the obvious tension in his jaw.

"…anyways, I just get quiet when I'm focused. Not nervous. Or scared. Yeah, it wasn't scary. The film, I mean."

Lando cuts him off with a hum, letting his fingers twist in Oscar's shirt – heart still racing against his hand. With another lazy smile, eyes almost fluttering closed as he leans a hair closer. "Can I kiss you?"

"You want–?" In that same tone, deceptively calm.

Softer than a whisper, their lips a hairsbreadth apart, "Stop talking,"

"Yeah,"

Lando sighs into it, the relief at getting Oscar's lips on him nearly tangible. He's soft, melting into his touch like ice against a flame. And as he tries to gently guide Oscar's head to the side, letting them slot together as easily as breathing, Lando realizes it – that maybe this is Oscar's first kiss, that maybe he really was nervous.

"Is this ok?" He asks, sliding his tongue against Oscar's lip to drive the point home.

"Yeah. Am I, uh." Oscar mumbles, hands hovering awkwardly. "Ok?"

Ah. Lando presses his lips to Oscar's again, smiling into it a little. "More than ok, I'll show you."

[wanderingblindly]

beloved liquid!! how about 19. for luck + 814?

ooooh what if it was established relationship and lando's gonna go Tell The Team? What then???? Click here to send me more prompts :)

On Risks in Love

Lando throws the car in park, letting his hands fall into his lap, leaning back against the headrest with closed eyes and a deep breath.

"It'll be fine," Oscar says from the passenger seat, but Lando can't bring himself to look. It feels like his stomach is about to churn itself inside out, and he's focused on breathing through it. "Lando, really –"

Sharper than he means it, "I'm fine, seriously."

Silence washes over them, not a soul wandering the MTC at this hour. They'd scheduled it this way on purpose – early Sunday morning, mid-summer break. The socials teams had done their bit, any admin employees are home for the week. It's just them, sat in Lando's car, and the slowly rising sun along the horizon.

"Sure you don't want me to come?" Oscar asks, voice softer this time. It makes Lando finally open his eyes, braving a glance; his brows are furrowed slightly, the way he gets when he doesn't know what to do.

In the flurry of emotions coursing through Lando's veins, it breaks him.

"Yeah," He says, but it's not convincing, even to him. Rather than attempt to continue, he scrunches his eyes back closed, resuming his deep breaths.

He has to do this alone. He knows that he does. He started this, he's the one that made the first move, he's the one that dragged Oscar into it. He's older, he's the… it's his team to lose, if all this goes –

Careful fingers ghost over his, Oscar's hand gently covering Lando's.

If it all goes –

"It's your team," Oscar whispers, like that solves everything. He says it like that's not the exact reason Lando's hands are clammy. It's his team, so where will he go, he wants to bite back, if this doesn't work?

Where would be go if he had to lose either of them?

His chest shakes on the inhale, but he doesn't try to hide it. There's no commentators dissecting him, no fans analyzing his posture. It's just Oscar, just Oscar waiting for Lando to get through it like he always gets through it.

"I'll be here the whole time," Oscar starts, comfortingly but firmly. His fingers try to slide between Lando's – working open the tight fist he'd formed. "Waiting for you." Lando opens his eyes as Oscar pries his fingers apart, too frozen to do anything but watch it happen. "And when you're done, once it goes well," He continues, lifting Lando's away from his lap, up into the space between them. "You'll come tell me about it, ok?"

Their eyes meet at Oscar's question.

"But what if it doesn't?" Lando's voice cracks, fragile as the morning-quiet.

He lifts Lando's hand closer to his face, like he's inspecting it; his fingers graze over Lando's nails, bitten raw and reddened. "When have you ever taken no for an answer?"

He'd laugh, maybe, in another situation.

"I'm –"

Oscar interrupts him silently, pressing a lingering kiss to the back of Lando's hand – holding Lando's eyes as he does. "For good luck," He murmurs against his skin, warm breath sinking into his bones, vibrations shooting up his arm. It's like that's all that exists, Oscar's lips grazing his hand; his mind stops, if not only for a moment.

He flips Lando's hand over and presses another, just as delicately, to the inside of his wrist.

"I –" Lando starts, words sticking in his chest as Oscar's eyes flutter closed, as he moves to press another kiss to Lando's rapidly heating skin. "I love you."

Oscar chuckles.

"Now go tell them that so we can go home, yeah?"

Lando can't help but smile, a little shell-shocked. "Yeah. Yeah, ok."

[wanderingblindly]

landoscar and 46!! love jealoussssyyyy !!!

WHY WERE BOTH OF MY JEALOUSY PROMPTS THE HARDEST ONES!!!!!!!! but thank you for the challenge, always a pleasure <333 prompt list here!

House Party

"You're gonna crush that can, mate." George laughs as he sits down to his left, Alex silently following on his right.

"That a challenge?" Lando tries to smile back, jaw a little too tense for it to come off naturally. He doesn't even look at the two of them, more peripherally aware than anything; his eyes are focused on the other side of the living room.

Alex says something that gets lost in the music, falling on deaf, unfocused ears.

Oscar's leaned against the far wall, hands shoved in his pockets casually, looking down at the girl he's talking to with a smile on his lips. She's been talking at him for ages, bubbly little giggles interspersed between whatever she's on about, and Oscar hasn't stopped looking at her like that – fondly. She's cute, put together like a little doll with glossy hair, full pink lips, and big doe eyes; it's horrible.

Lando's entire body feels ready to snap in half, teeth screaming.

"Like what you see?" Alex yells in his ear, snapping Lando out his raging fixation with a start.

"D'you two need something?" He snaps, and George chuckles again. Lando turns to look at him, lounging on the threadbare sofa with a knowing smile, and scowls.

"Just here for some friendly encouragement," He drawls, accent even more put on than usual – like he always gets when he's feeling haughty. At Lando's irritated silence: "What? You wanna sit here all night then?"

"Alex let you off your leash to dance with me?" Lando asks, earning a gentle smack to the back of his head – Alex makes an affronted noise from his side of the sofa.

"Go get Piastri before you kill someone," Alex interjects, cutting off whatever sarcastic remark Lando was about to get from George.

"He's busy," Lando says, directing his attention back towards Oscar; they've shifted a little closer together, Oscar craning his neck just a bit, the girl looking up at batting her lashes. It's the same fucking look he gave Lando last weekend – and the weekend before that – right before he snaked an arm around his waist and pulled them flush together.

Alex says something he can hardly hear.

Lando, frankly, doesn't fucking care.

The girl smiles again, demure and overly-sweet, as she leans towards Oscar– chin tilted in a way that can only be an invitation for one thing. And Lando's had it, vision flaring red.

"Hold this." He demands, shoving his drink in George's direction and jumping to his feet, storming across the floor.

Oscar doesn't sense him coming, the room too densely packed and the music far too shitty and far too loud. But Lando doesn't need words to make his point; he grabs Oscar's shoulder and yanks him away from her, nearly making him fall back against the wall as he loses his footing.

There's a moment of shock in his eyes before he catches on, surprised replaced with a smile that makes Lando tighten his grip – lazy, as if he'd finally gotten what he wanted. "Fucking prick," Lando hisses, face growing hotter as Oscar's smile grows teeth, as his eyes flick down to Lando's mouth.

Oscar moves first, because of course he wouldn't let Lando have this moment; he leans in and steals Lando's lips in a kiss that turns too heated too quickly, wasting no time in getting Lando exactly where he wants him. One hand moves to Lando's lower back, the other to the back of his head, locking them together as Oscar's tongue tastes the back of his teeth.

Lando swallows down Oscar's noise of surprise as he shoves them back against the wall, slotting his thigh between Oscar's legs.

Checkmate.

[wanderingblindly]

Someone in Seattle (Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, 11.6k words, oneshot)

“Could I, like… would you be my model for it? Maybe?” “That’s what the coffee was for then?” “No, that was, uh.” He can feel his face heating up, skin undeniably turning a deeper shade of red under Lando’s gaze – mirthful and a little something else. “That was different.” “Gonna say what?” “No.”

READ HERE!

Started this ages ago when I was sick, finally got around to forcing it to completion. To quote myself in discord: I'm going to pry this fic from my cold dead hands.

Answering the age old question: Fellas, is it gay to fall in love with your muse?

[wanderingblindly]

21 + landoscar pretty please?? 💖💖

at first I read this as FROM a place of insecurity and got so lost. Later realized that I'm a moron, and the prompt is ON a place of insecurity, which makes so much more sense. Anyways, why where the Esquire photos so smoothed out :((( justice for Oscar's skin. Prompts here!

High-Gloss

"Ooooh," Lando gushes – only half sarcastically – as he holds his phone up for Oscar to see. "Mr. CEO, huh?"

"What?" Oscar asks, looking away from the TV for only a brief moment; from his spot in Oscar's lap, Lando can see something in his eyes, a flash of tension in his jaw, before he looks away. "Oh."

Hesitantly, Lando lowers his phone back down, letting it fall onto his chest. "Did you not like the shoot?"

"Yeah, um." He doesn't look down at Lando, doesn't move his hand from where it gently rests in his hair. "It was fine."

"Doesn't sound fine," Lando pushes, brows pinched. Fine isn't anywhere near the word he'd use; Oscar looked fucking hot in the shots he'd seen, siting in a starched shirt, staring down the camera as the light illuminates the gold in his eyes.

It made Lando's stomach flip painfully when he'd see it, like Oscar had pinned him in place.

Oscar's thigh flexes slightly under his head, relaxing just a second later. It's one of his minute tells, the ways that he tries to expel tension before others can see it. But Lando can feel it, even if Oscar refuses to show it.

He sits up, shifting so that he's sat facing Oscar – pointedly still looking at the TV, not at Lando's curious eyes.

"Did something happen?"

A sigh. "Not really, it's…" He pauses for a moment, gnawing on his lower lip. "Just not my thing, I guess."

"Oscar." Lando deadpans, leaning forward, forcing Oscar to look at him. He averts his gaze all the same. "Get your eyes checked, mate. You look incredible, Lewis-level shit."

But Oscar doesn't chuckle at it like Lando expected; he feels his heartrate rise.

"Can you at least look at me?"

"Seriously, Lando, just drop it."

"No." Lando sounds nearly offended, bristled. And maybe he is. For Oscar or himself, he's not entirely sure, but the energy in the entire conversation is… skewed. Wrong-footed. Oscar feels almost distant despite being right in front of him, eyes diverted to the side. "Did someone say something?"

It's there again: that flicker of tension between Oscar's brows, in his jaw. Lando puts his hand on his leg, feels the muscle jump under his touch. And Lando's stomach sinks, his expression softens.

"Osc," He whispers, other hand slowly moving towards Oscar's face, almost coaxing him into meeting his gaze. "Baby, c'mon,"

Oscar's eyes are watering, he realizes with a cold-shock, by the time he looks at him. They sit in silence for a moment, Lando's hands cupping his jaw and pressing into his thigh, Oscar's lip quivering ever so slightly.

"It's the –" Oscar's voice sounds tight, like he's keeping a death grip on his composure. "Lot of editing, huh." He tries to laugh it off, dry and unnatural – vibrating through Lando's palm.

Looking at him so closely, thumb grazing against his cheek, Lando puts the pieces together. The close up shot, specifically, comes to mind.

"It's…" He's at a loss for words, not entirely sure what to even say to make it better. It's not you, it's them? That's stupid. It's true – it was literally the editors that smoothed his skin and made him look overly airbrushed – but it's still hallow. "You're always perfect, ok?"

It's not much better, but Lando tries not to wince. Instead, he leans in closer and places a gentle kiss to the corner of Oscar's eye – tasting the moment before the tears fall, if he lets them.

"And I love every," Lando presses another to the mole in his hairline, just beyond his eyebrow. "Single," Another on his cheek. "Part of you." A final near his nose.

He feels it, Oscar attempting to control the emotions by grinding his teeth – jaw shaking in Lando's hands.

"I mean it," He whispers, lips still grazing his skin. "I love you."

Oscar lets out a shaky breath, covering Lando's hand on his thigh and squeezing.

"And fuck 'em, yeah?" Lando smiles, pulling away enough to look at Oscar's face – to see a tentative smile pull at the corner of his lips.

[wanderingblindly]

Lando Norris’s (No Homo) Guide to Getting a Girlfriend

Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, 10k words, oneshot

"Bet I could teach you." Oscar's eyes snap back to his, wider than the time Lando suggested they go skydiving in the off-season. "Teach me –" "The Lando Norris guide to getting laid." Oscar pulls a face. "That's not –" "Getting a girlfriend, then." Lando amends, holding up his largely-empty glass in cheers. "Cheers to not being a virgin, mate."

I didn’t leave me desk for two days I don’t even know what this is anymore BUT

Enjoy some approximation of canon compliant, fake dating/practice dating?

[wanderingblindly]

Lestappen + 9 or Landoscar + 6 maybe?❤️

oops! it's established relationship landoscar after hungary! which isn't I ever wanted to touch! prompts here :)

Upon Deaf Ears

"I just need a second," Lando mumbles, pushing past Oscar in the paddock – their shoulders clip; they ricochet. He keeps walking before he can hear Oscar's response, eyes focused intently at the ground. If he blinks, if he so much as deviates away from his path, he'll lose it. And he can't, not in public.

The media doesn't take kindly to his tears.

He slides between the hospitality doors before they open all the way; a pair of footsteps echo as he bolts towards sanctuary.

"Seriously, give me a minute," He tosses over his shoulder, quickly opening his driver room door and stepping in.

"We're not doing this," Oscar finally speaks, grabbing the edge of the door as Lando tries to close it – tries to separate them. They lock eyes, both hands on the door, both trying harder than they'd like to admit to resist the other's force. It's starting to bubble up in him, that sticky-hot anger that overflows from his cracks, boiling hotter when Oscar looks at him like it's a choice.

"Get out." Lando says bluntly, pressing harder against the door.

"No," Oscar takes a step forward, almost daring Lando to let go and jump away. He doesn't, he stands his ground – because isn't that the crux of the matter here? That he's apparently not allowed to do that anymore?

"Are you fucking deaf?" He bites, vision and voice starting to waver unconvincingly. And that just makes it worse, hands shaking with some horrible cocktail of adrenaline, rage, and embarrassment. "Give me a second and we do whatever you want, ok?"

He grinds his teeth, clinging to some hope that it'll stop his lip from quivering.

But Oscar doesn't move, still looking at him like he doesn't understand. What the fuck isn't there to get? Lando had rolled over, he'd bit the bullet and played the good teammate role. Actually, he hadn't tasted it – he'd felt it, he'd felt the fucking bullet go right between his eyes like a horse put down.

And Oscar doesn't fucking get it.

"We can talk about –"

"We can talk later." It's punctuated with a harsh sniff, Lando angrily rubbing his traitorous eyes with his free hand.

Oscar presses forward, shoving through the doorway and hitting his shoulder against Lando's – returning the favor that Lando didn't ask for. Incensed, Lando slams the door.

"Can't you just do what I fucking asked –"

"Thought we weren't following orders today?" Oscar raises a brow, and Lando can't help but feel like he thinks his endless composure makes him a better... racer? Person? His hands vibrate when he buries his face in them, pulling in a desperate, snotty breath through his nose.

"That's low." He exhales, lifting his head. His vision is swimming. "I did what they asked, I did it for you, actually."

"But –"

"And now you're here, when I asked you to fuck off, and you're here for yourself. See a – a fuck, god – see a pattern?" Lando's hiccupping by the end, fighting his lungs to spit the words at him.

"I'm not here for me, Lando." Oscar's voice is sharp, like acid on Lando's red-hot nerves.

"Then leave." He almost yells it, pointing at the door with a shaking hand, a palm shining with tears. "Then leave until I'm ready."

Oscar pulls in a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed. "I came to say I'm not sorry."

"Fuck you," Lando rips off his hat before Oscar can finish, chucking it at him with any strength he can muster. "I'm not sorry that no one gives a fuck about your –"

"I'm not sorry for winning," Oscar continues, taking a step closer. "But I'm sorry it had to hurt you. You know I never wanted to."

Lando stares as he moves another half-step nearer, closing the distance between them. Rooted by his rage, as if it's dug itself into the floor for lack of anywhere else to go, Lando lets him. He lets him walk closer, lets his nose touch his, lets him press a gentle kiss to Lando's cheek.

He lets Oscar taste his overflowing rage, lets him pull away with tear-slicked lips to match Lando's tear slicked palm – almost as if he slapped him across the mouth with it.

"If you didn't want to," He grinds out, hands balled into fists. "Then you'd get out."

Oscar nods, pressing one more kiss to another tear. "I will."

"And you won't come to my hotel room tonight."

"Ok."

"And you won't talk to me until I'm ready."

"I know."

Lando pulls in a deep breath, willing himself to push through it, to be better than Oscar. "So congratulations." It burns. "There, I said it. Now leave."

[wanderingblindly]

22 for the kiss prompt? do whatever you wish I'll eat it up BUT I will forever believe that drivers should be allowed to make out on the podium (or after races in general, they deserve it)

Sometimes I just write shit on phone and pretend it’s passable. Anyways, WAG Oscar for the Prompt Game???

On Adrenaline

He can’t feel his hands. He’s grasping the flag — unceremoniously bunched up in his lap — so tightly that they’d gone numb twenty laps ago. But he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t move an inch, frozen in one of the mechanics’ collapsible chairs and fixated on the screen.

The image blurs a bit, papaya shooting into indiscernible streaks alongside brilliant red and dangerous navy; Oscar blinks rapidly, clearing his eyes.

His feet are numb, cold-sweat numb.

He could hear a pin drop.

Beyond the screaming engines, the buzzing fans, the non-stop commentators, and own heartbeat, it’s like nothing exists. It’s him, the skin-warmed nylon in his hands, and the television screen. It’s like the world goes silent, somehow, everything moving in slow motion.

Lando rounds Becketts.

“…ever since he was a boy, ever since he signed as the youngest British racing driver in Formula 1 history…”

The mechanics are moving; Oscar can sense them in his periphery, but he stays — eyes unyielding, heart lodged in his throat. He can’t see the screen anymore, tears welling too quickly to blink them back. With the last of his resolve, he tightens his grip on the flag in his lap.

Lando rounds Stowe.

“And Lando Norris, for the first time since Lewis Hamilton in 2008, looks to bring home victory to Woking —”

He sucks in his lower lip, pinning it between his teeth to stave off the quivering.

They grab his shoulders, two hands on each side, and drag him to his feet. There are hands all over him, dragging him towards the mouth of the garage, but neck stays fixed; his eyes never stray from the screen. Because he sees it, sees the endless waves of that hideous flouro yellow and papaya, sees Lando exit Club corner, sees him straighten out towards the finish, hears —

“And Lando Norris takes Silverstone 2025!”

“Oh my god,” He whispers, hands shaking, voice drowned out by the immediate chaos. The mechanics are jumping, cheering, Lando’s side of the garage rushing with Oscar — stunned stiff — in tow. “It’s —” He starts, seemingly to himself, throat gone too tight to say anything else, to speak up.

Lando’s done it.

He’s —

“Lando! Lando! Lando!” The mechanics chant, pushing as a united front towards the barricades — shoving Oscar to the forefront like an unrelenting wave. The metal hits him in the ribs, the force of it makes him gasp, snake him back into his body.

Lando pulls into parc ferme, tapping his front wing on the number one placard. Even in his car, he looks larger than life. He looks like a champion, the neon livery brilliant against the clear July sky.

With jittery hands, Oscar shakes out the British flag and whips it through the air, catching Lando’s attention as he stands on top of his car — as he strikes his fist high, jumping with the force of it. And Oscar, strung like a wire for hours, finally breaks; the tears don’t stop, falling rapidly down his cheeks. He sobs.

Hideous, disgustingly atypical sobs shake him, only held upright by the crush of Lando’s team — of the people who got him here. Finally.

Loudly this time, loud enough to make Andrea laugh beside him, “Oh my god, Lando!”

Helmet and HANS device unceremoniously and hastily abandoned, Lando sprints to the barricade. Through the tears, through the jostling and screaming and adrenaline, Oscar feels like he’s seeing Lando for the first time; he’s seeing a new part of him that glows brighter, smiles harder, and drives into his chest deeper.

He crashes into him with the unrelenting force of a tornado, throwing his arms around him with enough strength to bruise.

Part of Oscar hopes he feels it forever, that ache.

“Lando, Lando, you —” He tries, sobbing uselessly into Lando’s neck. Lando doesn’t manage to say anything back, pulling away to look him in the eyes; electrically bright, like the whole moment is over-saturated in color. “For you,” Oscar gasps, trying to move enough to drape the flag over Lando’s shoulders. “The team brought it for you, for when you won.”

“God, I love you,” Lando beams, grabbing Oscar’s face with both hands and smashing their mouths together — Oscar’s lips slick with tears, Lando’s dry and chapped.

It’s the worst kiss they’ve ever had; their teeth clack together painfully, the team jostles Oscar back and forth, camera crews crowding to capture the moment, and Zak wolf-whistles from far too close. But Lando’s palms on his cheeks, squishing them too hard, and the taste of his smile makes it perfect.

Beyond perfect.

[wanderingblindly]

By Touch

Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, 1.6k words, oneshot

Oscar's fingers shift, reaching for Lando's wrist and moving them both. "The hardest thing to learn, I think," Oscar starts, voice barely audible over Lando's heart, his shallow breaths. "Is letting yourself feel." Delicately, like one would touch the wings of a butterfly, Oscar ghosts Lando's fingers across his cheekbone. He's soft, as if the pink under his skin is a gently unfurling rose petal after spring rain.

a 1.5 hour drabble meant to distract me from the wips that feel overwhelming.

Anyone want a soft Uni AU loosely tied around Oscar and Lando meeting during a sculpture class?