#g.fic

[otherparties]

ugly, only chance

jenson/lando/oscar; 6.8k; explicit | post-abu dhabi gp 2024

Lando texts him sometime around midnight, short and so insane that Oscar takes a couple of minutes to wrap his head around it: jenson + me @ mine, u up?

archive locked; read on ao3!

[biancadiangelo]

- an introduction - 

Fae; xxv; grad student; pjo side-blog; multi-shipper, resident Bianca Di Angelo representative

I have many aus planned and very little written, but we’re working on it.

ao3 // aus tag // writing tag // fanfic masterlist // percianca tag // main blog

[calicofae]

“Little Natblida”  by faeriefully on ao3.  ✶  The 100 || Clarke Griffin & Madi. || A story of mother and daughter adopting and subsequently saving one another.   -  The writers didn’t want to give us the character development, so I did it myself. Special thank you to @mermaeids​ for betaing and giving me motivation to actually write this. 

✶   Read on ao3   ✶

........

Her leg was asleep.

Don’t move.

Needles pricked at every inch of her foot climbing up her ankle.

Don’t move.

She bit her lip and tasted blood. The pain was eating up her leg, gnawing through her skin and into every nerve.

Don’t move. Don’t move. Don’t move.

If she moved, they would hear her. If she moved, they would find her.

If she moved, she would die.

The pain passed eventually, fading away with the sound of the Fleimkepa’s voice. Still, she waited. Waited until the world was silent around her.

There was a knock on the door. She jumped slightly, heart hammering in her ears. A second later, her entire body relaxed. “Nomi.”

Her mother smiled at her, lifting her from the secret spot. Her voice was soft, as warm as her eyes as she helped her climb to her feet. “Kom ai strik natblida.” Come, my little nightblood.

She wrapped her arms around her mother’s legs, a soft smile gracing her lips as she buried her face in the warm colors of her dress. Her mother’s hand rubbed her back gently. The fear of the fleimkepas faded away. She was safe. She was home.

.o.

The sky was angry.

It raged, red clouds filling the horizon. Days ago, it had sent down rain that burned, and the people began to get sick. The village was afraid. Children weren’t allowed to roam anymore.

Today the sky was roaring.

She pushed through the crowds, air burning her lungs, her skin. Around her, people gasped for breath. Some kneeled over, coughing until their red blood spilled on the ground.

Still, she ran, feet stumbling through the village to the edge of the wood. Hide, her mother had said, holding a cloth to her mouth. She didn’t understand. Was this the fleimkipas’ fault? Were they coming to take her away again?

Why was the air burning?

The door to her hiding spot creaked as she opened it. Climbing inside was harder than normal. Her skin stung where the rashes were the worst. Her breaths were short and tasted like fire in her throat. The run here had drained her, sucking every ounce of life from her limbs.

Shutting the metal door behind her, she reached for the smaller trapdoor, dropping more than climbing into the small bunker beneath the floor. She wasn’t fast enough to stop the door from slamming shut above her. The sound made her wince. She was supposed to be quiet. She had to be quiet.

She lay down, pressing herself into the very back of the small space. There were a few cushions and blankets lying in a corner for her. Her hands shook a bit as she pulled them away from the wall.

As she tucked the blankets over her, she listened for any sign of the usual announcement. The fleimkipas always made an announcement when they came during the day. It was at night that they were silent.

There was no sound, but she wasn’t sure if it was because she was too far away from the village to hear it. Her secret spot was in the woods between the village and the lake– a place with metal walls that her mother had decorated with her, covering the windows of the little room with thick curtains and laying rugs over the hidden door in the floor. No one from the Shadow Valley ever visited it. No one but her.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Just wait. All she had to do was wait. Wait for them to pass, wait for the special knock, wait for her mother’s arms around her again, pulling her to safety.

Her throat ached, every breath ripping through her chest. Everyone was sick in the valley. She’d watched her mother care for her father, nursing him as his skin blistered and peeled. Neighbors weren’t coming out to play or to train. Some couldn’t get out of bed. Coughs could be heard every hour of the day. The village smelled like sickness and death. She didn’t like going outside anymore.

Why was the sky angry? Why was everyone sick? Why was she hiding?

Why? Why? Why?

The walls shook, wind screaming outside. She pulled the blankets closer. Do not be afraid, her mother’s voice whispered in her head, no harm can find you here.

No fleimkepa had ever found her here. No enemy. No danger.  She was safe. She was safe. She was safe.

Why was she shaking so badly?

Around her, the walls groaned, rocking with the wind. She wasn’t sure how long she lay there, listening, waiting. There was no way to see the sun moving. She closed her eyes, drained, and tried to slow down her shaky breaths.

Her mother would come to get her when it was safe.

✶   Read more on ao3  ✶

[otherparties]

right hands

girl!lando/girl!george; 4k; explicit | post-qatar gp 2025

'Well done, to be honest. I think especially the second half of the year, she's driven pretty amazingly. And I know it's pretty tense, this last race weekend, but I think [the championship] ended up in the right hands.' — George Russell, on fellow countrywoman, Lando Norris, winning the 2025 World Drivers' Championship to become Formula One's first female world champion.

archive locked; read on ao3!

[otherparties]

pure electric

girl!lando/girl!oscar; 7.9k; virginity kink; 2023 formula 1 season (chapter 1 of 2)

'I've— um.' Oscar's very, very red; all that pale, obvious skin prettied up with distress. 'I've just, like. Never done it?' It takes several seconds too many for Lando to realise what she's being told. When it registers, 'You're fucking with me,' Lando says. 'Oscar, mate, you're twenty-two years old. You're actually joking me.' — Lando discovers some things about Oscar. And herself, apparently.

archive locked; read on ao3! [chapter 2 posts over the weekend]

[spiralingcodependancy]

Oh the 3rd life au I was going to talk about right

Concept, the cactus ring never happens, the two of them can’t go through with it and grian and scar live in the server pretending the ghosts of their friends and the red running through their veins aren’t constantly driving them to want to kill each other. Waking up in a cold sweat from dreams of whispers to end the game, knowing it’s not entirely a dream, or even waking up to a sword to your throat but the person wielding it not quite going through with it. Going through the days like it’s completely normal because, despite the drive for blood, they can’t seem to commit to murdering each other when it comes down to it.

If there’s fics like this I want them very much please, i may write a drabble to get it out of my mind

(I did a little bit :])

[spiralingcodependancy]

Remember the idea from this post? I started writing it, and its a little silly so far but i kind of want it to start light hearted before diving deeper so heres the first little bit i have! :]

Its a pleasant morning when grian wakes up, a direct contrast to the sleep he had during the night, but the power of the sun warming his face through the window and incredible denial he’s able to push that aside for now.

In his bed he sits up and takes a look around to find himself alone before stretching and throwing the blanket off of himself, moving to put his feet on the cold ground. Finding himself alone in the morning meant Scar had already run off to do something idiotic and he would have to tread lightly, knowing his luck scar has already trapped a few doorways or something adjacent.

Grian takes care to walk silently and carefully check every corner as he slowly makes his way to the kitchen. The smell of morning tea and the sound of light humming grows as he walks to the dining table in their home. Scar, shirtless once again dear void, is stood with his back to grian as he finishes off the tea he had made. Grian watches as he turns around with a comically big smile.

“Well hello there G! I made you your favorite,” hes practically glowing from the light of the window in the kitchen, “i hope you enjoy!”

Scar walks to the table and sits down, pushing the cup towards grian, before resting his chin on his hands. The way he was looking reminded grian of an animal watching its prey, the red in the mans eyes shining with determination.

Grian took the cup and lifted it to his nose taking in the smell. Then he stood, walked to the sink, poured out the cup, and started at making more tea.

Behind him a groan of disappointment.

“Scar, buddy, youve tried to poison me too many times now. You have to get a new idea at some point, its your fault for being so predictable.” He scolded the man with a little smile on his face, though scar would never see. Grian goes to wash the contaminated dish as the water boils for his new, not poisoned, tea.

Scar stands and walks up behind grian, placing his chin on the others shoulder.

“But G, you know i cant help it, you should have just drank it.” He sounds like hes hiding laughter being a very dramatic whine.

Grian shrugs his shoulder to shake him off, rolling his eyes at the statement. Sure he cant help it but there was no way he was letting scar get the win like that.

“Just like you cant help taking off your shirt every time im not looking? Void, put some clothes on!”

Scar moves to lean one elbow on the counter next to grian, resting his tilted head on his knuckles and wearing the most shit eating grin hes able to muster.

“Should i be taking it off when youre look- OW!” Grian smacks hi upside the head before he can finish the teasing question.

“Scar i quite literally can and will kill you, go do something.”

[otherparties]

jendoscar 2025 follow-up, queen?

3am & jenson wakes up to his phone almost vibrating off the nightstand & it's lando, of course it's lando. and jenson remembers being young, remembers winning, the surge-rush of adrenaline sharp as a swing careening towards the sky; remembers, equally, the awful drop in the middle of the night when everything is too much and nothing is enough. he picks up. lando says can you, like, come get me? and jenson says where are you? and lando says i called— i called oscar, but he didn't pick up and jenson says where are you?

all chance that oscar's in the hotel lobby, frowning at the vending machine when jenson walks in with lando clinging to him, soft and wet; all intention when jenson makes eye contact with him and holds it as the elevator doors slide closed. predictable, in the end, the knock on lando's door five minutes later, the boy on the other side, dry-eyed, sharp-edged, smelling of soap.

jenson remembers winning, sure, but he also remembers losing.

is he alright? oscar asks, like the words are being dragged out of him. jenson wants to say you could have him, you could have all of him, why do you keep throwing him away? jenson says look at you, making him wait. again.

i didn't come to— oscar begins, but jenson doesn't wait for him to finish, who cares? you came.

inside, jenson watches oscar discover in real time the colossal difficulty of turning lando away when he's like this, open and earnest and wanting. victory sharpens others, but lando is not a blade, just a boy. who wants to be touched, and kissed, and adored on the biggest night of his life. oscar holds himself like a— member of the king's guard, honestly, stony and upright and emotionless and entirely a performance. you think you know what it's like to lose, jenson wants to tell him, but how can you, when you don't even know what you already have?

jenson says, i think he deserves a good time after all that, don't you?

oscar says he's drunk and lando says please. oscar says hasn't he had enough of a good time already? and lando says please. oscar says nothing and jenson says i remember you putting that mouth of yours to much better use and oscar blushes from the skin under his eyes all the way down the swell of his cheeks.

once for every win, i think, jenson says from the settee by the window with a perfect view of the bed, of lando's spread legs, of oscar's cock hard and red and pathetic between his thighs. that's seven. think you can give me seven, champ?

no, says lando, silly and petulant and breathless already. his hands are buried in oscar's hair, tight and shaking, like he's scared of letting go. try anyway, jenson says, and smiles.