anyone want an unedited 1.2k of a lead-up for a post-WDC thing i started back in december???
Collision Course
He breathes it out like it's all one word, a rush of soft air after crashing through the door: "What're you doing?"
Oscar doesn't turn off the tap, peering at the mirror through his dark lashes – Lando swims in his vision, sways where he stands. Water drips off Oscar's chin, a small rivulet tracing down the tendons of his neck, his wrists. It pools in his hands. He splashes his face again instead of answering.
It's cold, icy. It's a slap in the face where no one else will give it to him, even if he asked.
Oscar's eyes are red in the reflection.
And Lando stares at him silently, lips glistening from his ever present tongue – it darts out again to wet them, quick and deft. He takes a step forward, unbalanced towards the right, and mumbles something unintelligible; his mouth hardly moves, words a jumble of meaningless syllables and glossy lips, beautiful and full and pinked by his teeth and calling to Oscar like a siren's song in the mirror.
He hits his face again, the relentless cold sting shooting down his spine.
Finally, Oscar sighs and turns off the tap before standing upright, flicking water away from his face in lieu of a towel. It drips down to the collar of his shirt, stark against his overheated skin. He presses his back against the sink, waiting. "What do you want?"
He mumbles again, eyes locked on Oscar's and unreadable. Glassy and unfocused, yet somehow pleading, somehow shocking in their need. It would push him back if he wasn't already pinned by the counter, the intensity of Lando's hazy... whatever.
"–at th'bar," Lando's slurred speech almost carries over the thrumming bass, lids dropping – heavy.
He takes another uneven step, halfway towards where Oscar waits, frozen. Lando's skin tingles from the weight of his gaze – bright from the water, droplets clinging to his lashes like tears, like champagne.
Lando can almost feel it pounding against him, the hot rush of countless bottles of champagne soaking him to the bone, running down his spine and pooling in his collarbones, running down his neck like the water on Oscar's skin slowly gliding down, down, disappearing under his shirt.
"What?" Oscar asks, almost snaps, as Lando's eyes drop to his neck, to his chest.
As Lando tries to drop to his knees, eyelids fluttering closed.
Pulled by instinct, Oscar surges forward – wet hands gripping Lando's upper arms, heaving him back to his feet. "What the fuck are you–"
"Jus' wan'you to lemme..." Lando trails off, not trying to escape Oscar's grasp. Oscar doesn't try to let him go.
The only signs that either of them can still move is his racing heart, beat outpacing the music seeping in through the bathroom walls, and Lando's lashes brushing against his cheeks as he blinks. Slowly. Lazily.
"You done?" Oscar finally asks, hesitantly unclenching his fingers. He takes a step back, suddenly desperate to break whatever just happened. "D'you want me to go find–"
Lando smiles, that dopey one he gets when he's too far gone, and bends his knees again – ready to let himself collapse to the ground at Oscar's feet.
"Christ!" He yells, frantic eyes darting to the bathroom door as he grabs Lando again. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" His hearts in his throat, suffocating him alongside the smell of Lando so close – sweat and vodka and the cologne he always wears, sharp and musky.
He's warm in Oscar's hands, head rolling limply as Oscar shakes him.
"Seriously, mate, s'not the place to play games. Someone could see–"
"Wanna buy you a drink," The words blur together, soft despite the confusing edge in Lando's eyes when they meet.
"Fine, fine, we can–"
"Wanna–"
"Lando, just stand up. We can go to the bar–" Lando grows heavier, mumbling to himself. Alarms sound in Oscar's mind, deafening.
"–like we were s'posed to, like." His knees go slack again, dead weight in Oscar's grasp.
"No! Lando, no, seriously, don't..." Panicking, incredibly aware of what this looks like – Oscar, too wet for normal circumstances, clinging to his ragdoll of a teammate – he all but drags Lando into an an open stall.
Lando careens into the wall, massive hands splayed against it to catch himself. Oscar slams the door closed, locking it and pressing his back against it with an exhilarated huff.
He's on his knees before Oscar can process what's happening, his deep sigh of relief the clearest thing he's said since he interrupted Oscar's pity party. But he's stolen Oscar's breath in the process, lungs frozen still as Lando looks up at him – lips parted like a silent prayer, eyebrows drawn together in an attempt at rapt focus.
It hurts to swallow, his throat gone so tight that he hardly manages it. His heart takes up too much room in his chest, painfully fast and making it's presence know; he can almost feel it beat against his spine, reverberating against the bathroom door as Lando stares up at him, as he blinks that slow, catlike blink.
"S-stand..." Oscar's voice shakes, eyebrows shooting up as Lando shuffles closer – a golden tan hand reaching out for him, wrapping around his thigh.
It covers so much of it, searing hot palm heavy against his jeans, sprawling fingers digging into his flesh.
Oscar, slack-jawed and dry-mouthed, wonders if it could bruise.
"Wanted you to win..." Lando sighs, tipping forward – pressing his cheek against Oscar's inner thigh, nuzzling against him like a cat. "Wanted, hm..."
Oscar's so warm against his face, denim somehow soft and thigh malleable under his grasp. And he's looking down at Lando, Lando's looking up at him, and he's beautiful. His skin glistens and flushes, spreading under his eyes and the high points of his cheeks just like it would under the lights, on the podium, just like Lando wanted to see. He wanted to drench him, wanted Oscar to laugh, wanted to feel like it was theirs just as much as it was his, wanted–
He wanted it to not matter between them, for Oscar to win right alongside him because he deserved it.
He wants him.
Lando's other hand wanders up to Oscar's hip, fingers spreading wide to feel more of him – pushing up his shirt a little, shuddering at the hot shock of skin underneath.
"Wan' you, want you so bad..." Lando keeps going, speaking to himself as he straights his back, as he moves his face further up Oscar's thigh.
He can't move, pinned so entirely by the weight of Lando's hand devouring his hip, the weight of Lando's eyes when he looks up: wet at the edges, desperate. It goes right to his cock, somehow already aching by the time Lando reaches it – finally shutting up enough to press his mouth against it, hot and plush.
It snaps Oscar back to reality: a sticky club bathroom, a man he's fantasized about fucking for months sprawled drunkenly, wantonly at his feet.
Pairing: Fernando Alonso x Fem! Reader
Genre: Tooth rotting fluff
Warnings: None
Avi's Radio📻: So, I was supposed to be writing my text!au, but I could not get his out of my head, so here you go!! Btw my requests are open if you have anything in mind!!
MASTERLIST ASK BOX
She didn’t notice it was gone at first.
It wasn’t something she ever really thought about, just a habit more than an accessory—looped around her wrist most days, half-forgotten until she needed it. So when it disappeared, there was no dramatic moment of realization. Just a few absentminded days where her hand kept reaching for it anyway, meeting empty skin instead.
By the third day, she finally frowned, turning her wrist like the angle might fix the problem. It didn’t. She checked her bags, her desk, even the bathroom counter like it might have staged a quiet rebellion. Nothing.
“Traitor,” she muttered to herself, then let it go.
It was just a hair tie.
Until race weekend.
The Aston Martin garage always felt like a different kind of chaos—controlled, expensive, slightly too loud to think properly in. She weaved through it easily, coffee in hand, greeting a few engineers before spotting Fernando near the back, half-focused on a conversation but already looking for her the way he usually did without making it obvious.
She walked closer.
And then she saw it.
A plain black elastic around his wrist.
She stopped.
“…Is that my hair tie?” she asked, slowly, already narrowing her eyes.
Fernando didn’t even look surprised. He glanced down, then back up at her like she was interrupting something mildly important. “No.”
She let out a short laugh. “Nando. That is my hair tie.”
“It is a hair tie,” he said, completely calm.
“My hair tie.”
That finally got a pause. Just a small one. Then he shrugged. “It was in my apartment.”
“So you stole it.”
“I didn’t steal it,” he corrected immediately. “I found it.”
“In your apartment.”
“Yes.”
“And your solution was to wear it.”
“It was convenient,” he said, like this was obvious logic.
She stared at him for a second, then shook her head. “Convenient for what? Emotional support hair tie?”
He hesitated, just long enough to give himself away. “Its so you don’t lose it again.”
Her expression softened despite herself. “And did that work?”
“…Sí,” he admitted.
She laughed under her breath. “Clearly not, because now I’ve found you wearing it like a criminal.”
He gave her a look. “It was not criminal.”
“It’s borderline emotional theft.”
“I forgot it was there,” he added, quieter, like that explained everything.
That made her lose the fight completely.
“Unbelievable,” she said, stepping closer and slipping the elastic off his wrist. “I leave you alone for a few days and you adopt my belongings.”
Fernando watched her wrap it back around her own wrist, expression unreadable for a moment too long.
Then, softly: “Can I have it back?”
He blinked. “No”
He tilted his head slightly. “It has become habit.”
That did something inconvenient to her chest.
She exhaled, pretending it didn’t. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe,” he said.
Still, he didn’t look away.
So she stepped closer, gently took his wrist, and slid the hair tie back into place where it had been on him, smoothing it down like it belonged there.
“There,” she said lightly, stepping back before she could overthink it. “Try not to get attached, hm?”
Fernando looked down at it, then back at her.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Too late, cariño.”
And she absolutely did not think about that for the rest of the day.
Avi's Radio📻: Annddd thats it! Now i can finish my text!au in peace!
Please don't hesitate to leave any constructive criticism or insight!!
Thank you for reading!!
Taglist:
If you want to be added or removed, please dm me or leave a comment!!
@hereforfanfictionsfr @maladaptive-anxiety @valeelavvale @harrystyleskiwi9 @sonasarchive @yearnerray @sparksfromhell @velisa003 @gulaabjamun08
wanna read more like this? check out my MASTERLIST
Just realized I've mentioned my wretched wheel a couple time without real explanation of it so heres that. Sometimes, to get inspo for a drabble request that isn't very specific, I spin a little wheel of au ideas to put them in!! This inspired my Beartoleto fic recently, and another wip :P So here is that list in it's direct, copy and pasted order from when I made it at midnight a while back. If you see smth you like.. maybe request it with ur driver pairing of choice ^^
The Wretched Wheel...
Werewolfe/Vamp
Flowersss
Rocktar
Beachy/Ocean
airport
Coffee Shoppe
Time Looping it
Neighborss
I will do nightvale oneday you cant stop me like at all
college
Celebration/Winning Hours
Filmaking
Magical times
Tutoring time
Teammates
Models and Photographers
zombie times
Merrs
Olympixs
Hey ho! Challenge time - open your Spotify Daylist, find the 8th song on the list and write a quick drabble based on the 3rd line of lyrics🎵
Send this to 5 friends and feel free to change the song or lyric number 🖋️ have fun!
Remember all the times I alluded to Oscar really wanting Max to watch him get fucked, but refuses to ask for it? Kinda ala Sit Quiet and Take It? Here's some of that, I think :)
All Ours
Lando pitches forward with a gasp, hands falling to either side of Oscar's strained arms – strung up, tied to the headboard with beautiful, sanguine knots. Oscar's breath dusts across his nose, frantic little gasps bleeding through the gag and complementing his wide, dark eyes.
The corner of Lando's lips twitch into a smirk. "This what you wanted, Osc?" His name almost dies on his tongue, cut off by a breathy groan as Max pushes in agonizingly slowly. "Is… is this – fuck –" Max's fingers dig in deeper, clawing into the skin of Lando's hips like he wants to tear him to bits, like he wants to devour him inside and out.
"Mouthy," Max chuckles, earning a halfhearted glare over Lando's shoulder.
"Maybe you're just not that good." Lando flutter his lashes innocently, not missing how Max's Adam's apple bobs with a thick swallow, how he rolls his eyes like Lando's said something useless again. "Shut me up, yeah?"
"Really think that's possible, Bob?" Max flexes his fingers again, grinding his hips against Lando's ass like a test, seeing what he can get away with.
His eyes look at Max's chest, his shoulders – golden with summer sun and leaner where Oscar's bigger, bigger where Oscar's lithe. It makes his stomach flip, skin tingling like he's just sinned, or something. So he winks, pretending he's got it under control, and turns his attention back to Oscar – looking up at him like he's seen god and found a paralytic in his greatness.
"Oscar manages sometimes." Lando breathes into Oscar's face, shifting his hips in Max's grasp playfully.
— — —
"Oh fuck, it's–" Lando swallows thickly, eyes never leaving Oscar's. "He feels so good, so good, Oscar, he's–" He can't get it out, struggling to keep his breath under control as Max finds the right angle, the right rhythm – reading Lando like a book, hands sliding up to grab at his waist, setting his skin on fire.
Oscar's face blooms redder, gaze moving from Lando to just over his shoulder – watching the way Max's eyes flutter closed, how he's lost in it.
And back to Lando.
Back to the wicked grin on his lips, the knowing glint in his eyes. He moans, the one that's a bit for show but goes straight to Oscar's cock. "Harder, Max, I just– faster– yeah, yeah like that. Just like that, I'm– fuck, Osc, it's so– he's so–"
Lando's eyes nearly cross, unfocused and hazy as Max grabs his shaking triceps and pulls –arching his back taut, aching cock leaking at the force of it, the helplessness. His brain goes silent for a second, just bursts of electricity and nothing as Max fucks him, as he bends him back further, as he finds his limits and doesn't stop.
His jaw drops, heavy and lax and desperate for a full breath.
Oscar shifts between his knees, hips wiggling uselessly as he tugs against his restraints; it jolts him back, grounds him for the moment it takes to lick his lips.
"You wish this was – hah – you, baby?" Lando can't help but smile, mean and crooked, when Oscar's eyes squeeze shut, chest flushing red like he'd been doused with scalding water – the weight of Lando's words. "You wanna feel him? Wanna– wanna feel him fuck you?"
Oscar shakes his head desperately, betrayed by his punched out gasp – muffled by his gag but undeniable.
Max's hips stutter, nails digging into Lando's arms like he's moments away from snapping – from shoving his face in to the pillows and finally shutting him up.
But he doesn't. So Lando keeps going, mouth running without his mind, eyes fixated on Oscar's responses. "Just gotta say it, Osc. Say you want him to fuck you, say you wanna be good for, fuck, him – wanna be a good boy."
Max hits his prostate and Lando sees stars, keening as he tries to buck back into him – as he tries to get him to do it again. Oscar's eyes fly open at the sound, frantically taking in Lando's flushed cheeks, his pert nipples, his neglected cock bobbing uselessly against his lower stomach – desperate for Oscar's delicate fingers, his familiar touch.
"Wanna be good for us, huh? S'that what you want?" Lando keeps going, struggling to keep the words together – reveling in how he can still feel Oscar trapped between his knees, muscles tensed and jumping with Max's thrusts. "Bet I could– I could get you to, hah, to beg. You'd beg for his cock if I– if I made you."
He's getting close, breathing growing ragged and Max stretching him so fully and driving against his prostate and the way Oscar's looking at him – the way he's whining through his gag, the way the fabric's gone dark with his heaving breaths, the way his hands are shaking in their restraints, the way he's looking at Lando with eyes black as pitch–
The ropes are already wearing the delicate skin around his wrists raw, angry and red as he pulls, pulls, against them uselessly.
"You wanna touch me baby?" Lando coos, laughing breathlessly when Oscar nods immediately – earnest and fervent and with eyes like an over-eager puppy.
"That works on him?" Max mutters, mouth closer to Lando's ear than he'd realized.
Oscar's cock jumps in his soiled boxers at his tone, at the way Lando and Max's eyes – so different yet moving in tandem, like twins – turn their focus towards him.
⁸⁴⁾ “are you sure you’re not mad at me?” + landoscar (or dealer's choice, if you're not vibing)
“Are you sure you’re not mad at me?” he hears Lando ask.
Oscar had thought he was alone by now. Silverstone’s over and the team’s gone to celebrate. He figured that if he napped in his driver’s room and waited a bit, he’d be late enough leaving the paddock that the only people he’d run into would be Alpine staff caught up in a late debrief.
He hadn’t expected to find Lando, half-asleep on a chair in McLaren hospitality instead of in a club somewhere partying.
“Why are you still here?” he asks. He doesn’t mean for it to come off as snippy, but he can see hurt in Lando’s furrowed brow.
“I don’t know,” Lando shrugs, not quite meeting his eyes. “Wanted to make sure we were good, I guess. You seemed off, after.”
No shit, he was off. The win was meant to be his, and it was torn from him by a stupid fucking penalty. And sure, Lando was the one to benefit off it and he’s nipping at his heels in the driver’s standing, but that doesn’t mean he’s the right target for Oscar’s frustration. He’s mature enough to see that.
“Well, I’m not mad at you,” he tells him.
Lando frowns. “I’m not sure that I believe you.”
He snorts. “It’s not your fault. If I start holding your wins against you, I reckon this whole growing old together thing wouldn’t quite pan out.”
“Romantic,” Lando jokes, reaching over to pat the chair across from him. “I suppose we should have a proper chat then.”
Oscar doesn’t want to talk about the race. He’s spent all night avoiding calls from Mark Webber, Logan, and his mum. That’s how much he does not want to talk about the race.
He finds himself sitting next to Lando anyway. It’s late, and he’s there, and he looks stupidly soft in an oversized team sweatshirt with the hood pulled over his curls.
“If I were going to be mad at anyone, it would be Max,” he tells him, hoping it’ll strike the tension from his shoulders. “He’s the one that can’t stop complaining on the radio.”
Lando perks up in interest. “Are you mad at Max?”
After thinking about it for a second, he shakes his head. “I’m mad at the stewards.”
“Lot of pricks, aren’t they?” Lando nods along.
“I don’t want to talk about the race,” he tells him finally. He can’t hash this out right now. “Except to say congratulations, I guess. It’s your home race. You shouldn’t be holed up in hospitality with me at half ten.”
“Well, I did fall asleep,” he defends. “Wasn’t just wringing my hands all night like a fucking idiot.”
He says it like he was wringing his hands all night like an idiot. Not that Oscar thinks he’s an idiot.
“So you didn’t eat?” Oscar asks, furrowing his eyebrows. “Winning your home race at least calls for a nice meal.”
“Snagged a croissant that never made it off the catering cart.” He wrinkles his nose. “It was quite stale, actually. Totally not worth the empty calories.”
Lando won his home race in front of pretty much his entire family, and he’s been stuck here waiting for Oscar all night, while they’re probably waiting on him. He isn’t sure whether he should feel touched or guilty.
“Well, all I’ve had is half a protein bar,” he replies, cautiously chewing at his lip. “If you want to grab a kebab or something, I’m sure somewhere’s still open.”
The idea of the two of them just rolling into a kebab shop completely sober in the middle of the night is fucking hilarious, especially considering it’s bound to be packed with drunk racegoers, but it beats going back to the hotel, he figures, and this way he can at least buy dinner and pay Lando back for the trouble.
“Don’t think that’s what Jon had in mind when he gave me a pass on the meal plan for the night, but that sounds fucking mega right now.”
As they walk off towards the car park, a peace passes over them and it makes Oscar smile. It’s nice that they can be normal, even when it’s like this.
“I nicked your shirt on the way out. I hope you don’t mind.”
Lando looks up to see Oscar standing in the doorway to his driver’s room, holding out an old Quadrant t-shirt that’s so worn that he pretty much just wears it to play padel or to get ice in the middle of the night at this point.
The image of it almost makes laughter bubble up in his chest: Oscar trying to be quiet as he rifles through Lando’s suitcase while he sneaks out of his hotel room in the dead of night, tossing aside neutral team kit shirts and designer tops alike to find the raggy old t-shirt that Lando’s worn to death buried in the bottom so that he can take his walk of shame to the hotel room down the hall.
But then, when he gives a touch more thought to it, it makes him go hot all over. Oscar, wearing his shirt. Not just any shirt, but one that specifically from his brand, one that he’s worn a hundred fucking times, one that anyone who knows him well would know is actually his if they saw Oscar walking by in it.
He wonders if the shirt smelled like him when he put it on, notes of his deodorant and aftershave clinging onto the fabric through wash cycles. He wonders if that’s why he chose it.
It makes something possessive rise up in him, even though he’s not meant to be feeling that way about Oscar of all people. Oscar is just the guy he sometimes shags during race weekends, fucking properly before media days and trading hand jobs and blowies when they have to worry about getting in the car. He’s a convenient stopover while Lando can’t be arsed to find a proper girlfriend that sticks. He’s no different from any of the people he takes home from clubs for a night together.
Except, it occurs to Lando that he hasn’t taken anyone home from the clubs in a bit. Not since he and Oscar turned scattered hand jobs in moments of frustration into something a bit more regular.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for Oscar to start nicking his shirts every day.
“Don’t mind at all. Sorry that you managed to find the one with a hole in one of the pits,” he says casually, even if he feels like anything but.
Oscar shrugs. “I don’t mind it. It’s not as if I was popping in for a press conference. I just needed something because my shirt was, y’know, compromised.”
That’s a nice way of reminding Lando that he absently grabbed it to wipe come off his stomach last night. Fuck, maybe if they have a quickie now, he can make the same mistake all over again and send Oscar out in his t-shirt for the entire team to see.
Except, they’ve got a meeting in ten. Might be a bit too quick of a quickie, even though the thought of Oscar wearing his clothes already has his dick twitching in his trousers.
“Sorry about that, mate,” he tells him. “You’re welcome to borrow anything you’d like. Blanket offer.”
“Thanks.” Oscar’s smile is soft, but his face is entirely unreadable. Lando hasn’t got the faintest idea if he’s feeling as crazy as he is about wearing his clothes.
“You could also just stay next time,” he adds, heart beating in his ears. He thinks he’s done a good job at playing it off as casual rather than a plea.
Oscar pauses for a second, eyes widening a touch as he must realize the implications of it. Waking up together is a line that they haven’t crossed yet— Oscar always sneaks off right after Lando falls asleep. But Lando wants to see what Oscar looks like when the morning light filters through the blinds. He wants to see how messy his hair gets when he gets up in the morning and he wants to kiss him on the mouth before they’ve had a chance to brush their teeth.
“That’d be nice, I reckon,” Oscar says finally. “Maybe tonight, then?”
Lando grins. “Tonight,” he agrees.
He nods. “I’ll be sure to bring my toothbrush.”
Oscar gives him a small wave and disappears back towards his own driver’s room and Lando buries his face in the shirt. It’s got the faintest hint of sweat in it, smells exactly like Oscar after they’ve fucked, obviously. It’s fucking delicious, in a way it shouldn’t be.
Maybe over the break, he’ll invite him back to his apartment. That way, he can actually see Oscar wearing his clothes when they make breakfast together.
One day, maybe they’ll lose track of whose shirt belongs to whom. Maybe it’ll all just be theirs.
yuki taught him that word. it means politeness so that you don't hurt other people's feelings. he said, "it's the feelings you show in society" and 'honne', its opposite, means your private feelings. max, however, max didn't think he would perform tatemae even if the consequences bit him in the ass. why would he be polite about what he wants, if he can put in the work and just grab it? unfortunately, even max verstappen, the current world champion, had to practice tatemae sometimes. especially when he laid his eyes on the prettiest person he ever saw. your sharp glint when you were baiting someone step by step into a verbal trap held him in a trance. there was something about how efficient you were at welding your words like a swinging sword that resonated with his soul. if he voiced out his thoughts then, he was certain you would give him the lashing of a lifetime for being a simp. which, now that he thinks about it, is something that he wouldn't mind being subjected to. what that says about him he doesn't want to actually think about. politely asking for your number by saying, "someone who puts idiots in their place is someone worth befriending" felt like a lie when the boxy grin you sprout at his words makes him feel more exhilarated than getting podium at a gp. maybe one day, you will know his hidden feelings. but for now, he is content with planning dates (that he is careful not to call dates) and midnight calls that end up with him listening to you breathe. however, no one can say that max verstappen is not a quick learner. he is willing to slow down to a snail's pace if the prize is you.
Hey ho! Challenge time - open your Spotify Daylist, find the 11th song on the list and write a quick drabble based on the 1st line of lyrics🎵
Send this to 5 friends and feel free to change the song or lyric number 🖋️ have fun!
HELLO DEAR ANON THIS IS SO FUN
I didn't catch my daylist title before it refreshed but the song was Tear You Apart - She Wants Revenge. I flipped the line though!
Cause there’s always repercussions when you’re dating in school...
The new student had transferred mid-year. Max had not been mean to him, but they were not friends. Him and Charles.
Max tried to steer clear of him, actually. Every time he glanced at Charles’ face, his father’s voice echoed in his head, nails on chalkboard: wrong. But…
They were on the same team for the monthly orientation course. Lost in the woods, irritated, sweaty, and fucking cold, Max let his eyes linger. Charles caught him looking. Then – his lips were chapped, but – not wrong. Never wrong. Charles was everything right.
