hi! i'm grace. i use any and all pronouns, including whatever neos you want!
i'm a massive tangotek enjoyer, and i love ranchers, ethubs, desertduo (in doses) and clockduo!
i usually write for the life series/hermitcraft folks, but i often use other medias to influence aus! i write on occasion but don't expect frequent writing posts, i get distracted so easily and forget that i actually can write for fun 😭
i'm also @melllohigrace on ao3 and twitter
here are my tags:
#grace writing <-- anything i write
#grace asks <-- any asks i answer
(i don't have many cause i always forget i can add tags to reblogs... oops)
...
and here are some links to some writing i've done :)
curses never fall far from the tree
live now, think later (also on ao3)
the fence blocks bloodlust
smiling at a falling moon
don't you see the starlight? (also on ao3)
i'm getting tired (also on ao3)
please feel free to send me asks! i like answering them and most of the time they make me think lol
today there was a “flash mob” set up by the seniors because it was their second to last day so they blasted the macarena over the loud speaker and did the dance in the main lobby but our headmaster knew about it so it wasn’t even funny but whilst walking past the elevator i found out why they really did this so called “flash mob”
51, sitting on the other’s lap, george/alex, ~1250 words, also on ao3
George isn’t feeling well.
Actually, George has been feeling like he’s coughing up a lung for a couple of days now, but at this exact moment, he’s really not feeling well.
On a more positive note, he isn’t coughing up a lung anymore! No, he’s coughing up hairballs, because he’s a fucking cat.
He tries to paw at his phone, to do literally anything about this situation, and he can’t, because his phone operates on Face ID and/or a beautifully complex swipe code that his cat paws simply can’t operate.
Alex’s cats made it look so easy.
Alex. Now there’s a thought. If there’s one person who he can explain his situation to without speaking and blackmail into never mentioning it to anyone else, it’s Alex.
He gets out into the paddock without too much trouble, shaking himself away from all the people saying oh, look, a cat! and here, kitty! and psss, psss, psss.
It’s surprisingly easy to find the Williams motorhome, and he makes a few rounds, rubbing up against the legs of the people he recognises, the people he built a points-scoring, no-longer-dead-last-in-the-constructors’ car with.
After that, and after a moment’s thought, he simply plops down inside the door and begins to neatly brush his fur. He ignores that one itch down near his bum. He’s not grooming there in public, thank you very much.
Predictably, Alex appears within minutes, doubtless summoned by one of the many, many mechanics who know his reputation. George deigns to look up at him when he crouches down—he’s bloody tall, is Albono—but decides that there isn’t anything interesting coming his way and returns to his grooming.
“Aren’t you lovely,” Alex murmurs, and the part of George that’s still 14 and looking up to a 16-year-old Alex Albon preens.
The part of him that’s unconcerned cat doesn’t react.
Large, warm hands slide around his belly, and then he’s being lifted high into the air and cradled to a nice-smelling Alex chest. When he looks out, it’s this view that looks odd, rather than the cat’s-eye view he’s been getting used to.
Maybe George doesn’t want to be human again. As a cat, he doesn’t find the idea of being a sick human in a roaring, fiery inferno of metal and carbon fibre particularly appealing.
“Come here, sweetheart,” Alex says, cupping his head and protecting it from the loud noises all around him. George tucks his head into Alex’s chest and gets scritches in return. It’s an excellent deal.
He barely registers being walked away, out of the noise and into a room that’s quiet and smells entirely of Alex. Alex sits down, legs spread out, and deposits George into his lap.
It’s comfortable there. George is going to curl up and have a nap, thanks.
Turns out he can purr.
“I’ve got to go, sweetheart,” Alex says, and it’s all the warning George gets before he’s lifted and unceremoniously dropped into the warm spot Alex was sitting in.
Well. Alex was very gentle about putting him down, really, but he’s also abandoning George so he doesn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt!
Alex doesn’t react to George’s full-body, open-mouthed hiss, just runs a hand firmly down his whole body, just the way George likes it.
“I won’t be long, promise.”
He’d better not be. George curls up grumpily, flicking his tail over his body to imply that he is not accepting further pets, and very nearly falls asleep again.
And then he realises that Alex has left his phone behind.
Score.
It’s quick work to turn it on, and Alex has a very simple four-digit pin that he changes once every two years if he changes it at all. It’s not hacking if Alex told him it, drunk in Monaco the week after the last change. Even in his cat brain, George knows this.
There isn’t really much he can do right now, like send a message, but Alex has a few iPhone games downloaded. George goes for Subway Surfers, because Alex has everything unlocked after that one incident with Lily.
Turns out that he is, as a cat, still acceptable at this children’s game.
“I’m back!” Alex announces from the doorway. George doesn’t look up, which turns out to be the wrong decision because oh, what would he have given to see the face that went with that squeak.
The door bangs shut, and then George has a large, hulking Albono crouched down very close to him and staring.
“This isn’t normal,” he’s muttering. “It’s not normal for a cat to be on my phone, cats don’t play Subway Surfers, Sushi couldn’t play Subway Surfers, I’m probably delusional, there’s a magnet coming up—now I’m talking to the cat who’s playing Subway Surfers”—
He’s so distracting, actually, that George crashes, ending what was a damn good run, considering that George doesn’t currently have opposable thumbs.
He meows his frustrations at Alex, who startles.
“Good kitty?” he says tentatively, reaching out to brush his fingers along George’s head, and oh, that feels good. George throws caution to the winds and headbutts his hand, purrs erupting through his whole chest. “Oh. Good kitty. Very weird, very good kitty. I didn’t realise cats played Subway Surfers, my bad.”
George huffs. It comes out as a sneeze, one that makes him shake his whole body out to get rid of the feeling. At that point, he decides to step back, to look around the room and find a way to explain the situation to Alex.
A-ha! The latest George-poster-in-Williams is him doing his first ever T-pose—not very recent, but he’ll take it. He skids across the room to it, tilting his head to better assess.
He points. Alex laughs. “That’s Georgie,” he says fondly, proudly, and oh. It’s not what George was looking for, but it’s all he can do to stay where he is and not bowl himself straight into Alex’s lap.
Instead, he lifts himself up as straight as he can go and stretches out his front paws in what he hopes is a passable imitation, given the restrictions of his current anatomy. Alex laughs again, strangled.
“Aren’t you clever,” he says, delighted, and walks over to him, looming like some kind of Thai giraffe. “How would you feel about a trip to England, old boy?”
George would feel amazing about that, but he does have a race to win first. Alex is so thick.
He does the cat equivalent of a sigh, and then, resigned to his fate, recreates the failed somersault that Alex has never, ever let him forget.
He’s splayed out on his back, belly exposed, when Alex kneels next to him, eyes wide. “George?”
George meows.
Alex scoops him up, zero regard for personal space, congratulations, Albono, and drags him back to the couch.
“George?” he repeats. George fixes him with a singularly unimpressed stare. “Yeah, sure, you’re the paddock cat. Makes sense. Always did know how to cause a stir, didn’t you?”
George nips, gently, at his thumb.
“Okay, then. Do you know how this happened?”
George shakes his head.
“Right. Or how to change back?”
That doesn’t even deserve a headshake.
“Yeah, yeah. Think we just have to wait this out, then?” Alex asks, and George is so grateful he has an Alex, because what other friend would immediately make it a we?
He sighs, cat-like, and settles himself more firmly into Alex’s lap, kneading impatiently when Alex doesn’t immediately start stroking him.
27, pulling the other one towards them, and 36, lifting the other one up, max/oscar, ~700 words
It’s Thursday. Spain—Barcelona, because they have to clarify now—, the first proper European race of the season. Monaco doesn’t count, because Monaco is Monaco.
Oscar’s feeling pretty good about the season, actually. Not amazing—there’ve been some adjustments, moving to Red Bull after three whirlwind years in orange—but pretty good. He’ll get there.
It almost helps that the Red Bull this year is kind of shit. It’s frustrating, sure, but it’s mutual frustration that’s being channeled into getting upgrades and set-up fixes and an engine that doesn’t start smoking after thirteen laps.
Anyway. It’s Thursday, in Barcelona, which means that Oscar can’t actually do anything about the car today, and is mostly just trying to hide from anyone who thinks that media day means free to do an unscheduled bit on TikTok.
Someone taps his shoulder. He gets a whiff of generic deodorant and Red Bull, which means it’s Max.
“Hey, mate,” he says tiredly, turning, and gets an eyeful of slightly frazzled Max Verstappen.
“Oh, thank God, you too?” Max rushes, halfway between a smile and grimace. “Great. Come with me, I have a place but I need a hand to get there.”
What, Oscar thinks, but he follows Max anyway. Is dragged, really, a hand closed around his bicep like he’s being arrested.
He loses track of the route they’re taking—sue him, it’s his second day in the Red Bull motorhome for real, he’s got approximately eight races to get used to it before they’re back to flyaways—but they stop in front of what appears to be a fairly nondescript wall. He thinks they’re pretty high up.
“Um.”
“Right, you see the ledge up there?” Max demands, gesturing with the hand that isn’t still holding onto Oscar.
Oscar squints. “Kind of?”
“Yeah, so there’s this half a room with a view on the track, really lovely up there, very quiet, nobody will disturb you if you want some time on your phone.”
Oscar laughs, incredulous. “Sounds too good to be true.”
“No, it’s true,” Max assures him. “Just, it’s up there, so of course it takes two people to get up.”
“Right,” Oscar says dubiously. “And that’s perfectly sane, obviously. Climbing into a secret room that you can’t get into on your own. Does anyone even know it’s there?”
“GP does,” Max says dismissively. “Maybe Hugh too, I don’t know. You won’t tell anyone, yeah?”
Oscar sighs. He could really use a minute. He can hear someone pointing out the corridor they came down. “Yeah, sure.”
“Great. Help me up, then I pull you, okay?”
Oscar nods, looking Max up and down consideringly. He can make this work. Max barely weighs more than him, they fit in the same car. He squats halfway, grabs Max around the legs, and heaves.
Max laughs above him, making a stupid whee! noise that has Oscar giggling and nearly losing his balance. His load lightens suddenly, and then Max is pulling out of his grasp. He waits, watching Max’s arse disappear over the ledge, and again until his head reappears, grinning down at Oscar.
“Hope you have socket strength, mate,” he says, reaching down. Oscar laughs again, stupidly excited. He puts his hands in Max’s and braces his core.
Max lifts him with ridiculous ease, all the way up until he can get his elbows braced on the “ground” of whatever space they’re in. He hauls himself the rest of the way up and collapses into Max’s shoulder, laughing.
Max shoves him off, nearly sending him back out, and then they’re just lying there, faces inches apart, and staring at each other.
Oscar swallows.
Max moves first, yanking Oscar forward with a fist in his Red Bull polo. Cool air brushes over the bared skin of his back, only part of the reason he shivers.
Max’s mouth is warm and wet on his, and the angle is absolutely rubbish but it’s still a halfway decent kiss.
They hear voices. Max reacts lightning-fast, real athlete reflexes here, sliding backwards and dragging Oscar forwards. The space opens up until it’s the half a room that Max promised, and yeah, there’s a decent view of the track.
Crucially, Oscar can’t see any people, which means they can’t see him, either.
The logic might be flawed. He’s not going to overthink it.
prompt: fangs
pairing: oscar/george
word count: ~950
So there’s this guy.
Oscar sees him all the time. On the bus home from work, in the park, at his favourite bakery (their chocolate tarts are crumbly, mouth-watering delight), in the gym.
His name, Oscar’s come to understand, is George.
If Oscar had to assign him a namesake king of England, from his brief but intense love affair with Horrible Histories, he’d probably go with George V. Something about this guy gives off the vibes that he has, in the past, led a war against two of his cousins and been the only survivor.
It’s just something about his eyes.
Which are beautiful. There’s a lot about this guy’s face—and body, Jesus Christ—that Oscar likes, but his eyes are something else. They’re this sort of translucent blue, and he’s got eyelashes that just highlight how insanely pretty his eyes are.
Yeah, Oscar’s got a crush, but if he’s being honest, this is the fittest guy on the bus, fittest guy in the park, fittest guy at the bakery, and definitely the fittest guy in the gym.
All that to say that Oscar never stood a fucking chance.
He’s done some thinking about it. What would be the least weird place to approach George if he did want to act on his crush? Approaching it rationally, he’s decided that the gym would make the most sense, even if it might leave the impression that Oscar’s more fitness-obsessed than he really is.
Anyway. He makes a little more eye contact with George than normal, and then, wandering over to replace his weights on the rack, nods at a resting George and says, “I could never, mate, nice one.”
“Huh?” George asks, looking rather like he’s never been spoken to in his life. His eyes, when he looks up at Oscar, are sort of red-rimmed.
Well. Oscar’s committed now. He scans the bar George’s been squatting again, and he nearly chokes. Jesus. “150?” he asks, all thoughts of simple but genuine compliment gone. The arse this guy must be hiding, God.
George blinks up at him—fucking hell, those eyes—and, rather than replying, leans over to pick up his stainless steel bottle. His sweatpants slide down as he leans, exposing frankly obscene amounts of pale, lovely skin.
Great. Oscar’s a perv now.
He sort of just stands there while George glugs at his bottle. If he’s watching George’s throat work and also laser focused on the little sigh of relief he hears when George puts it down, that’s nobody’s problem but his own.
“Great, I’m normal now,” George says, putting the bottle down and grinning at Oscar. It’s probably meant to be friendly, except, well.
His teeth are kind of red.
“What did you say, mate?” George asks invitingly.
“Um.” Oscar looks around him, sort of are you seeing this, except obviously no one is because the only two people around are both in the middle of sweaty, grunting workouts. It is kind of late. “Smoothie?”
George frowns, casting a glance at Oscar’s very clearly empty hands. “If you’re offering?”
Oscar wasn’t. Oscar meant is that a smoothie in the bottle, please tell me that’s a smoothie, please tell me I’m not smelling literal blood, but now that George mentions it. “Ever tried the juice shop across the road?”
George runs his tongue across his teeth as he’s talking. Oscar nearly trips over his own feet.
“I haven’t, no. Are you asking me out here?”
“Um. I think so?” Oscar says, because his brain isn’t really functioning anymore. “Are you saying yes?”
“I probably am,” George says, tilting his head. “D’you know what, I don’t think I need to finish up here.”
No, Oscar thinks, looking up and down George’s frankly absurd body. You probably don’t.
“Cool,” he says instead. It’s stupid, but he leans down to pick George’s bottle up, only to find a hand clamped on top of his.
“Alright, mate?” George asks, friendly, eyes cold. Huh. There’s no red in them anymore. Oscar wonders, heart pumping wildly, if that was a trick of the light. He tries, tentatively, to take his hand away. George’s grip loosens, no longer bruising, but too tight. He smiles again, and suddenly, Oscar’s seeing sharp, sharp teeth poking out at the corners of his smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Ghosts don’t work out,” he says through a tight throat.
George’s smile widens. He lets go of Oscar’s hand, leaving the bottle with Oscar. He nods affably. “Shouldn’t think so. Probably can’t grip the weights.”
“Right,” Oscar says, eyes on George’s bottle. He reaches out, slowly, telegraphing his intent to open the lid, and George doesn’t react. The squeaks of it unscrewing are deafening.
It’s red inside, blood-red, and Oscar would know that smell anywhere. He’s had enough bloody noses, bitten his tongue, chewed off his hangnails.
Never seen it like this, though, in quantity.
“Not a smoothie?” he asks quietly, screwing the lid back on.
George’s eyes are eerily still on his. They flit, quickly, down to the bottle, up to his eyes, maybe down to his lips.
“I don’t know, mate, still up for it?” he asks softly.
Fuck. Oscar shouldn’t. It’s very, very obvious that he has no idea what he’s getting himself into.
He scrambles to his feet, still holding George’s bottle, and offers him a hand up. George takes it, but there’s barely any pressure on it when he stands, light-footed.
“Yeah,” Oscar says, heart pounding. He tosses the bottle between hands, feels the weight of the liquid sloshing. “Reckon I am.”
It takes two hours—not that Oscar’s counting—for either of them to say the v-word aloud. By that point, Oscar’s already licked blood out from behind George’s teeth.
falling asleep on the other’s shoulder, max/oscar, ~600 words. thank you for the prompt!! had fun writing this :)
It’s an F1 thing. Formula 1 x Fuckass Huge Cinemas, or whatever.
Maybe they’re trying to get live showings of races into cinemas, which could actually be pretty cool if they weren’t also forcing the drivers to attend a screening of, of all things, the 1992 Monaco Grand Prix.
Like seriously, Monaco? Why Monaco. Why not Canada 2011, or Brazil 2016? Oscar liked those. Maybe even, pulling from the archives, Spain 1996. That could have been fun.
The turnout is actually pretty big, because they’ve cleared out time on a Thursday for it. Lewis is missing, because of course he is, and probably someone else, but Oscar’s honestly not sure who.
It’s not, like, anyone in the top half of the grid. Top quarter.
He makes his way mechanically through smiling for the camera, doing a quick What are you expecting from this screening? interview (Oscar’s one of the first, and therefore gets to say The screen looks big without being asked to elaborate), and finding his assigned seat.
It’s right between Lando and Max, alone on their row. Right. Championship drama. Is Max Verstappen a challenger for the 2025 Championship?
Obviously he is. Oscar’s not stupid. That doesn’t mean Oscar’s going to let him win.
Max seems vaguely interested, actually, right up until the words 1992 Monaco Grand Prix are spoken.
“Why this, mate?” he demands of Oscar, who can only shrug. It’s not like he’s ever watched this one. He knows Senna won. He thinks Senna won. “So boring. We couldn’t have had something wet, or Suzuka 2005, or something that is not last-lap bullshit?”
“Spoilers,” Lando hisses from the other side of Oscar. Oscar doubles over laughing.
“You’ve never watched this?”
“You said it was boring,” Oscar points out, and Max laughs.
“The second time, it will be. Maybe you will have fun, I don’t know.” Max shifts around in the seat—one thing Oscar will say for Fuckass Huge Cinemas is that they have comfortable seats—and says, “Wake me up on Lap 70, okay?”
What happens on Lap 70, Oscar wants to ask, but Max has already closed his eyes. Oscar wonders if he’s allowed to do that.
The race is actually kind of okay to watch. Like, Oscar would never have watched it on his own, but if he’s trapped in a cinema without his phone, he’d definitely take it over nothing in front of him.
Lando gasps every single time a gearbox fails, which is surprisingly often. It does nothing to wake Max, who’s softly snoring against Oscar’s shoulder.
Oscar’s got Lap 70 rattling around in his brain. What’s going to happen on Lap 70 that Max wants to see? On Lap 60, someone spins in front of Senna, and Oscar wonders if Max just made a mistake with the number, but it’s over quickly.
Maybe Senna didn’t win ‘92, because he just lost 10 seconds.
Lap 61, someone crashes, prompting the commentators to speculate about his Ferrari future. Given that Oscar did not honestly know that an Ivan Capelli had ever raced for Ferrari, he’s going to go out on a limb and suggest that the speculations were fairly correct.
On Lap 70, Oscar prods Max gently. He bolts upright, says something Dutch, and blinks at the screen. “Why the fuck did you wake me?” he complains, and Oscar isn’t sure whether to laugh or be outraged.
“You asked me to? Lap 70, mate.”
“Oh!” Max turns back to the screen right as Mansell gets a puncture.
So that’s what happens on Lap 70, Oscar thinks, and settles in for what turns out to be a decent battle—for Monaco—between Mansell and Senna.
prompt: witch
pairing: oscar/lando
word count: ~950
“I need a witch.”
“What?” Oscar asks, staring in bafflement at Lando.
“A witch, mate. Magic shit. I need one.”
What the fuck, Oscar thinks, because Lando’s always been rather suspicious about magic. So suspicious, in fact, that he’s never even mentioned Oscar’s witchiness.
Clearly he is now.
“What do you need me for,” he asks flatly, flopping back down onto his driver’s room couch.
Lando hesitates, turning this way and that. “D’you know any witches?”
Oscar blinks. Does he. “A few?”
“Great! Someone who won’t say anything?”
“Lando,” Oscar says slowly, “why do you need a witch?” And have you forgotten that I am one?
“Because of the fish,” Lando hisses. “Can’t you smell it?”
Oscar sniffs the air. “No?”
Lando throws up his hands. “Of course you can’t. It’s everywhere, Osc, my room, my clothes, my frickin’ race suit!”
“There’s a fish in your race suit?”
“Just—come with me, okay?” Lando grabs Oscar’s wrist and, against his better judgement, Oscar lets himself be pulled through the privacy door and into Lando’s driver’s room.
It doesn’t smell like fish.
“Please tell me you can smell that,” Lando says, muffled by the hand over his nose.
Oscar shakes his head. Lando flops to the floor, burying his face in a cushion and then promptly tossing it away. Warily, Oscar picks it up, pressing it to his nose.
Wait.
It’s not fish, he’s sure of that much, but definitely magic. Like, there’s something there.
“I think your room’s been cursed.”
Lando groans. “I fucking knew it!” He lifts his head from the floor and frowns up at Oscar. “How do you know that?”
“I can feel it,” Oscar says absently, running his hand across various surfaces trying to get a read for the curse. It’s kind of big stuff. “D’you want to come into mine for a bit?”
Lando’s out of the door before Oscar can finish his question.
“So, good news, if you keep your clothes out of your room for long enough the smell should wear off.”
“Bad news?”
“Bad news is that I can’t break the curse myself, and you should probably tell Andrea about it anyway.”
Lando sighs. “Yeah, because that’ll go down well. ‘S stupid, right? Got my room cursed to smell like fish, who fucking cares.”
Huh. That’s not like Lando. Lando doesn’t normally hesitate to complain, and definitely not when it’s something big like this.
And yes, Oscar does think that everything I own smells like something I hate and I’m the only one who can smell it is pretty big. It would drive him crazy.
“What d’you mean you can’t break it, anyway?”
“It’s a big curse. Like, most curses would only make one thing smell like fish, not a whole room. Too big for me, anyway.”
Oscar’s speciality, carefully chosen because nobody could say it gives him a competitive advantage, is cacti. He could grow a tiny house cactus into something huge dripping with citrus scents, but that’s the biggest thing he’s learned to do.
It’s kind of a waste, but at least he can’t be accused of using light magic to see better on track, or blind other drivers, or some bullshit like that.
“For you?”
Okay, yeah, Lando’s forgotten. Maybe he wasn’t told in the first place, and that’s why he’s never brought it up?
“Lando, you know I’m a witch, right?”
“What?” Lando stares at him blankly for a moment, and then he laughs. “Very funny, Osc. And you’re the one who made my room smell of fish, huh?”
Oscar sighs. “No, but you know those cacti at the MTC?”
“What, the satsuma ones?”
“Tangerine,” Oscar corrects automatically, and then sighs again. “Yeah, those. I grow them.”
“With…water and shit?” Lando asks tentatively.
Oscar shakes his head, heading to his cupboard and taking out a cactus. It’s just a little one, a race weekend project for when his magic is feeling a little antsy. He’d thought he might like this one to turn out smelling like kumquats, but he can just imagine Lando wrinkling his nose and saying That doesn’t smell like satsuma.
He doesn’t want to get out all his stuff, so he just takes the cactus in his hand and imagines really hard. A single spine grows larger.
He stops when it’s the length of his finger.
Lando crowds next to him, shoulders brushing, leaning forward until his curly hair is blocking Oscar’s view of that one spine.
“Whoa,” he says, and then turns to Oscar, eager. “Do that again!”
Oscar almost says no, but he makes the mistake of looking at Lando’s eyes for a moment too long. He does it again.
“That’s mint,” Lando enthuses, reaching out.
“Lando—” Oscar starts, too late.
“Ow! Fucking hell, that’s sharp, what’d you do that for?”
“It’s a cactus, Lando.” Oscar puts it back into the cupboard and shuts the door firmly. “So. I’m a witch. And as a witch, I’m recommending you tell Andrea about your fish problem.”
Lando sighs. “Fine,” he says, but doesn’t budge.
Oscar can’t help the fond smile that floats across his face. “Yeah?”
“Could I have a cactus for my room?” Lando rushes, sort of embarrassed. “Just, I figure it’ll get rid of the smell, a bit. Magic oranges beats magic fish, y’know?”
Oh.
Oscar’d been expecting a Lando question, something kind of stupid or really clever and almost definitely insensitive. “Yeah,” he says, smiling, and then, hesitant, “D’you want to watch me grow it?”
Lando eyes grow wide. “Yeah,” he breathes. He beams, and Oscar’s magic twitches in readiness.
He’s going to grow the best fucking citrus-cactus in the world.
when he pinches the bridge of his nose because he’s exasperated (endearingly so)
[tysm for the overwhelmingly positive response to part i <3 truly didn’t realise the full impact of giggly oscar]
before we get started, do not confuse the ever-so-endeared nose pinch with the i’m-thinking-very-hard nose pinch because they are Completely Different Things!!
all-neurons-firing-because-he’s-thinking-very-hard nose pinch for your reference
the ever-so-endeared nose pinch blueprint: lando says something + oscar takes a second to pinch the bridge of his nose (usually accompanied with some sort of giggle) -> and then he repeats this mantra in his head. i believe it’s variations of: istg this guy
lip reading at hungary gp 2025 | via mclaren ig
[the word is ‘hungaroring’]
oscar: hung…
lando: cars?
*gigglefest*
oscar: *pinches his nose in disbelief at this guy*
landoscar give their top 3 dating activities | via sportsbible
[lando gives his top 3 in order of how the night goes: (1) say hi, (2) boat trip under the stars, (3) would rather not say]
*giggle + nose pinch because omg-i-can’t-believe-this-guy*
landoscar create their very own movie posters ! | via mclaren ig
[lando explaining his poster]
“mine is f1 the movie-t movie-t. get it?”
*exasperated (and ever so endeared) bruh-this-guy nose pinch*
landoscar design custom trading cards | via salesforce yt
lando: *reading the card* oscar, an avid cricket fan, meets the australian cricket team in 2024
oscar: that was me at the mcg… you don’t know what the mcg is do you?
lando: *not listening and already distracted by the next card* aw that is cute !
oscar: *nose pinch because omg-did-he-just-call-me-cute?!*
i love this video sm and have dissected it a thousand times over, yet there’s still so much more to unpack | via f1 yt
[which australian star performed in the legend slot in 2019?]
lando: australian star… are there australian singers?
oscar: come on, you know this. we’ve met her before
lando: adele’s australian?
oscar: *god-give-me-strength nose pinch*
this poor guy | via f1 yt
[spell bruce leslie mclaren backwards]
lando: what, me?!
oscar: oh noo
lando: i didn’t go to school!
*nose pinch + lean away because he needs to get away from him but not really*
crying bc i can’t find any context for this photo but i know for a fact that lando said something leading to the giggle + nose pinch combo | via f1mia ig
BONUS
allow me to throw in this random moment
he is endeared by… himself? | not landoscar but important for research purposes
felt like sharing another snippet of my lestapiastri fic. so uh, here!!
Pippa is still in the back talking about the race when Oscar's handsfree lights up with a call.
He answers it, not paying attention to the caller ID. Maybe he should've.
"Oscar!" The voice of Charles Leclerc sounds through the car. "Oscar, what are you doing tonight?"
"Uh, you're on speaker," Oscar says quickly. "Pip's in the car. But, uh. Nothing, I think."
"Hi, Mr. Charles!" Pippa exclaims. "I'm sorry your race wasn't good. Hopefully next time you will do really well!"
Charles laughs, and Oscar feels his cheeks heat up at the sound. "Thank you, mon trésor. Hopefully next time I will win, yes?"
"Hopefully!" Pippa replies. "You, Max and Checo can share the podium!"
Charles laughs again. "Maybe so, mon étoile. Anyways, Oscar, would you like to come and have dinner tonight? With me and Max?"
Oscar worries at his bottom lip. While he would love to, his main worry is Pippa. His family is on the other side of the world, and he doesn't actively have a babysitter to watch her.
"Can I get back to you?" He asks. "I need to see if I can get someone to watch Pip."
"Of course!" Charles replies. "There is no rush. Just let us know, yes?"
"Will do. Uh, bye, I guess."
"Bye bye, mon ange," Charles says, and he hangs up the phone.
Oscar pauses then, before he dials his best friend.
snowghoul
dededos
areudirty
pixelskylines
