You thought you'd never find love like how your father loved your mum. Max Verstappen proves you wrong.
Uno Champion - Oscar Piastri ft. George Russell, Lando Norris, Alex Albon
Oscar thought he hated Uno. Maybe it's just George and his cheating nature.
Grid Secret Santa - 2025 Grid, focus on Max Verstappen
Max invites the grid over for Secret Santa... and finds out just how incompetent half of them are when it comes to wrapping.
Parrot Problems - Lando Norris
Honestly Lando didn’t ever imagine finding himself arguing with a nursery’s parrot over his shoes.
Ruins and Elbows - Charles Leclerc, Max Verstappen
Charles didn’t mean to summon anything; he just had terrible luck with elbows and ancient ruins.
86 Cherries - Kimi Antonelli, Ollie Bearman
'When I worked in a fast food chain, a customer put '86 cherries' as a pretentious way to say no cherries, but the store was run by a bunch of teenagers who were working their first job, and were like "why the **** would they want 86 cherries" and started piling cherries into the milkshake.'
Only Oscar I Need - Oscar Piastri
You may not have won the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress, but you've already won the Oscar you want.
Drunken Drabble - Landoscar x Reader
Lando and Oscar appear on your doorstep drunk and clingy.
Museum Artefact - George, Lando, Alex
Lando liked dinosaurs.... until he was chased by one.
Teddy Troubles - Landoscar
Lando wins the Tiny Cars Teddy Bear... Oscar can't wait until its gone.
Only Look, Not Hold - Oscar x Charles
Oscar trusted Lando with his daughter, and obliviously trusted Charles the same. But the flags were red the whole way through.
5v1: Eyebrow Edition - Landoscar
Lando always finds Oscar's eyebrows infuriatingly consistent.... consistent at confusing him and causing self-doubt. Until it matters.
Yk you're ridiculously tired when you keep writing couch instead of coach…
There was something about playing in the middle of winter.
The crisp air and how it slapped everyone's cheeks with its icy tentacles, leaving behind red noses and cheeks. The damp grass wilting with dew, seeping into the soil, turning the field into a sloshy, muddy slip-and-slide. The darkness that crept in before training had finished, setting the blinding lights of the overheads onto the playing area.
Oscar usually enjoyed it. Usually enjoyed how the wind cooled the sweat that trickled along his hairline and down his back. He always enjoyed it until he stopped playing, the adrenaline faded, and he was left shivering in the cold.
The one constant he didn't enjoy was playing in Melbourne during winter. The dreariness was frankly depressing, and whenever they were made to play at AAMI Park, Oscar found himself dreading the befores and afters of the game. He never thought he'd become one of those grouches when it was cold, but here he was, standing in the middle of the stadium field, watching his breath chill and curl into a puff of smoke in front of him.
The air held a wall of thick tension. It mostly emanated from the grandstands - thousands of fans jeering, cheering, and yelling before anything had really started. It was considered the game of the month, the two biggest teams coming together to play. A 1-2 match, where whoever won could steal or retain the top spot on the ladder.
Oscar mostly hated these games. They were too overhyped, too pressurised on the players, and created dramatic, faux headlines designed to pull in the audience and feed them nothing but overdramatised bullshit.
Yeah. Oscar hated it.
He glanced down at his boots. The grass and mud had already begun to stick to his cleats, travelling up the sides. Charles had already complained endlessly about how wet his socks were.
"Why would you want to play in Melbourne all season? How do they bare the wet socks?"
Oscar had laughed at the time, even joined in on Max's teasing, but now he agreed. He felt the tip of his sock, where his big toe sat, growing uncomfortably wet. They hadn't even started the game, let alone warm-ups.
He moved to the side where the rest of the team had begun to warm up. He felt like sighing, felt like faking an injury to get out of the game.
He loved Rugby; he truly did. He lived and breathed the game. Every waking minute was about how he'd improve: training timelines, dieting plans, how to get that extra rep in the gym. Just… sometimes he wished he could step away from it, take a moment to look at it from a different perspective and understand why he was doing what he was doing.
Then again, maybe it was just Melbourne. It always brought fairly depressing thoughts when they came down to play. After all, it was technically still home even if he had moved up to Sydney when he'd signed his contract. He'd always pondered if that was the reason he hated playing here. It was technically his home crowd up in those stands too. Some of them cheered for him, even if he was the opposing team, but half of them couldn't understand why Melbourne's Boy wouldn't play for Melbourne's team.
He had always just shrugged. Always gave the excuse he dreamed of playing somewhere else. That he was sightseeing. Anything to try and hide the fact he had just hated Melbourne. And its winters.
Charles called him over, already pulling the team into game-day focus. He'd started on the drills, critiquing form, movements, passes. Oscar appreciated the way Charles so easily poured everything into the team, despite whatever was going on in the background. He knew Charles felt the pressure of this game. He always did, but these games played a bit more on the mind.
He walked over to the rest of them, grabbed a spare ball and began his drills. He tried to drown out the noise of the growing crowd, the few who yelled his name, or the noises drifting from the tunnels and the opposing sheds. It only grated his nerves if he listened to them. Somehow, even the good, supporting cheers became sour at AAMI Park.
The thing, however, about Oscar trying to tune it out was that he began to tune out his teammates too. He'd completely ignored Max, who was all but screaming in his face. He'd even blankly stared at Max when he threatened to throw the ball right into Oscar's nose.
"Mate!" Max resorted to shaking him by the shoulders. "Did you leave your brain back home?"
Oscar sighed. "I wish." He muttered, turning to glare at the ball in his hands.
Max tried hard not to cave. He knew Oscar hated coming here, not exactly why, but enough that Oscar had quietly admitted he'd rather be anywhere else. Hell, he'd rather play in Darwin, and that was almost like playing in a fire. Max didn't understand, honestly; this place was Oscar's home, where he'd grown up, and where his family still lived. Yet, Oscar never wanted to set foot in the city unless it was a family emergency.
Max knew Charles had once tried to ask one of Oscar's sisters about it, but they'd just shrugged and muttered something about past club experiences. Charles had just crinkled his nose in thought and made it his personal mission to find out what they meant. He'd pestered Oscar about it for weeks, enough that Oscar had actually snapped at Charles to leave him alone, it wasn't his business. Both Charles and Max had been shocked; in their years of playing, Oscar had always been calm, even during the difficult games. But here he was, on the verge of yelling at Charles. Charles' shock had him silent for a record three hours before he'd found his voice again. Yet he'd learned his lesson and steered clear of the conversation.
Max patted Oscar on the shoulder.
"Come on champ, let's just focus on drills, yeah?"
Oscar nodded mutely. He followed Max back to the start, trying to focus on the passing, sprints, and skills. He knew he'd have to pull himself back together before kick-off, but every year, or every time it was here, it became so much harder.
Oscar was technically eligible for Origin, had moved to New South Wales to escape Melbourne when he was thirteen, but his grandfather had also played for the Blues. He'd received the call-up the year before, had been so ecstatic about it that he conveniently forgot that Game Two was always in Melbourne. In the end, a calf injury had forced him, with a heavy heart, to pull out. Now, he wasn't sure if he could measure up against other players to fulfil the Fullback role on the squad. The fact he would miss Melbourne was another small mercy. After all, he'd be terribly unforgivable if he played for New South Wales too. Melbourne's Boy was truly abandoning all his state wanted - most of them could never get behind a Blues jersey.
As soon as the trainers called them back to the sheds, Oscar deposited his ball back in the bag and immediately headed towards the tunnels. The sounds of the crowd were swimming in his ears, and it was slowly creeping into his defences.
He ignored most of his teammates and staff as he headed for the locker room. He sat on the bench in front of his named locker, staring down at his hands. He began slowly tapping the pad of his thumb to the tips of his fingers, breathing in and out with each tap. Getting his head in the game was always the hardest. He couldn't count how many times he'd butchered the first half, to be ripped apart by the coaches, and have to find himself in the second quarter. It was becoming a pattern he'd like to hurry up and break. It had seemed to get worse than better as years progressed, and it was getting infuriating and extremely embarrassing.
A heavyweight beside him had his eyes glancing left. Max sat beside him, bending over to tug at his shoelaces. Oscar just watched from his peripheral, still trying to calm the storm in his head.
"Wanna hear a joke?"
Oscar turned his head to Max, who had twisted himself to look at him. Oscar raised an eyebrow, shrugging lightly. He knew even if he said no, Max would tell him.
"Why did the tomato blush?"
Max already looked ridiculously proud of himself. Oscar tried to fight the smile that wanted to spread across his face.
"Alright, why did it blush?"
Max looked like a kid who got caught stealing candy, a look of faux scandal crossing his face.
"Because it saw the salad dressing." He broke into a wide grin, the pride growing.
Oscar wasn't quick enough to hide the snort that escaped, trying to disguise it as a cough. Yet, the goofy look on Max's face, which was often so rare, chipped at Oscar that he couldn't help but smile.
"That was awful!" Oscar scoffed.
"You laughed!" Max declared indignantly.
"A snort is not a laugh!" Oscar defended half-heartedly.
"I beg to differ." Max stuck his nose haughtily in the air. "Wanna hear another one?"
His demeanour changed almost immediately, returning to the kiddish excitement he had before.
"Sure, Max." Oscar rolled his eyes gently. He knew Max was trying to distract him. It wasn't fully working, but he'd humour his older teammate. He appreciated the effort after all; everyone else just tried to ignore the mental turmoil Oscar was in.
"What do you call a factory that makes okay products?"
Oscar actually tried to think of the answer, pondering it before shrugging.
"Shein?"
Max's face scrunched up in shock before his body shook with heavy laughter.
"That's almost better than the answer! It was meant to be satis-factory."
Oscar snorted loudly. Max looked extremely satisfied.
"Wanna hear another?"
Oscar found the distraction oddly comforting. Where Max was getting the terrible jokes was a mystery; how he remembered them was even more baffling. Max continued to tell a joke before Charles walked through the locker room door.
"Max."
Max continued telling his joke, growing more animated.
"Max."
Max continued to ignore Charles.
"MAX!"
Max's mouth shut with an almost audible clop.
"If you have the energy to do stand-up comedy, you have the energy to listen to me."
Max sniffed loudly. "I am sitting down, so it is sit-down comedy, thank you. And my audience loves me."
"Audience of one." Oscar threw in.
"Tomayto, tomahto." Max waved dismissively.
Oscar bit the inside of his cheek to stop a grin. Max was truly becoming influenced by the others with his vocabulary of sayings. Oscar had heard the "burn the bridge when we get to it" make its debut in the hallways a few days ago.
"We have a game in like fifteen minutes. Hurry up and sort your jersey out." Charles gestured to the playing jersey still hanging in his locker.
Oscar lost the light-heartedness that had begun to fill him as Max distracted him with jokes. Charles noticed the dropping light in his eyes and the tell-tale signs as Oscar moved to fiddle with his shoelaces. Charles grimaced.
"Wanna hear my joke?" Charles grinned.
Max looked up with a start, ready to argue about injustice when he saw Charles staring directly at Oscar. He knew Charles thought he stuffed up by teasing Max about the game. Knew that he assumed Max was trying to be a goof or waste time rather than try to cheer Oscar up.
Oscar glanced up at Charles.
"Please tell me its better than Max's."
Max gasped. "Mine were knee slappers!"
Oscar rolled his eyes.
"What do you call a banana that tells jokes?"
Oscar had to laugh at the joke without even the answer. Charles looked even prouder of himself that he managed to get Oscar to laugh before the punch line.
"What?"
"A pun-ana!"
Max burst out laughing. "That is awful!"
"It was better than yours!" Charles bristled.
Oscar hid his face in his hands, trying to cover the laugh threatening to bubble out.
"Oscar! You cannot leave me hanging." Charles sniffed teasingly, moving to pull Oscar's hands away. Oscar was red, his lips indented with teeth marks, and little snuffles of muted laughter escaping him.
"Okay," Oscar slapped his cheeks, "that was kinda funny."
Charles beamed. "Of course it was! I'm much funnier than Max."
"Yeah, yeah, much punnier." Oscar grinned.
Max and Charles looked at each other before laughing. The teasing started immediately, aiming directly at Oscar's deadpan humour, before the coach walked into the locker room. The room fell silent as conversations died out, and they naturally gravitated towards the seats in the centre. Oscar was one of the last to drift over and sit down, the easy laugh dying as it began to twist to the inevitable.
Oscar tried to cling onto every word spoken to drown out the thoughts in his mind, although it didn't work as well as he would've liked. Last-minute plays, strategies, and hyped words flew in one ear and out the other. He played with his fingers, staring blankly at the coach. He watched the coach's mouth move, heard the words as they were said, but nothing was retained. Even when his teammates laughed, Oscar didn't know what the joke was.
He felt a pressure growing on the side of his knee. He glanced down, finding Charles' leg pushing into the side of his. He flickered his eyes up to Charles, but he wasn't looking anywhere but directly at the coach. Oscar nudged Charles' leg back, a silent reassurance of I'll be okay. Charles nodded slowly, confident that Oscar would get over whatever was wrong, but still hoping it would be before kick-off.
Oscar knew he could voice the issues that he had with Melbourne, AAMI Park, and versing Storm to Charles and Max. He knew they would understand the pressure and dislike harboured in his heart, but he couldn't formulate the words to tell them. How did he put years of psychological nightmares into words? He thought it was a bit pathetic on both perspectives if he was being honest; keeping the intense dislike and the inability to tell both of his closest mates in the game.
Oscar was momentarily frightened out of his thoughts as the hyped roars of his teammates met his ears. The coach had finished his pep talk, giving way to the players jumping up with coursing adrenaline to complete the team chant before running out to the field.
Max hauled Oscar off his chair before he could think of standing. He'd evidently been too slow for Max's liking, but when he looked up to meet the lock's eyes, he could only see a teasing prod. Normally it would've been a questioning glare. Oscar didn't really know which was worse.
"Come on, champ, let's go dig their hole."
Oscar dived for the ball.
He'd already stuffed up three dive bombs, not that he was exactly counting. He wasn't about to make it four.
He'd managed to redeem two of them, saving the team from becoming heavy on their defensive line and facing another charge from the opposing team. He refused to talk about the other one that narrowly cost them a try. He was still beating himself up about it, and he knew the team were beginning to question what the hell was wrong with him.
Since when did the great Oscar Piastri drop such easy bombs?
He wanted to roll his eyes, already picturing what the commentators or haters were saying about him. He normally didn't care, and he didn't really at the moment; it was just getting hard to face the absolute disaster he became when playing in Melbourne. Or against Storm. He was surprised no one really picked up on the pattern.
He had seen the exchanged looks between Charles and Max. Yet, Charles didn't stop giving Oscar the chance to play how he usually did. Offloads, passes, and yelled plays still spurted from Charles' mouth, acting like Oscar wasn't having an internal crisis affecting his play. Oscar appreciated it more than Charles probably realised; if anyone changed to try and accommodate his mistakes, he probably would've just gone worse. Or mad. Either or.
With seven minutes still left in the first half, they weren't going badly per se, aside from Oscar. They were up by two tries, courtesy of a few holes in the opposition defence, and were knocking on the door to make it three.
Oscar saw a gap forming between two of the centres and knew it would either be now or never. He yelled at Charles, who caught the ball from one of the front rowers and lobbed it towards Oscar. His breathing shallowed until the ball was firmly in his grip and he'd exploded off his left foot. As he ran towards the gap, eyes flittering between his teammates and other defenders, he saw the glances between the opposition. He knew what that meant; he'd seen some of his teammates do it when they became cocky. Here he comes; let's watch him stuff it up again.
Oscar's blood boiled slightly. Some of those players were ex-teammates; the rest meant to be current ones.
He pushed down harder, his boots hitting the wet, muddy field with pent-up anger and frustration. He slipped his way through the gap, jumping over the defender who launched himself at his legs. Now in clean space, but with a rush of Storm players running at him, Oscar tried to put everything into keeping upright and running at full pelt.
The try line crept down to the ten-metre mark. His legs were slowly cramping, the lactic acid burning in his thighs. He could feel the heavy breathing of a defender right behind him, almost a body length behind. Oscar could see it in his peripheral, the way the man behind him was positioning himself to lunge.
Oscar pushed off his right foot erratically, throwing the defender off. It was too late for him, and Oscar knew it. He swerved back towards the left, bringing himself closer to the sticks for an easier conversion before diving over the line.
He scored.
Oscar had finally done something good in this game. Had finally got the try they'd been chipping away at for minutes to make it three up. He exhaled deeply into the grass.
He didn't realise how silent his head had been until slowly the roars of the crowd and his team filled his ears. The dead quiet broken so quickly made his head ring, and when he was pulled to his feet by his jersey, his head spun. A faceful of Max broke his hazy gaze; a grin spread across his face.
"Champ!"
A slap on his back had him tumbling forward into Max's chest. He tried to laugh, but it only came out as a strangled noise stuck in the back of his throat.
The rest of his teammates came barreling at them, either slapping Oscar on the back, joining the hug pile, or hoisting themselves on his shoulders, in celebration. Oscar could only force a smile.
His stomach was doing the weird thing again. The one where, even if he'd managed to pull through and gain a try, it would go back to how it was before. That was the thing; despite second halves usually going better as he somehow got back into a half-decent headspace, it was never truly enjoyable. He'd considered a few times that maybe he should suggest missing Melbourne games, the excuse that he'd just hamper the team so easy to justify. Yet every time he'd gone to suggest it, it felt like Charles somehow knew and always gave him a look. Logically, Oscar knew it was probably coming as concern about how the week was going, knowing the dreaded Melbourne game was coming up, but Oscar still grew cold feet and sucked it up.
He really needed to learn to say no.
The game continued fairly smoothly in their favour. By the ringing of the final siren, it was 28-14. Everyone would be claiming it was a ridiculous thumping over Storm - the two premiership-winning teams head-to-head and that was the result.
Oscar had a try, 156 metres, and 14 runs to his name. Technically, that would've been considered pretty good for how the game started. But Oscar still had that shallow pit in his stomach that even the pride of thumping the opposing team, in AAMI Park, couldn't distinguish. He knew, from every other game like this, it'd still take him a few days to get over.
He trudged back to the sheds earlier than the rest of his celebrating team. He'd barely even high-fived any of the Storm players before retreating to his locker and hopefully claiming an early shower. He'd picked an earlier flight for this reason; it gave him an excuse to get going earlier and pass on the celebrations. Call him unsportsmanlike or whatever, but he wasn't going to stay in the city any longer than strictly possible. He'd already told the staff anyway; it was too late to change.
Oscar managed to avoid most of the team and staff between the tunnel, locker room and shower. He'd dumped his boots, grabbed his duffel, and high-tailed it to the showers. He would have roughly five minutes before someone would come looking for him. In that time, he had to shower, redress and be almost packed up.
He almost ran through the shower, electing to skip shampooing his hair and just reaching for the body wash. He ran it down himself before washing the suds down the drain. He watched the bubbles and white foam slide down the tiles and out of sight. He wished the empty feeling that plagued him would be washed off too.
The anger that had fuelled the try had continued during the rest of the first half, and a similar jeer had set him boiling in the second half. It had been exhausting to play mad, especially because he was so unused to the feeling. Teammates like Liam and Max, whose signature was playing aggressively, always seemed so energised. Oscar didn't know how they did it.
He'd made it to his locker and had almost packed up before the first half of his team made it into the room. They weren't overly surprised to see Oscar there already, but a few eyebrows had been raised when they noticed he had already showered and was dressed in the team jersey and a pair of black shorts. Yet the celebratory mood quickly distracted them. Oscar knew he had about a minute before the bin would be brought out for the team chant, and his chances of escaping the showers of energy drinks, milk, and water would be minimal.
He snagged his duffel, the last of his items stowed, and slung it over his shoulder. He caught one of the logistics staff members' eyes before he got to them.
"Sorry I have to miss this, my flight leaves earlier."
He wasn't truthfully sorry. He was to the team; he felt like a letdown, but he would be in a worse situation if he hung around. One celebration without him wouldn't change anything; after all, he didn't play like he deserved to be there.
The staff member nodded, a look of concern passing behind their eyes, before they wished him a safe flight. Oscar nodded a stiff farewell before exiting the lockers and avoiding the spray. He had made sure his manager had arranged a ride to the airport well in advance, pestering to make sure it'd be there as soon as the final siren was gone. He knew it would be waiting somewhere similar to where the team bus would be to take the rest of them to their destinations.
A hand grabbed his shoulder before he'd even managed ten metres down the hallway.
"Where are you going?"
Oscar turned slightly to see Charles, dishevelled and had clearly found a faceful of water.
"I have an earlier flight, I don't want to miss it. Sorry…"
Charles only nodded, but didn't drop his hand from Oscar's shoulder.
"Can you give me ten minutes? I need to change and I'll be ready."
Oscar stared at him like he grew another nose.
"What?"
"Oscar, you are not flying home by yourself." Charles rolled his eyes. "I can change my flight. Easy enough. I'm not letting you wallow in whatever is wrong by yourself."
Oscar didn't get another word out before Charles had turned and run back down the hallway.
He could've turned and continued down the hallway, ignoring Charles, but something nagged at him to stay where he was. He could spare ten minutes. Especially for Charles.
He leaned against the brick wall, fiddling with the strap of his duffel and deliberately staring anywhere but the direction of his teammates' yelling.
Ten minutes felt like an eternity before he heard shuffling. Turning his head, he found a polished Charles waltzing towards him, a dishevelled and half-dressed Max trailing behind him. Oscar wasn't surprised to find the lock following Charles. Wherever one went, the other one wasn't far behind.
Oscar had also briefly entertained the questioning thought about how Charles managed to look like he hadn't played eighty minutes of brutal football in ten minutes. He just filed it under the mental category of 'just Charles.' Max just looked like Max - a complete mess.
"Right!" Charles chirped. "Let's go."
Oscar looked past him to Max, not sure how to voice what was circling his head.
"Don't even bother," Max passed him, a brief flick of his hands, "I want to equally get home to my bed. Plus, Charles promised food."
Oscar rolled his eyes. "Of course he did."
Oscar's legs were cramping.
Maybe it's karma for ditching his team earlier. He'd thought he'd suffered enough, but clearly fate or whatever had different plans.
He considered asking Charles and Max if he could get past them and stretch his legs. He'd probably have to climb over Max, who'd closed his eyes and promptly fallen asleep before the doors had even shut.
Oscar shifted his legs again, trying not to boot the chair in front. He was slowly going insane; the cramp felt like it was travelling further up his legs and into his thighs. He pushed his palms down on his knees, trying to push the cramp back down. He'd rather have it in his calves than his thighs.
Charles looked over as Oscar got increasingly fidgety.
"Oscar?"
Oscar looked up, an expression somewhere between pain and frustration creating a heavy crease on his forehead.
"Are you okay?"
Oscar puffed. "No, I have terrible cramps."
Charles winced, well accustomed to the pain. "Ah. Why don't you get up and walk around?"
Oscar threw a gesture at Max, who was snuffling beside them like a faulty mulcher. Charles just rolled his eyes, one hand coming out to whack Max, who shot forward with a start.
"Huh?"
"You were snoring. Now let Oscar out, he has cramps." Charles was already elegantly unfolding himself from the chair and moving into the aisle.
Max turned to find Oscar's pinched expression before he hastily scrambled out into the aisle. Oscar followed suit, his legs complaining.
"Thanks," he grimaced, turning to stretch his leg out.
Max and Charles shuffled back into their seats, Charles pushing Max towards the window so Oscar could sit down and get up whenever he wanted. Oscar appreciated the thought.
He'd appreciated the fact that Charles and Max had given up their night of celebration to travel home with him. Oscar knew he'd dampened their celebratory mood with his depressed, closed-off mood. He knew it wasn't fair for them. They'd given up a lot for Oscar to be where he was; he wasn't sure how much he'd ever returned. Wasn't sure if he ever could either.
He still carried the guilt around of snapping at Charles for showing genuine care. But Oscar knew it wasn't something he could fix by telling them what was going on. He knew Max would threaten to grind them into the ground, and Charles would find some genuine way to kick the ball into their face. Oscar wasn't ready to open that can of worms yet. Maybe he never would be. But he knew that the two teammates next to him would have his back no matter what happened. Oscar just had to learn to believe that.
I implore everyonethingwhere to give me motivation to finish drabble no.3 in my lestapiastri We're Rugby Players, Remember? and chapter 4 of my lestiapiastri One Found Home....
The ideas are dripping slowly from the garden hose of knowledge and the fingers are not liking the keyboard.
And I'm trying not to start a new oneshot so they get even more ignored 🤓
one-shot two of the Lestappiastri rugby series! Find it on my ao3.
"Left! No, Max, the other left!"
"I am!"
"Non, THE OTHER LEFT! Espèce d'abruti!*"
Charles was screaming at this point, threatening to almost throw the ball directly at Max's face.
"Don't yell at me in French, I can't defend myself!"
Oscar sat on the sidelines, hand-balling the ball to himself, watching the mess in front of him with amusement. Their other teammates weren't having the same level of composure. Liam was lounging on the glass, tears of laughter trickling down his cheeks, while Ollie and Gabi were both failing to get through their own drills.
Oscar couldn't tell if Max was red from exhaustion or frustration. Charles was relentless with drills.
"Okay." Charles marched over to Max, snatched the ball out of his hands, and marched right back to where he started under the posts.
"We will get this right. Figure out your compass or whatever!" He snapped at Max.
Oscar could tell Charles was royally pissed at this point. He didn't think Max could do anything to redeem himself. Yet, Max, being his typical self, just rolled his eyes and moved back to the starting position.
When Charles was sure Max was ready to try the drill again, he started running towards the opposite try line. He volleyed the ball off to Max, who caught it cleanly, and started booking it down the field.
"Left!"
Oscar watched in amused shock as, again, Max stepped right.
"YOU ABSOLUTE-" Charles stopped dead in the middle of the field. He inhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Max knew he'd stuffed up as soon as Charles stopped following him and tried to compensate by veering left. Instead, he veered much further left than both Charles and Oscar planned.
"Too far!" Charles yelled after him.
Max veered back to the right, ending up somewhere in the ideal range but not how Charles had planned it.
Charles swore in colourful French before bringing his hands to his hips. Oscar could feel the self-restraint from the side of the field, watching as Charles tried not to blow up.
"Get your directions sorted!" He yelled as Max jogged back.
"I am trying!" Max groaned. "I've ran this drill so much my legs are attracted to the right in-lines."
"They're about to be attracted to the soil six-feet under," Charles muttered under his breath before moving off towards where Oscar sat.
Oscar handed him an energy drink once he reached the sideline, plonking himself on the ground.
"I've aged twenty years, I don't think I can do this anymore."
Oscar just snorted, patting Charles on the stomach.
Max waltzed over, catching the last sentence.
"You're being dramatic… it's building character and resilience."
"It's building a migraine in my frontal lobe," Charles complained.
Oscar grinned, grabbing his water bottle to drink from deeply. One of the trainers, who had just appeared from inside, walked over to them. He raised an eyebrow at Charles starfished on the grass, Oscar sitting cross-legged, and Max staring off at the field.
"Break time is it?"
Charles just groaned, and Oscar grinned.
"Charles is having a minor existential crisis."
"A major one!" Charles corrected.
"Max here," Charles threw a hand towards where Max stood, "keeps going the wrong way."
Max huffed. "I go a way."
"Yeah, the wrong frickin' one!"
"It's a subjective issue."
Charles squawked in indignation. "It is objectively not!"
The trainer just laughed, looking towards Oscar. "Not gonna help?"
Oscar waved it off. "Nah, I'll let Max sort his two right feet out."
Max sighed heavily. "I give up!"
He started to walk off towards the other drills before the trainer grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back.
"Let's try this again. Oscar, you act as the half-back."
Oscar looked at Charles, an eyebrow raised, before hauling himself off the grass. Charles broke into a giant smile.
"Oh, hallelujah! Make him learn his left and rights!"
Max grumbled, while Oscar just clapped him on the back.
"If you yell at me in French, I'm done."
Oscar snorted. "I don't speak French, other than to order a drink or ask where the bathroom is."
Charles looked unimpressed, and Oscar decided to move on quickly, pulling Max towards the try line.
"Right, let's show Charles how to do it."
Charles made a noise that sounded like he was choking back a sob.
Within two minutes, both of them were weaving in and out of imaginary defenders, hitting the drills with incredibly precise passes, chips, and attack. Charles hadn't taken the sidelining to heart, rather trying to scream pointers at the two of them.
If they were going to do it better than he and Max were previously, he may as well point out where they were going wrong to prove that they weren't perfect. It would allow him to humble their smug selves later.
I have a cold again for the 2nd time in like 3 weeks 🤧 I'm just sick of the runny nose that I want to chop mine off. But two works in 24 hours what 😮
Lando was about to cut off his nose. Then burn it. Maybe throw the ashes far and wide into the Thames. Anything to get it off his face and end his misery.
Lando, which he won't admit, is the key ambassador for the man flu. He wore it loud, definitely not proud, and everyone knew before they saw him that he was suffering a 'valiant demise from a deathly influx of snot'.
Oscar, to his credit, took it in stride. Lando could be an ass when he was sick, but at least he returned some of the effort if the shoe was on the other foot.
Oscar fought the urge to slam his head against the kitchen cupboard when he heard the over-dramatic moan from the bedroom. Lando couldn't survive the two minutes it took Oscar to make him tea without complaining. He'd already heard three near-death speeches, and the casual spoken thought of who would say his eulogy.
Oscar briefly thought that if Lando complained less, maybe he'd get better faster, but he wouldn't dare voice the thoughts for fear of a snotty tissue thrown in his general vicinity.
Instead, he just dumped the tea bag in the bin, splashed the milk in, and walked carefully back to the bedroom. Lando looked up from his cocoon of blankets, pillows, and sweat before he plonked his head back down with a long-suffering sigh.
"I'm dying."
Oscar rolled his eyes, setting the tea on the bedside.
"You are not dying. Have you taken more tablets?"
Lando turned his head to give the dirtiest glare he could, which was surprisingly harsh for a 'dying' man.
"Tablets only draw out the inevitable. I am dying Oscar. I am way too young to die from viral rhinitis."
Oscar snorted. "Stop googling medical terms to sound like it's an actual issue."
"It is an issue, Osc! I think I need to call an emergency meeting with my lawyer to scrap you in the will for that."
"I'm in your will?"
Lando paused, scrunching his eyes in thought.
"I dunno, I can't remember. Dying has harsh implications on the memory."
Oscar laughed. "Right, well maybe I should leave the dying man with an episode of Prison Break and a new box of tissues, so then maybe he can nap."
Lando dramatically narrowed his eyes. "You're leaving me here to die alone? Where's your humanity, Osc?"
"It left when you threw that dirty tissue at me!" Oscar complained exasperatedly. "If you survive until tea, I'll get spring rolls. And I won't tell Jon."
Lando lit up like a Christmas tree. "Deal! Grab the laptop, hurry."
Oscar snorted, moving to find the laptop under a pile of discarded laundry. He pulled up an episode and set it in a comfortable spot for Lando to watch without moving much.
"There. Try not to die before the intro finishes."
Lando gasped dramatically. "You cannot victimise a patient!"
"I didn't sign up to be your doctor."
"You did when you asked me on a date!"
Oscar's pained smile turned somewhat goofy. "Anything else, your highness?"
Lando pondered the question, bringing his index finger up to run thoughtfully across his chin.
"Fluff the pillows?"
Oscar stared at him, blinking slowly. "You have two perfectly functioning hands."
"But, Osc! They won't be for long. How could you deal with the thought that the last thing was you denied me of fluffy pillows."
Oscar rolled his eyes affectionately before walking out the door. The complaints of Lando followed him down the hall, and when the particular scene that never failed to make him mad appeared, Oscar could definitely say he wasn't dying.
this little piece of pleasure is inspired a lot by State of Origin (up the blues! 🥳) and @kaymar814's States of Attraction (find here, highly recommend!).
I've fallen in love writing Lestapiastri because of my series 🫶🏼 hoping to release the first chapter soonish
Max was grumbling again.
His shoelaces were making it a mission to stay untied, ignoring how many times he'd double-knotted them. The bunny ears had played enough with the tree and criss-crossed it enough to catch a whole burrow. They never ended up beautiful and bold because somehow the ears had escaped through a hole that didn't exist.
He was ready to throw the boots across the locker room when the bench jolted with the impact of a body dumping itself unceremoniously onto the wooden slats.
"Good morning."
Max grumbled even more.
"It is absolutely not."
Oscar shrugged, pulling the tape from his bag to start on his wrists.
"The sun's out, better than the rain."
"I don't care." Max huffed, tugging harshly at the boot lace to start on try five hundred of tying them.
"We only have an hour of gym today."
Max swore under his breath. "Still don't care."
"The canteen had an edible new recipe of muffin."
Max inhaled harshly. "It tasted like they used salt instead of sugar."
Oscar stared at the tape starting to snake around his right wrist.
"Yeah… at least it resembled a muffin."
They both fell into silence, Max's frustration at the simple task of tying his shoelaces filling it. It didn't mean much; Oscar was more than used to the grouchy lock beside him.
Once his right wrist was completely covered in the tape, he looked back towards Max.
"Do you need me to teach you how to tie your laces again?"
Max shot him a warning look. "I'm not a child. It just keeps coming undone."
"Mhm."
"I think it's defective. Throwing a mutiny."
Oscar looked at the ragged laces, evidently been through a few tough training sessions and games. Max also wasn't the type to overly care for his boots. Yet, the laces weren't damaged that much.
"Uh-huh. Not the wearers fault or anything?"
Max stopped trying with the damned lace, throwing it down to stand and stare down at Oscar. He crossed his arms against his toned chest.
"I'll have you know, smartass, that-"
The door to the locker room slammed on its hinges, hitting the plaster wall behind it and shuddering from the impact.
Charles appeared beside them in a few seconds, carrying two smoothies, a Gatorade, and a muffin.
"I come bearing gifts!"
Oscar dived for the muffin and Gatorade, shoving half of the baked good in his mouth before the other two had a chance to react. Max looked at him, disgusted, while Charles looked offended.
"That was mine- anyway, here," he palmed off the other smoothie to Max.
Max took it, sipping at it before looking back at Charles.
"So… what about 'thanks Charles, your thoughtfulness is really touching!'"
Oscar snorted, muffin crumbs spraying onto his shorts.
"You only willingly get us stuff if you've done something wrong. What's the catch?"
Charles looked wounded. "What catch?"
Oscar raised an eyebrow, and Max scoffed.
"There is always a catch."
Charles pouted, opening his mouth to refute the statement before dropping his eyes to the ground.
"I may need someone to help convince Coach that it was not my fault that six balls landed in the tree yesterday…"
Max stared at him.
"Annnddd, there you go ladies and gentlemen." Oscar shoved the last part of the muffin in his mouth.
Charles whined. "It wasn't my fault!"
"How much of it was?"
Charles chewed his bottom lip. "Uh. About… sixty percent?"
Max raised his eyebrows.
"Okay! Maybe like eighty percent, but I was teaching banana kicks. The trees were just inconveniently placed!"
Oscar snorted. "Our halfback everybody."
Both Max and Oscar clapped half-heartedly.
Charles pouted again. "Stop it! You have such little confidence in me."
Max rolled his eyes, turning to walk back to his locker before half tripping on his untied shoelaces.
"Oh, for the sake of all!" Max cut out the words threatening to finish the sentence.
Oscar snorted, moving to grab the tape for the next wrist.
"You've been trying to tie that still?" Charles asked, perplexed.
"It is not my fault the bunny is having a tantrum."
Charles crouched, grabbing Max's boot and tying the lace quickly.
"Mhm."
Max glared at his boots. "Traitorous son of a-"
"Let's go!" Charles clapped, slurping his smoothie and walking out the locker room.
Glossary:
Lock (Max): The player that wears no. 13, essentially a third forward. They're usually one of the top tacklers in a team, controlling the midfield. They focus on size for tackling and passing skills of the back rowers.
Half-back (Charles): The player that wears no. 7, and is the main playmaker and tactical player of a team. They direct attack, structure, and make decisions on field. They are usually the primary kicker (long kicks, short attack kicks) and plan field position. They act as a link between the forwards and backs.
Banana kick: An attacking kick that curls in like a banana.
like and you shall receive apparently... 🤷🏻♀️ a little paragraph spoiler for my lestappiastri book series
He couldn’t go to Charles. This wasn’t his issue to deal with, and it would mean Oscar would have to tell Charles what he was. Would have to admit he had lied to Charles’ face. Oscar wasn’t going to do that. It’s easier just to disappear, let Charles go on with his perfect life with Max. Oscar wasn’t anything to him anyway; he never was. Just the little kid Charles got cheap drinks from and listened to his dramatic stories.
He didn’t realise that, as he had turned, Charles had looked up, eyes drifting to the cold night. His eyes snapped to Oscar standing in the shadow of the cafe’s lights. He looked absolutely ruined, hair stuck to his forehead, eyes devoid of any glint, and shivering under the thin t-shirt. Charles stood up in haste once he saw the back of Oscar’s t-shirt, running towards the door. He didn’t bother to collect his book, jacket, or finish the already cooling tea. The staff would set it aside when Charles came back to pay anyway. Oscar was more important than any of that, and the sight of blood coating the back of Oscar's shirt had Charles feeling physically sick with worry.
I have started on chapter 4. Im hoping to get the plot more cemented before I share chapter 1. Keep an eye on my ao3 ☺️
Five times Oscar’s eyebrows severely confused Lando, and the one time they made sense
1. Trivia
Oscar was doing that thing with his eyebrows again. The one where Lando couldn’t tell if he’d just royally stuffed up the answer to a nerdy question, or the one where he was shocked Lando got it right.
It was driving Lando a little crazy if he was to admit it out loud. Why couldn’t he differ the eyebrow raises just a little bit? Super high if Lando was correct. Scrunched if Lando was well off the mark. Maybe wiggles if almost. Not the same damn height for every expression.
Lando stared hard at Oscar’s eyebrows. Maybe if he concentrated, they’d tell him what he was meant to say. Maybe it would move that one centimetre higher so that Lando could go ‘aha! So it is Abraham Lincoln!’
He’d honestly never put so much faith in eyebrows to tell him who the first US President was.
Lando thought he knew Oscar’s eyebrows. He’d stared at them, well, Oscar’s face, for the past few years of being teammates. He would nail this trivia question. The eyebrows would tell him.
“Lando? Your time is ticking.” The media team prompted. Lando slumped further in the seat.
“Oscuhhhh.” He complained, earning only a small giggle from his teammate.
Yeah, he wouldn’t get anything further from Oscar’s eyebrows, other than he wouldn’t be able to ignore the one stubborn strand that refused to follow the same direction as the others.
So when he proclaimed his answer, with half-baked confidence that it was correct, only to have the media team try to stifle their laughs, Lando was offended. Even more offended when he turned to look at Oscar and found a raised eyebrow. The same one he’d been analysing like a pervert a few seconds prior.
“You can’t keep doing that, expecting that I know what it means!”
Oscar just laughed, shaking his head. “Means you’re an idiot.”
Lando pouted. He would learn what they meant one day.
2. Heat
Lando dumped the plate of ill-presented noodles on the table in front of Oscar. Lando, in a past moment of intelligence, had decided it was time for both of them to try the black packaged instant noodles.
Lando watched as Oscar looked up from his phone, set it beside him, and stared at the bowl. He plonked himself in the chair opposite his teammate, a wicked grin slowly spreading across his face.
“Whoever loses rock, paper, scissors has to take the first mouthful.”
Oscar groaned, already accepting his terrible ability in rock, paper, scissoring. Both threw their object when Lando yelled shoot, his rock decisively beating Oscar’s scissors.
Oscar sighed, moving to pick up the fork and staring regrettably at the bowl of red, worm-looking noodles in front of him. He swirled the fork, gathering a clump and bringing it towards his mouth.
Lando looked at him expectantly, watching as the noodles went slowly into Oscar’s mouth and disappeared down his throat. Oscar stared at Lando for a few seconds, face absolutely blank, before red bloomed across his cheeks and his eyebrows rose.
Lando leaned forward expectantly, waiting for Oscar to do something to indicate the level of hotness. He had to ignore how Oscar’s cheeks were bright red because that didn’t mean much with him.
“Well!?” Oscar’s eyebrows didn’t move, still perched in that exact spot they always found.
Lando slightly panicked, stared at only the small, almost unperceptible twitches of Oscar’s eyebrow. He couldn’t tell if this would be the end of Oscar, a silent but agonising death from noodles, or if he actually enjoyed the savage red worms.
Lando couldn’t take it anymore, grabbing his own fork and shoving a mouthful of the noodles in his mouth. He immediately choked on the spice, spluttering on the rest of his bowl. He coughed, the entirety of his mouth burning. He was sure smoke would be pouring out of his ears, nose, mouth, and eyes, like a volcano ready to explode.
Oscar looked up, watching Lando struggling before letting out a loud laugh, choking himself on the kicking heat in his mouth.
“Grab the milk!” Lando grabbed at his throat, pointing dramatically at the fridge.
Oscar stumbled to the fridge, took out the bottle and didn’t bother trying to find a glass. Flicking off the lid, he poured the liquid down his throat, sighing as the heat started to subside. The bottle was crudely pulled from his hand by a desperate Lando, before he chugged the milk.
“Never again!” Lando swore, hugging the bottle to his chest.
“I told you it was bad.” Oscar snorted.
“You told me shit! I can’t read this,” he gestured to Oscar’s forehead before trudging back towards the table with the milk bottle.
3. Battles
Lando, for their few hours off, had challenged Oscar to a sim battle. He’d tried to convince the engineers that it’d help for the upcoming weekend, but he didn’t know how convincing he was. They just shrugged and walked off, leaving the two up to their own devices.
Oscar had sat back in his seat, watching as Lando fiddled around with his settings. He’d let out a quiet sigh, stretching his leg briefly before fiddling absent-mindedly with the steering wheel.
When Lando had finally deemed himself ready for the match, he’d looked over to see if Oscar was ready. Except, he’d turned to find Oscar’s eyebrows raised. They hadn’t even started, and Oscar looked smug. Smug. Lando didn’t even know what Oscar had to be smug about. It’s not like he was currently staring at the screen, seeing OP81 plastered in the top three spots. No, because if both he and Lando looked at the screen, it would be Lando being smug.
“What?” Lando asked, completely deadpan.
Oscar glanced over, his face scrunching a little.
“What?”
“Why are you smug already?”
Oscar laughed, confused. “I’m not?”
“You clearly are! Your eyebrows are smug!”
Oscar snorted lightly, still looking genuinely lost. “What have I got to be smug about? We haven’t even started.”
Lando huffed, turning to start the race. Oscar shrugged lightly before turning away from Lando and gripping the wheel.
Five laps in, and Lando had somehow spun, and Oscar was ridiculously too far ahead. When Lando had glanced over, the same eyebrow raise was settled back on Oscar’s face.
“Stop! Stop projecting your smugness!”
Oscar quickly glanced over.
“I’m not smug! I’m too concentrated on not binning this corner.”
“Your eyebrows are doing the thing!”
Oscar sighed. “I am not smug, I’m concerned about your suspension.”
Lando stilled, because oh. Oh.
They were concerned eyebrows?
“But they don’t look any different to the smug ones!”
“Have you seen my smug eyebrows?” Oscar challenged.
Lando huffed indignantly. “Yes! The goggle soccer thing.”
Oscar shrugged. “Okay, fair, but that was a good reason to be smug. You’ve seen me with a soccer ball before.”
Lando huffed again. Those eyebrows were exactly the same if he remembered correctly. How did one eyebrow raise have about fifty emotions attached to it?
4. Karaoke
Lando had cursed the entire media and marketing team for the media content for the weekend GP. He’d thought when they’d been forced to finish the song lyrics for the Austin GP years ago, that’d be the end of singing. How wrong he’d been.
When they approached the idea of karaoke, Lando and Oscar had tried to stage an uprising. Both were five seconds away from running opposite directions and hiding to escape the horrific idea.
Yet the team had wrangled them up and sat them on a couch, thankfully this time without the hats, feather boas, and odd objects scattered around them. Lando and Oscar had just exchanged long-suffering looks before trying to muster up some form of a smile for the camera.
It started like most of the media did, with Lando trying to wrangle up enthusiasm and trying to shove it onto Oscar. It had started relatively easily, with classics like Hotel California, Sweet Caroline, or even The Nights.
Lando had managed to get in, but by the second song, Oscar had managed to turn it around and surprise everyone in the room totally. Lando had been belting his lungs out to a Justin Bieber song when he heard Oscar’s lower voice join in. He’d swivelled his head around so fast he was sure he heard a snap coming from some muscle. His voice dwindled out completely, leaving just Oscar to carry the song’s ending.
Oscar turned to look at him, his eyebrow raising slightly. Lando just stared at him, electing to say nothing and make Oscar stop.
“Okay, good, we have lovely harmonies, next!” Lando managed to choke out. Oscar just nodded solemnly before moving to tap the play button.
During the next few songs, every time Lando so much as moved, the same eyebrow reacted. A small, uncomfortable shift: eyebrow up. A pause to catch his breath that was longer than five seconds: eyebrow up. A random pause for Lando to contemplate his life decisions: both eyebrows up.
Lando was spiralling, and by the end of it, he’d sung about twelve percent of the lyrics, and spent the other eighty-eight trying to figure out if Oscar was judging him, hating it as much as he did, or if he was always that talented at singing.
Since when did Lando feel so threatened by an eyebrow raise?
5. Lego
Lando never particularly minded Lego. He didn’t always have the patience to build an entire set by himself. Or really just one bag. But he still could appreciate it from afar. Riding in the life-size ones at Miami and the podium car at Vegas were extremely fun.
Yet, he knew Oscar loved Lego, so he thought building it as a media activity wouldn’t be too bad. He could always start pestering Oscar if it got too boring anyway.
What he didn’t expect was the level of competition that would ignite between them as soon as the media team said, ‘best MCL40 wins’. It quickly became all-out war.
The issue, however, was that Lando never took up Lego Technic building. Staring at the pieces in front of him, Lando felt the prickly feeling of being utterly lost swirl in his stomach. Looking over at Oscar, the feeling intensified. Oscar was completely invested in building his replica, and Lando already knew it would look similar to the real set.
Lando groaned dramatically, slumping in his chair.
“I can’t even build a Lego set with instructions, how do I build one without?” He pouted, Oscar only briefly looking up.
After a few more seconds of moping, Lando began to try to piece together a remotely recognisable front wing. He wouldn’t admit the level of struggle it took to find pieces that worked well enough to take the curved shape, and then fit onto the nose of the car.
At one point, Oscar looked up from his, in Lando’s opinion, though he’d never admit it out loud, award-winning replica to stare at Lando’s… very much not award-winning front wing. Oscar didn’t say anything, just silently raised an eyebrow and watched as Lando sorted through miscellaneous pieces to try to build the nose of the car.
Lando looked up once he noticed Oscar was staring at him. The first thing he clocked was the raise of the eyebrow, and the way Oscar wasn’t even continuing his car. Lando immediately felt defensive, looking down at his mess of a car.
“Stop judging, Osc!”
Oscar shook his head. “I’m not judging, I’m just trying to understand the thought process.”
Lando scowled. “There is no thought process. Clearly. Take your judgement elsewhere. Creative liberalism is not made to be mocked.”
Oscar laughed lightly. “I’m not judging! I’m trying to understand why your front wing is curved inwards and not outwards.”
Oh.
Lando looked down at the front wing. He could understand how Oscar thought it looked more like a smiley face than a curved-in wing. Honestly, it looked more like a Twistie than a wing.
Lando looked back up at Oscar, his eyebrow still raised, but a look of amusement in his eyes, and a small twitch of his lips. Lando narrowed his eyes slightly. “Rigghhtt… now what do you call that expression?”
"You're an idiot."
Lando needed to start a dictionary of Oscarisms and eyebrows. He couldn’t understand his teammates' eyebrows and expressions at all, especially as they didn’t change angle, direction, or height at all between differing expressions.
1. Overthoughts
Lando sat on the bench at the back of the garage, mindlessly swinging his legs and staring down at the phone in his palms. He considered skipping the song playing through his headphones, his finger hovering about the next button. Movement out of the corner of his eye had him turning to look towards Oscar’s side.
Oscar had been missing most of the day, which Lando had found a bit odd. Oscar was usually always around in the garage, trying to get the maximum out of the car and himself before a weekend. Yet, Lando hadn’t seen him at all.
Until now, that was.
Oscar stood tensely near the back of his side, turned to stare at the back of his car. His shoulders stood stiff, his fingers fidgeting slightly by his side. His engineers stayed clear of him, working around the car.
Lando quirked an eyebrow, watching as Oscar seemingly zoned out, his face turning slightly in Lando’s direction. He could see the pinched expression on Oscar’s face, the way his jaw was set, and his eyes bored holes aimlessly wherever he stared. Lando noticed the raised eyebrows, twitching slightly.
Lando pushed himself off the bench, walking slowly towards Oscar.
“Hey, Osc?”
Oscar’s eyes flew to Lando, trying to school his face into a blank expression. His eyebrows dropped, and his lips smoothed out from where they had been pulled tight.
“Yeah?”
“Are you… okay? You haven’t been around all day.”
Oscar tried to push the tension away from his shoulders, Lando could tell. He shrugged.
"Yeah."
Lando fought every urge to roll his eyes. He knew that if Oscar was wound tighter than a spring, something was clearly wrong.
"Uh-huh."
Oscar glanced at him, an eyebrow raised.
"What?"
"There! They're doing that thing again?"
"Whose doing what thing?" Oscar frowned.
"Your eyebrows. It's ticking - you're frustrated, annoyed, and a tad stressed." Lando nodded once, proud of his analytical deductions. "Please let me hide before you throw something, I'm already suffering from that ball to the jugular."
Oscar tried to fight the small lopsided smile that ticked at the edges of his lips. It didn't last long, the edges dropping again. Lando nudged his shoulder as Oscar dropped his eyes to the floor.
"I think I messed up." He rubbed the back of his neck. "It was nothing big!" He hastily added.
"Just… one of those dumb little things you overthink but everyone else has probably forgotten, you know? It's just… frustrating."
"If you haven't forgotten about it, it obviously means something to you."
Oscar ran a hand down his face. "But it's stupid!"
Lando just nodded slowly, fiddling with his fingers.
"Yeah, well, welcome to being a Formula 1 Driver. Great to have you join us." Lando mock saluted, a stupid grin crossing his face.
Oscar just huffed, the smile crossing his face and holding.
"There we go!"
Oscar raised his eyebrows in question.
"Better."
"Oh, for goodness sake." Oscar rolled his eyes, walking off with a half-hearted birdie in Lando's direction. Lando still heard the small laugh as he exited the garage and considered it a win.
And huh.
Maybe Lando did understand Oscar's eyebrows after all. Or at least when it mattered.
its my first year writing publicly, so I'm not over all the fic writing challenges that occur during the year.
I know of Osctober - which I'm so ridiculously excited for because it means I can mass write Oscar without feeling like I have no diversity - and I saw one about Gax the other day, but is there anymore I should be aware off?
decided not to do Gax simply because its not a ship that sails for me, and I struggle to solely write about George
I always find it so hard to do certain prompts, so I'm hoping it'll force me out of my comfort zone.
Similarly if theres any for kpop groups, Criminal Minds, MCU, Supernatural, Rugby, etc.
the things you find when cleaning out your google docs to move to ellipsus...
anyway, enjoy this random find that probably came out of 5 minutes of random mind sentence prompt 🙂↕️
The first thing Oscar met when he walked into the hotel room was a massive, floppy teddy bear.
The cream of its fur, with the white mouth, and orange nose discarded carelessly in the corner. The red bow was a nice touch, but when Oscar looked closer, it was caked with dust and dirt in spots. Its beady eyes, with how it was dumped against the corner of the wall, stared lifelessly at Oscar’s shoes.
Oscar was never too fond of any plush creature bigger than his face. And that. Thing. Was bigger than Oscar’s entire torso, and rivalled his whole body if he scrunched up in a ball.
Oscar knew the only way it would’ve got in the room was through Lando, and he struggled to see how his teammate could’ve even carried that… thing. It would’ve been bigger than him. Then again, it would’ve explained the out-of-context post on Lando’s Instagram earlier that day.
Oscar continued to stare at it for a few moments longer before he heard shuffling coming from the bathroom. Lando walked into the room, steam curling out of the bathroom behind him. A large hoodie hung off his shoulders - Oscar presumed Lando had raided his case again - and trackpants. Lando followed Oscar’s eyeline to the teddy, and a large grin broke across his face.
“I present Bruce Junior! You missed parental rights by losing miserably in the tiny car race.”
Lando sounded somewhat pleased with his achievement, even though Oscar knew deep down that the bear would be promptly rid of by the next morning. Lando wouldn’t be able to travel with it anyway, but he also wasn’t the type to trail around with anything bigger than a wheatbag.
Oscar just nodded slowly.
“Right… I don’t think I’m too sad about that really.”
Lando just shrugged, his wet curls bobbing on top of his head at the movement.
“He’s great at wrestling.”
Oscar turned to Lando, one eyebrow slowly climbing up.
“You wrestled your supposed son?”
It seemed Lando didn’t think that one through. A small, sheepish grin appeared, the same one Lando always used when he was in trouble for breaking something at the MTC.
“Well… he does have extra padding?”
Oscar just snorted, rolling his eyes in amusement before walking towards the bed and flopping onto it. He’d had barely a second before a deadweight was propelled on top of him.
“Oof, Lando!”
Turning his head, he was met with tufts of white fur and one of the ridiculously shapeless paws of Bruce Junior. Lando was giggling from beside of the bed, a triumphant look on his face.
Oscar tried to kick the bear off him, a look of mild annoyance on his face at its inability to budge.
“I’m sure this thing has bones.”
Lando just laughed, diving on the bed beside him, stealing one of Oscar’s pillows and clutching it lazily. He just stared as Oscar struggled to get the bear off him.
“I’m glad you’re getting along…” Lando mulled, a smug grin slowly climbing on his face. “Since you’re on uncle duties tonight.”
Lando vaulted himself off the bed and ran across toward the opposite end of the hotel room.
“What! The hell I am!” Oscar struggled violently against the bear before managing to stand up, grab a paw, and attempt to run after Lando.
After a few stumbles and several near faceplants, Oscar had managed to pin Lando to the floor, the bear stuffed between them, threatening to cut off both their oxygen supplies.
not sure where this idea came from other than I was holding my 3month niece while she was absolutely crashed out... and well started writing it before she woke up.
I've fallen in love with writing Choscar... I have a planned Lestapiastri book coming to my AO3 hopefully soon. I have the first 1 and a half chapters written.
Oscar Piastri x Charles Leclerc
Lando had always been good with kids, no matter the age, so Oscar had never been bothered when Lando had asked for a hold of his 4 month old daughter. He trusted Lando; knew that his teammate knew what he was doing.
So when Charles had walked past and asked to hold her, Oscar didn't really think he'd be different to Lando. So he'd handed her over without hesitation.
Or. Well. At least tried.
The first red flag had been the struggle to slot his daughter into Charles’ arms. When Oscar had finally transitioned her to Charles and the hold looked stable enough that she wouldn't fall, the next issue was extracting his arm. Charles, in his determination not to harm his daughter, had gripped Oscar's arm so hard Oscar thought he'd impaled a vein. After much manoeuvring, Oscar had finally reclaimed his much needed limb.
Yet, he didn't think too much on the matter. Maybe Charles just wasn't quite used to the transfer process. So Oscar just calmly watched from the side, watching as Charles slowly grew comfortable with holding her.
The second red flag, however, had come when a small sigh escaped his daughter. Charles, who was still tense but had slowly relaxed, immediately coiled tighter than a spring.
“Bébé, it is okay! Papa is right there, and Oncle Charles is very good with babies!”
Oscar might’ve believed it if Charles didn't sound so sceptical about it. Or if he actually held his daughter correctly.
Yet, Oscar continued to give him the benefit of the doubt, watching closely as Charles began to take hesitant steps towards a vacant seat. It made sense, Oscar realised a tad too late, that Charles, who had probably not held a baby since Arthur was born, would prefer to sit down with his daughter. After all, carrying a baby was not the same as carrying Leo, even if Charles tried to convince you otherwise.
Charles looked a lot more confident sitting down. He’d managed to differentiate his left arm from his right and positioned Oscar’s daughter into a seemingly normal hold.
Oscar didn't know how many red flags Charles had shown before he realised Charles just didn't have much hope with babies. When he'd turned to talk to the engineers behind him, he hadn’t heard the explosive gas being emitted from his daughter. He probably wouldn't have known either if it wasn't for Charles’ indignant gasp.
“Bébé! You do not fart on Onkel Charles.” Oscar hadn't quite turned to face them, but he already knew the expression Charles' face would've morphed into: absolutely piqued.
Oscar just had to laugh, which only offended Charles more.
“Have you ever held a baby before mate?”
Charles tried to hide the sheepish grin by glaring.
“Of course!”
“Since Arthur?”
Charles stopped, his lips scrunching into a pout.
“It is not my fault that Lorenzo has not given me a niece or nephew.”
Oscar rolled his eyes. Of course it wouldn't be Charles’ fault. Especially not because he was equally able to have his own child.
Charles was just becoming a walking red flag when it came to babies. The final straw came in a spat out dummy and a grab at Charles' nose. He sighed deeply before attempting to stand, failing to position is bodyweight forward, and falling back onto the chair.
“I do not think babies are for me. She is most cute though.”
He attempted to give Oscar's daughter back, but the transfer was even messier than the first.
Yeah, Oscar was secretly relieved with Charles’ revelation. He knew for certain that Charles was going to be added to the Just Look and Admire but not hold list. He'd just leave her with Lando now. At least he knew Lando wouldn't be offended by the perfectly normal occurrence of a baby farting.
So hello, g'day, welcome to my page of random thoughts, drabbles, obsessions, and insecurities!
I'm Tee, your tour guide on this roller-coaster ride that's held together by toothpicks, masking tape, and a glue stick.
I'm an adult female, and very obviously Australian.
bit about me:
I love history, geography, and politics/law
I'm married to books - give me any mystery novel, action, history, or crime. Even some auto/biographies
I'm a nerd and love learning random facts - constantly down a rabbit hole of information
I'm quite an introverted person, so I don't particularly like sharing a lot about myself
I love sports: NRL, AFL, Hockey, Water sports, sometimes cricket. And ofccc F1.
Music is a lifeline
what I write for:
The list is currently comprised of
MUSIC*:
ATEEZ
SEVENTEEN
Stray Kids
BTS
Why Don't We
*Please feel free to ask about another artist or group. This list is those that I listen to or stan regularly and am comfortable in my knowledge of them. However, this isn't the extent of my list; I'm still able to write about other groups, predominantly k-pop ones like P1Harmony, The Boyz, Enhypen, etc. so just ask!
OTHER:
F1 (Formula 1)
Hawaii Five-0
Supernatural
MCU
THE MAYBE ONE DAYS:
Shadowhunters
Sam and Colby
The Rookie
Murdoch Mysteries
AFL/NRL
Criminal Minds
requests?
I will take any requests for the lists above, however please note the below rules:
I will not write anything 18+, I'm neither comfortable writing that nor reading it
I don't write for anyone I'm not very knowledgeable about, simply as I don't want to portray them wrongly or create situations that in no way reflect them as a person. Often, I will research a bit more about them before I write anything
Even if something isn't on my writing list, I may have heard of it and just forgotten about it. So feel free to ask something like 'have you heard of [this]? Could I have a fic about it and [idea]?' I might be able to accommodate it if I know it^
Please always be respectful if requesting an idea (and generally on my page!)
If you have an idea off the MAYBE ONE DAYS list, ask! Ill write it down and might get to it
^ If you request an idea, but with someone I don't know or aren't comfortable writing about, I won't use the idea for something else unless I've asked. I don't think its fair to take someone else's idea when I've said I won't write for what was requested, then turn around and write it for something else. If I like the idea, I'll ask for your permission to use it on something else. That being said, if I've already had a similar idea on my Idea Page, I won't ask, however I will let you know.
anything else?
I work full time and have minimal free time, plus I suffer from severe writers block, so what I write will be few and far between
I'm always up for fic suggestions or prompts! (note the rules above)
a little choscar for the absolute stress and happiness Oscar and Charles gave me in Suzuka. With minimal effort and plot
And to try and distract me from how awful Ollie's weekend ended up being
Oscar felt the grip on his shoulder before he noticed anyone behind him. He turned to find Charles’ blinding smile right behind his shoulder. He couldn’t help the flicker of a smile on his own lips; something about Charles’ joy was so contagious.
“Congrats mate! P2.” Charles clapped him on the shoulder again, his green eyes sparkling.
If anything, Oscar would have said that Charles was happier then him about finally getting on the podium. That was saying something; Oscar was beginning to feel the tingling sensation of bloody pride about finally being able to race and get a podium.
“Thanks,” Oscar ran a hand through his sweaty hair, “you did well yourself!”
Charles positively beamed back at Oscar.
“I had quite a fun race actually!” He clasped his hands behind his back, swaying slightly on his heels.
Oscar thought he looked like a little child after playtime and an ice-cream. Then again, Oscar probably looked the same underneath all the sweat.
“Thanks for keeping the fight for P3 going, it saved me some time.” Oscar joked, collecting his water bottle from the stand and walking towards the awaiting reporter.
Charles laughed. “Yes, George and Lewis are quite persistent.”
Oscar smirked slightly, turning his face slightly away from the camera. “I doubt George would be too happy with P4.”
Charles nodded conspiratorially, a small grin overtaking his features.
“He can deal with it for once, let him complain.”
He patted Oscar’s shoulder again, leaning into Oscar’s space slightly.
Oscar felt his stomach playing leapfrog, the exhaustion crushed by the warm giddiness of a podium. Even though it wasn’t the top step that he thought he was going to take, P2 in his first race of the season wasn’t bad. Especially sharing a podium with Charles, who took the slight sting of the safety car away.
“Maman is going to be quite proud.” Charles spoke softly into his ear, trying to talk over the cheering crowd. “Her son and grandson on the podium together.”
Oscar laughed, the warm bubbling sound spilling out of his mouth before he could stop it.
“Yeah… Monaco’s weekend huh.”
Charles grinned, patting Oscar’s back before being interrupted by the journalist.
“I will get you next race.” Charles whispered before shifting away from Oscar to let him answer the questions.
Oscar had no doubt he would. McLaren wasn’t exactly a tractor like Aston Martin or Cadillac, but they were a lawn mower in comparison to Ferrari or Mercedes. He’d just have to pray this was the start of good luck and great starts.
Then again, if Oscar was beaten for P1 by someone else, he wouldn’t mind if it was Charles.
as always, up for feedback and would love to know your thoughts ♡
Lando had always found dinosaurs interesting. The different species spanning the Triassic, Jurassic, and Cretaceous periods, with their spikes, fins, or whacky body parts. He’d often thought about how cool it would be to be something like a megalodon – massive, an apex predator, and a sick row of teeth.
That, however, was all before he was being chased by one.
The guttural roar, crashing of furniture, and the shaking ground beneath him made any idea of just how cool they really were grow wings and fly straight out of his brain.
“George! Help!” He screamed, skidding on the slippery polished wooden floors of the museum. The brief thought crossed his mind that the scene would look like one straight out of Jurassic Park. The dramatic skid to a halt before booking it down another corridor to try and avoid the dead ends.
The museum was like an eternal labyrinth – he’d round one corner to enter another long corridor, with oils of stuffy dead men and women staring their noses down at him. Lando was sure they were related to George, and he would’ve stopped to check if he didn’t have a creature that was a billion times bigger than him and should be extinct breathing down his neck.
He didn’t know why the whatever-the-hell-it-was-but-definitely-was-classfied-a-carnivore dinosaur had begun to chase him. After all, both Alex and George were far taller than him, and Lando was sure he wasn’t that fat. The summer break had put a little bit of padding around his ribs, but not enough for a dinosaur to choose him. He was not about to be a kebab.
A hand shot out of the opening to the Space Rocks exhibit, pulling Lando into the darkened room and straight under a bench tucked away in the corner.
Lando exhaled hard, his chin propping on Alex’s shoulder.
“What a fitting exhibit. Do you reckon we could recreate the extinction of the giant ass lizards?” Lando joked.
Alex just snorted, tucking his long limbs up into his chest, his neck already getting a crimp despite it being only a few seconds squashed under the bench.
“Ugh, move your head, your curls are threatening to clean out my nostrils.”
Lando’s head shot away from Alex’s shoulder, a look of pure disgust overtaking his features.
“That’s foul mate. Where’s George?”
“I dunno, probably reading the dinosaur it’s frickin’ rights from the Treaty of Versailles.”
Lando raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t it meant to be the Geneva Convention?”
Alex shrugged. “Do I look like google?” He deadpanned, peering out from under the bench to look towards the entrance of the exhibit.
“Why is it suddenly so quiet? How does a billion-year-old, thousand-foot, dinosaur suddenly become a ninja?” Alex shuffled forward slightly on his butt, staring out into the empty, dark exhibit.
“Can dinosaurs see in the dark?” Lando whispered, suddenly rather conscious of the sound.
Both stilled, staring at each other before glancing at the door. The thuds grew closer before pausing right in front of the door. Lando gulped, watching as the large snout of the dinosaur peeked into the exhibit and sniffed loudly.
“You know…” Lando whispered into Alex’s ear, “how you owed me that favour for picking up your dry cleaning the other day-”
“Lando how does a favour for dry cleaning equate to giving my life for you?” Alex hissed, squatting him lightly on the forehead. “Where the hell is George?”
“If we escape this, he’s on dishwasher duty for a month.” Lando scowled.
“Make that three.” Alex huffed, slowly pulling himself up to peer into the trash bin next to them. It was empty except for an empty plastic water bottle.
“What’s that gonna do? Give it a concussion?” Lando sniggered. Alex turned slightly, using the bottle to whack him on the head. “Oww!” Lando hissed, clutching his head.
The head of the dinosaur pushed further into the room, the lights of the displays bouncing off its teeth. Lando gripped Alex’s arm, hard enough to leave nail indents.
“Don’t breathe-”
“I’m not!”
“You literally are-”
“Not!” Alex whispered harshly. His eyes were blown wide, face paling as the dinosaur tilted its head in their direction.
Its beady eyes narrowed, moving further into the room. It lowered itself into a hunting stance, taking a large step closer.
“So, it is a therapod!”
Lando jumped a foot in the air, whipping his head around, causing him to over balance and smack his head on the underside of the bench with a dull thunk.
“OWW-” Alex’s hand slapped over his mouth to stop the attempted scream. He turned towards the voice, to find George. He looked way too comfortable for about to become a dinosaur’s lunch.
“Where did you come from!?” Alex whisper-yelled before hastily retracting his hand from Lando’s mouth. “You did not just lick my hand!”
Lando looked smug before glaring daggers at George.
“I was trying to find something useful to help us in this precarious situation.” George stated calmly, flicking a non-existent fleck of dust off his chinos.
“As I was saying, it’s a therapod,” he pulled out a paper brochure, “it’s characterised by its hollow bones and three toes and claws on each limb-”
“George!” Alex hissed, grabbing George by the belt and yanking him behind the trashcan. “Does your encyclopaedia of a brain also know how to survive a thoropud?”
“Theropod,” George corrected diligently. “They have relatively poor eyesight-”
Alex and Lando exchanged glances.
“And?” Lando let his grasp on Alex’s arm lighten slightly.
“Stop interrupting me and you’ll know!” George replied indignantly.
The dinosaur’s head snapped towards them; it’s head tilting to point exactly at the trashcan. Lando and Alex froze.
“Okay, continue.” Alex whispered, his face turning even paler.
“So, they rely on movement detection when hunting.”
The dinosaur moved closer towards them, everything feeling slow motion as panic overtook Alex and Lando. Lando didn’t know if George even had a panic bone.
“WHY WOULDN’T YOU START WITH THAT!” Lando screamed quietly in George’s ear.
He snatched the bottle that was clutched in Alex’s hand and threw it against the other side of the exhibit. It bounced against one of the displays, clattering loudly against the floor, the hollow tok echoing in the room.
The dinosaur’s attention snapped, spinning to narrow in on the noise in the back corner. It charged towards the noise, its vision impaired by the darkness and the slippery floor causing it to crash loudly into the display.
Alex and George turned to look at Lando, both exhaling shakily.
“I knew that bottle would be useful!” Alex boasted.
“Yeah yeah,” Lando rolled his eyes, “reduce, reuse, run and all that.”
He hoisted himself up, and started running out the exhibit door, George and Alex hot on his heels.
“George is definitely on dishwasher duty for three months.”
“Frick’n six,” Lando shot back.
George raised an eyebrow, turning to them crossly. “How is that equivalent to my involvement?”
Another loud crash made them pick up the speed.
“Make it a year!” Alex panted, turning down another corridor marked as exit.
“Agreed.”
“What!” George spat, offended.
As they burst through the exit, and almost tumbled down the front steps, all three tried to inhale a breath of relief.
“Next time,” Lando inhaled heavily, “we’re going to an art gallery.”
Sooo I'm planning a Sherlock Holmes x landoscar spiel, book, one shot, something. Do I keep it in the original writing style of the books (1st person from Dr. Watson's POV) or continue with how I started (3rd person)?
Pretty sure its evident whose who, so idk if that has some bearing 😇
