The rest of that day's doctor's visit was the most mortifying ordeal Lando's ever been through in his entire life. He was basically told to get fucked (literally) and given a pamphlet on how to get fucked good.
Lando will never be able to look his doctor in the eye ever again.
Additional Tags:
Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Marathon Sex, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Omega Lando Norris, Alpha Oscar Piastri, Praise Kink, Overstimulation, Vaginal Sex, Cunnilingus, Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Multiple Sex Positions, Porn Without Plot/Plot What Plot, Omegas Have Female Genitalia, Knotting, Service Top Oscar Piastri, Power Bottom Lando Norris, F1 Omegaverse Fest 2025, no beta we die like mclaren pitstops
Oscar's human flatmate is… odd. Partly because he doesn't give a damn that Oscar is a vampire, but that's honestly just one of Lando's many miscellaneous quirks.
tags and snippet below ↓
Tags: Lando Norris/Oscar Piastri, Minor or Background Relationship(s), George Russell/Max Verstappen, Alternate Universe - Roomates, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Romance, Pining, Tenderness, Sexual Tension, Humor, Light Angst, Blood and Injury, Blood Drinking, Vampire Oscar Piastri, ??? Lando Norris, Idiots In Love, Oscar Piastri Loves Lando Norris
Snippet (~1.5k words):
Oscar's human flatmate is… odd.
Partly because he doesn't give a damn that Oscar is a vampire.
While vampires are generally considered accepted members of society, they're still largely viewed with distrust and apprehension. Employers hesitate to hire them, healthcare workers watch them warily, and, overall, most people simply do not feel comfortable in the presence of vampires.
It's how Oscar ended up kicked out from his last residence. His revealing of his nature had resulted in his previous flatmate of nearly two years giving him a single week to find a new place.
Oscar had thought it would be safe to tell the man, given that he also wasn't human. In retrospect, being born a gnome and being a turned vampire are wildly different circumstances, regardless of their technically-shared community of supernatural creatures.
Lesson effectively learnt, Oscar had resolved to keep his vampirism a more tightly-kept secret.
When George—an acquaintance only by virtue of their shared affliction—had introduced him to a friend who was also in need of a new flatmate, he'd leapt at the opportunity. Only to find himself wholly unprepared for Lando Norris.
Lando is… He's everything that Oscar isn't.
Personable and bright and so very alive in a way that Oscar couldn't have claimed to be even when he'd still had a beating heart. He's energetic and magnetic, possessing that inexplicable ability to pull people in, like Earth itself decided to spare some of its gravity to gift to him, just so that Lando would always be surrounded by people who are enamoured with him.
Oscar had fallen prey to it just like everyone else, effortlessly swept up in Lando's orbit and helpless to stop it from happening.
Embarrassingly fast, Lando became one of the most important people in Oscar's (un)life. Which is why, after only a couple of months living together, it had been utterly terrifying when Oscar had come home one day to find that Lando had stumbled upon his stash of blood pouches.
Well, less 'stumbled upon' and more 'opened their fridge to find plastic packets of animal blood directly in his line of sight'.
A rookie mistake, leaving them where anyone in the household could find them. In Oscar's defense, he'd shoved the blood pouches into the refrigerator in his rush to return to his job on time. The butcher's shop he regularly frequented for his blood supply had been busier than usual, and his time spent waiting in line had cut severely into his lunch break. He'd thought he would be able to transfer the blood to the mini fridge in his bedroom before Lando came home, so he hadn't thought much more of it.
How could he have possibly known that his flatmate would pick that day, of all days, to leave work early?
So, yeah. Just like that, secret revealed.
Faced with Oscar's apprehensive, guilty expression, Lando had just raised a brow, huffed out a soft laugh, and drawled, "You do realize that I know George is also a vampire, right?" Which, no, Oscar had not realized that. Why hadn't George told him? Why hadn't Oscar thought to ask?! "I'm perfectly fine with having one more fangy friend, so stop looking at me like I'm about to run away screaming."
Feeling weirdly chastised and hesitantly relieved, Oscar had scrunched his nose at the use of 'fangy friend' and, because he'd had to be sure, pressed, "But are you okay living with one?"
Lando had simply nodded firmly, a cheeky grin gracing his lips as he tossed one of the blood pouches in Oscar's direction. Even with supernatural reflexes, Oscar nearly fumbled the catch.
"Yep," Lando had chirped, his heart-shaped smile as blinding as the sun. "Just… maybe don't put your food right by mine, yeah? I don't mind blood, but I don't really wanna see bags of it next to my egg rolls, mate."
And that had been that.
A year has passed, and Lando never started treating him differently, barring the new (and, quite frankly, uninspired) vampire jokes he enjoyed telling at Oscar's expense. He knows not to take it personally. George is victim to the exact same treatment, and Max deals with every possible dog joke in existence. And in similar predicaments, Oscar could also name Alex, Carlos, Charles, etcetera…
For a human, Lando is friends with an alarming number of non-humans.
But Lando's seeming affinity for collecting supernatural friends is hardly his most puzzling quirk. In fact, there are five things in particular that Oscar argues are much more notable, and he can name them off without thinking twice.
One: Lando's clumsiness. Despite his near-perfect posture and runway-worthy gait, Lando is surprisingly, endearingly clumsy.
In most recent memory, he'd dropped a skillet full of dessert that Oscar had spent over an hour making for them (because despite lacking the need for any other sustenance than blood, Oscar still craves sweets almost as often as he did when he was human; and he'll be damned if he doesn't take advantage of the fact that vampires remain able to digest human foods and drinks).
Oscar hadn't even been able to feel mad at the time. Lando had felt so bad that he'd been on the verge of tears, hands balled tight into trembling fists where they'd been kept tucked against himself. In the end, Oscar had dutifully helped him clean up the mess, and they'd went out to get ice cream instead. All in all, once disaster was averted, it had been a good night. One that Oscar could only look back on fondly, even if the edge of the skillet his mom had gifted him is now slightly chipped.
Two: Lando is mischievous. Aside from his dry wit and teasing nature, he's also prone to pulling pranks. Always lighthearted and never mean-spirited, but pranks nonetheless.
Like when Lando hard-boiled the last of their eggs and put them back into the carton. The following day, an exasperated Oscar had sent a still-giggling Lando to the store to buy more. Or that time he hid about a hundred tiny horse figurines around George's apartment. Months later, Oscar heard that George is still finding more of them.
Three: Lando never lies.
It had taken Oscar quite a long time to notice this one, but he's discovered that Lando is always truthful, no matter what he's asked.
However, Lando is also polite (in the presence of most company, at least), so sometimes the truth is twisted, worded so carefully and inconspicuously that it makes Oscar wonder if he's hiding a law degree somewhere. Seriously, Oscar's seen him successfully navigate his way through the dreaded 'do these pants make me look fat?' question like it was child's play.
Four: Lando refuses Oscar's 'thank you's. His strangest quirk, for sure. Whether it's for the most innocuous gestures of kindness to truly compassionate acts of service, Lando rejects Oscar's words of gratitude every single time.
"Oh, you bought TimTams? Thanks, mate." Shot down.
"Hey, thanks for doing the dishes." Told to shut up.
"I really appreciate that you stayed up all night, kept me company, and made me hot chocolate while I stressed over a work project that I definitely should have started weeks ago." Punched in the arm. Gently, as if Lando isn't perfectly aware that he's literally incapable of hurting Oscar. Not without fire, silver, or a hawthorn stake to the heart, anyhow. Fortunately, Lando's apparently never been offended by Oscar’s appreciation enough to pull out any of the three.
As far as he's noticed, Lando only ever does this with Oscar. Every time someone else thanks him, he waits for Lando to say something, but he never does.
The few times Oscar had asked him about it, Lando had merely shrugged and given him those elusive, dizzying non-answers that he's so fond of employing. Eventually, Oscar chalked the behaviour up to a weird mix of Lando's surprising amount of humility and what must be flatmate privileges. He's since stopped asking.
But, still. By far, it's Lando's weirdest habit.
And, finally, five: Lando is attractive. Which is something that shouldn't even be considered a quirk, but he's so exceedingly attractive that Oscar counts it as one anyway.
Seriously, like, so far beyond someone's average, boy-next-door cuteness. It's the people-stop-and-stare type of good-looking. That-one-person-you-see-on-the-street-and-never-forget kind of gorgeous.
Anywhere and everywhere they go, people gawk, phone numbers are offered, and compliments from strangers aren't just an expectation, they're a guarantee.
And Oscar is certainly not immune to Lando’s charm either, not by a long shot.
He had, at one point, thought he was just being a bisexual disaster, but no. Or, well, yes, but he swears there's more to it than that.
Yet, for all of Lando's perplexing contradictions and behaviours, as well as Oscar's own adamance that his natural charisma is positively otherworldly, there's nothing to suggest he's anything other than human.
While it's considered rude to ask for someone's species and even more taboo to talk about it with other people, there's been enough conversation around the topic that Oscar's confident he would have been clued in if his flatmate was indeed supernatural. In the company of their closest mutual friends, there's been several moments wherein Lando's been called out as the sole human of the group; and no one, including the man himself, has ever refuted the claim.
For all that he is brilliant and enchanting and beautiful, for all of his wonderfully strange oddities, there is decidedly nothing inherently special about Lando Norris.
Except for the undeniable fact that Oscar is absolutely, unequivocally, hopelessly in love with him.
His eyes were a colour that Oscar had only ever seen during summer storms over the sea. Dark, greyish-green ocean waters that reflected the clouds when flashes of light split the sky. Oscar's mother would always chastise him for remaining on the beach to watch the tempests blow in, standing, staying, for far too long; she warned him of the looming danger, staring into something so unpredictable, so unknowable.
Oscar never heeded her warnings.
Or,
Gladiators Oscar and Logan were free men only months prior. Now, they battle and kill to survive, all in the interest of Roman entertainment. Oscar’s only incentive to continue fighting is the goal of earning enough coin to purchase his and Logan’s freedom. He could not have accounted for Lando, a body slave whose eyes are comprised of oceans long missed.
Additional Tags:
Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Slavery, Ancient Rome, Romance, Angst, Blood and Injury, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, not between landoscar, Explicit Sexual Content, Top Oscar Piastri, Bottom Lando Norris, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, First Time, Eventual Happy Ending, no beta we die like my hopes of being normal abt landoscar
landoscar gladiator au (but this snippet is entirely Oscar angst oops lol)
cw // mentions of prostitution, slavery, and violence
[read chapter 1 on ao3]
The ludus was alive with celebration. Wine flowed abundantly, moans echoed against stone walls, and the atmosphere was alight with cheer and the palpable relief of surviving to see another day.
Oscar emerged from the baths, skin scrubbed of crimson sin. Slipping through the crowd of his fellow gladiators, he searched for familiar blond hair and blue eyes. Talking and laughing with a few of their brothers, Logan held a cup of mead in a clumsy hand, honeyed liquid sloshing over the rim.
Mouth pinched at one side, Oscar strode to his friend's side to grip at his shoulder. Logan's smile was bright and loose when he turned it in his direction. A gash cutting through his right eyebrow that had not been there that morning was already in the process of scabbing over.
"A word, please," Oscar stated, voice low.
Logan sobered at once, offering him a single nod before excusing himself from conversation. Gesturing for Oscar to lead the way, he followed him outside onto empty practice sands blanketed underneath an arid night sky. Oscar closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the fresh air, willing the tension in his overtaxed muscles to ease.
He looked to his friend, gaze flitting to the cup in Logan's grasp. Oscar tried to affect a stern expression but knew that he mostly failed, softened as he was with the relief that his family had yet again emerged from the Colosseum largely unharmed.
Nonetheless, he jutted his chin towards the cup in his hand and gently reprimanded, "Be wary of what coin you spend on such pleasures."
Logan offered a meek, bemused grin.
"I know, brother," he replied easily, soothing some of the remaining tightness from Oscar's shoulders. "I have only spared a few coppers for it. Horner's assistant is, er, quite obstinate. It was either I accept a drink or continue to be subject to his attempts at selling me a whore for the night," Logan puffed out a humourless laugh.
The additional insight grated, and Oscar worked his jaw to the side.
He did not consider himself particularly sententious, but learning of how several of the men here celebrated after returning from the arena had been an unpleasant revelation. His stomach had roiled the first time he watched as Horner's assistant trailed through the bowels of the ludus, leading a line of listless prostitutes behind him. Haughty and self-important, the man tapped his ringed fingers on the iron bars of the cells, calling out enticements and prices in the same breath.
As if the people he lead were little more than livestock.
Many of the gladiators were eager to part with their paltry winnings for a night of pleasure. Among them, some treated the prostitutes well enough.
Most did not.
It had only taken one aborted fight with an overly aggressive gladiator—and a whipping for his insubordination—for Oscar to learn that it was simply best to avoid the cells on nights such as these.
Saying no more of the topic, Logan moved nearer to him, surreptitiously sliding his remaining coin into Oscar's hand. He leaned forward and, under his breath, asked, "How much has been saved? Do you reckon it is enough to appear before Horner with our proposition?"
Fingers clenching around the warm metal in his grasp, Oscar shook his head.
"Not yet."
Expression grim, Logan merely nodded in understanding. Oscar wanted nothing more than to offer his friend better tidings, but he would not mislead him with false hope.
They fell into a solemn, contemplative silence. It was how Doctore found them only moments later. The older man came to a stop in front of the two, eyes shifting between them.
"Oscar, Logan," he addressed, his tone betraying nothing. After each of them greeted him in response, he remarked, "You both performed well today. Logan, your aim has improved, but your defense is still lacking." He eyed the mark through Logan's brow conspicuously. "See to it that you focus on practicing your guard."
With a firm nod, Logan responded with a mere, "Yes, Doctore." If the critique bothered him, he made no show of it.
Doctore then turned to Oscar, who straightened up under the attention. The man's steely gaze softened minutely, almost imperceptible in the low-light.
"I wish to speak to Oscar alone for a moment."
Logan ducked his head and readily replied, "Just as well. Medicus requested my presence before the evening's end. May both of you rest well."
Oscar felt his friend's lingering stare upon him as he strode away, but he did not return the look. Instead, he met Doctore's appraising eye.
"You fought remarkably, Oscar."
Fist tightening, the coin in his hand bit into calloused flesh. Even as flashes of memory left him ill, he did not break his gaze.
"Gratitude, Doctore."
Doctore did not smile, but the corners of his eyes crinkled tellingly.
"After such hard-fought victory, you may call me Mark."
Oscar's brows raised, suitably surprised. Of the gladiators, only Max referred to Doctore as such, and only ever did so off of the sands.
"Mark," he said, testing the syllable in his mouth. After so long calling the man by his title, it felt distinctly foreign.
Mark bobbed his head approvingly.
"Your dominus looked pleased, as I am sure you saw. The conclusion of your fight was a worthy spectacle, enjoyed by many."
The back of Oscar's throat burned, and he attempted to swallow the feeling down, to no avail. Teeth gritted, he looked to ground before his feet. He tried and failed not to imagine gore staining the earth, watering its dry, cracked land.
Drought-stricken, the only rain this cursed city had seen in years was that of the blood of men. Oscar's fight that day had offered it its due sacrifice.
The battle had not been meant to end in either his or his opponent's death. And, certainly, they both left the arena with their lives despite it not having been an unchallenging fight. Unlike many of the battles Oscar partook in, he had not needed to bide his time in order to curate a false show of struggle, all in a bid to build suspense for a bloodthirsty crowd.
The man facing him had been older, more experienced, and keen to keep knocking Oscar off-balance and to the dirt, the strength behind each swing of his gladius on par with the most fearsome of Oscar's brothers in arms.
So, he had dutifully stayed close to ground. And when the moment presented itself, Oscar leveraged his low position to slice one of his blades through the backs of his opponent's heels.
Hours later, the man's screams still rung in Oscar's ears.
As the crowd roared and the ground trembled underfoot from their raucous excitement, Oscar had left the arena with only minor cuts to his upper torso and arms. The other gladiator, unable to walk, had been dragged away, limp legs leaving trails of ichor in their wake.
He would likely never take a single steady step again. And there was little use for a gladiator—a slave—who was not capable of proper movement.
Oscar may not have dealt the killing blow, but he knew with absolute certainty that he had sentenced the man to death. One of countless others, another addition to a tally kept only by way of every fresh scar upon his skin.
The grip of a large, warm hand on his shoulder broke Oscar from his ruminations. Mark's stare was a heavier burden than Oscar felt he could carry, but he held it nonetheless.
"Your tenacity will carry you far, Oscar. Do not allow thoughts of guilt or mercy to stay your hand." He shifted his weight to his left side, and the muscles in his jaw twitched, his hazel eyes hardening. "Distraction and hesitation in the arena will only ever bring about your ruin. Remember that well."
There was a certain gravity to his words, echoing with a tale untold. History that Oscar knew better than to ask after. Swallowing, he nodded and bowed his head in deference.
"As you say, Doctore."
With a firm squeeze to Oscar's shoulder, Mark bid him good night before retreating back inside the ludus.
For several breaths, Oscar remained under the shine of the moon and stars—celestial bodies that have overseen the lives and deaths of thousands of men. Head tilted skyward, Oscar stood frozen before their silent judgment.
"You can do better than that, surely." Oscar's tone is teasing, goading.
The words ring through the buzz in Lando's head like a challenge. Allowing a smirk to tug at the corner of his mouth, Lando meets Oscar's eye. Tries to slip on an ill-fitted mask of unwavering arrogance.
"Like you could've done better than P2?"
Like a switch, Oscar's even-tempered expression shifts into something serious, something darker.
There isn't enough time to dissect why the sight has his breath hitching and heart racing; the subsequent slap across his cheek effectively smothers all coherent thought.
Or,
Following his 10-second penalty during the British Grand Prix, Oscar's mood doesn't improve after the race. Lando has an idea on how to lift his spirits. Maybe. Hopefully.
omegaverse landoscar set in the Drastic Measures universe🍫🍓
help me decide what part you'd like to read next in the series👇 (all of these, and more, will be written eventually, so don't worry if your choice isn't a top pick!!)
oh, how long has it been? I don't know
but it feels like an eternity
since I had you here with me
since I had to learn to be
someone you don't know
to be with you in paradise
what I wouldn't sacrifice
why'd you have to chase the light
somewhere I can't go?
as I walk this world alone
-> based off of a future fic: landoscar (vamp!osc, heavy angst with a hopeful ending)
The historical art museum's permanent literature exhibit hasn't changed since Oscar visited about a month ago. Dimly lit with soft, warm hues, the light bounces off of the swirling, brown shades of vinyl flooring.
Before him, dozens of yellowed, fraying pages of writing are displayed in a collage of frames. Pressed against the wall beneath them sits a glass case filled with three leather-bound journals, each of them splayed open down the middle.
All by the same author, all in runiform script.
Stories, letters, and poems of a centuries-old love, tragically beautiful in its refusal to be forgotten by time.
Oscar would insist that he doesn't know why he's here, why he keeps returning, if such a claim wasn't such a blatant lie. After all, he knows perfectly well why he keeps coming back, over and over, again and again.
Because it's worth it to be here. Even when all that these visits lead to is awful nostalgia and miserable yearning, it's worth it. Because even if the memories are painful, it's a blessing to have them at all.
Remembering him—his light, his life, his love—is worth everything.
Oscar would not trade his memories of their time together for anything in the world, regardless of how bitterly and abruptly everything was ripped from their hands.
Young and foolish and hopelessly in love, they'd sworn to give each other forever; now, Oscar's left with nothing but an eternity to be the sole bearer of what was meant to be the promise of two. Left alone to carry the blessing and burden of remembrance and regret, with no way to follow the one person he'd once vowed to follow anywhere.
Oscar feels a culmination of emotions that spans hundreds of years, all in a single second, when he comes here. It tears and claws at him like vicious starvation, ruthlessly feeding off of him, but he's well-accustomed to dealing with hunger. He lets the feelings roll over him, retribution for failures that even reparations spanning across multiple lifetimes cannot atone for.
The taste of ash lays thick on his tongue.
"Aren't they wonderful?"
If Oscar's heart still had a pulse, it would have skipped a beat. He doesn't need to breathe, but he does so out of habit, and his next inhale stutters within his chest. Oscar's fingertips twitch where they rest against his thighs.
That voice.
The language, the accent, and the cadence are all different, but… the voice is the same.
Slowly, painfully slow, as if moving too fast will jostle him from this dream he's somehow found himself in, Oscar turns his head to the side.
And oh, all of him—the entirety of him—aches.
His hair is shorter, his skin tanner, and he's been blessed with years that had so cruelly been stolen away from him before. However, his smile is still heart-shaped, his cheeks still dimple, and his eyes are still that mesmerizing mix of greys and blues and greens.
Lando is still the most beautiful person Oscar has ever seen.
There is everything to say and yet nothing to say at all. And speaking words has always been more difficult than putting them to paper. Oscar cannot say anything, stuck in place and struck silent.
Lando meets him where he's at, and if Oscar's silence uneases him, he makes no show of it. Instead, he continues smiling and nods his head towards the frames. "This is my favourite exhibit, y'know? There's just… something about it." His features soften, and his eyes gentle, a far-away gleam to them as he looks upon the pages. "Beautiful, don't you think?" he asks, gaze never wavering.
"Yes," Oscar feebly replies, quietly tender. "Beautiful."
"lici!" you cry, "you have 2 published wips, why tf are you posting snippets of another future work?!?!?" and the answer is: I am shameless, emotional, and need to share this absolute travesty.
pls enjoy and feel free to scream at/with me😇
summary: Oscar Piastri is a man of God, a good son, and an upstanding member of his church. His ideals and beliefs are solid, his control steady and sure. But a stranger's kindness and a string of chance encounters might just unravel his carefully constructed life.
⚠️warnings⚠️: angst, themes of blasphemy, internalized homophobia
Snippet 1
It's the middle of the night when Oscar gets caught in a torrential downpour. Halfway between his parents' hotel and his modest London flat, he hunkers down at a bus stop. It does nothing to help cut the sharp sting of autumn wind, but it at least shelters him from the rain.
He sits on the thin, red bench with a sigh, his breath a plume of grey swirling in the air.
In his coat pocket, a piece of paper haphazardly ripped from a hotel notepad has a name and phone number scrawled on it in his mother's looping handwriting. When his parents initially told him they were coming to England to visit him, he hadn't thought they'd bring their meddling along for the trip.
He should know better by now.
Oscar wonders if the rain has drenched him enough to soak through the thick fabric of his coat, enough to saturate the paper until the ink bleeds, leaving the numbers illegible.
He doesn't check. Later, he promises himself.
Arms resting loosely on his thighs, Oscar's head hangs low. Rainwater drips from the ends of his hair, splattering onto the concrete beneath his feet. He should probably feel cold, he thinks. Instead, he only feels numb.
Oscar's felt numb for a long time. And yet, he can't articulate why, like his own body is a language he can't read.
Or, maybe, he just doesn't want to learn.
Suddenly, a pair of boots, black and thick-soled, enter his line of sight. Slowly, almost sluggish, Oscar looks up. Tracks his eyes over tight leather hugging slim legs. Up, up, up, until the tops of the boots stop at mid-thigh. Small slivers of sheer black tights are visible before they disappear under an oversized, light grey hoodie.
It's a stark contrast, Oscar thinks inanely. Scanty versus modest.
Above the hoodie's neckline, tanned skin is adorned with a fine, silver draped choker. Chain earrings, thin and asymmetrical, dangle from ears pierced in multiple places.
Then, a small chin dimple, a heart-shaped mouth, straight nose, and stormy eyes framed by thick, long lashes. The man has his hood drawn up, but a few stray brown curls poke out from underneath, laying artfully over his forehead.
Light from the streetlamps lining the road cast him in a warm glow.
He's… pretty. Pretty like the dancing flame of a lit candle.
Oscar's stomach twists and phantom pain stings the skin of his right wrist.
Before he can say anything—a greeting, a question, an apology—the man is holding out an egregiously fluorescent green umbrella.
It takes Oscar a couple of seconds to realize what's happening.
"Oh. Thank you, but I couldn't possibly-"
"I insist." The man smiles, close-lipped and soft. His cheeks dimple.
Oscar notes the smattering of raindrops rapidly soaking the man's shoulders where the bus stop awning doesn't quite reach over him.
"What about you?"
Withdrawing his free hand from the pocket of his hoodie, the man points his thumb to the left. "I'm parked just down the street. I reckon you need this more than me." His grin morphs into a slight smirk, head tilting ever so slightly to the side. "Unless you'd prefer to sit in the cold and wet for a few hours, waiting for the next bus," he tacks on, humour evident in his tone.
Too stunned to argue, Oscar tentatively accepts the umbrella. As he does, he can't help but notice how large the man's hands are, as well as the several rings that decorate his long fingers.
"Thank you," he murmurs, staring down at the vibrant green nylon.
The stranger simply hums in response before chirping, "See ya!"
Before Oscar can likewise wish him farewell, the man is jogging off into the distance, his silhouette quickly swallowed by the deluge of rain.
Oscar exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding.
He walks home in a slight daze. Unlocks his door, shrugs off his coat, toes off his shoes—all done mechanically, only by muscle memory.
When he places the umbrella next to his own, plain and forgotten, it's a break in the monotony. The corner of his mouth quirks up absent his volition.
As he goes through his nightly routine, Oscar wonders if a stranger's kindness always feels so warm.
He forgets to check his coat pocket.
— — —
It's a different day, different weather, a different time, when Oscar finds himself at the bus stop again.
His parents flew back to Australia a few days back, and this bus stop isn't directly en route between his work and his home. He's not exactly sure why he's here again.
The sun is setting, colouring the sky in shades of purple, pink, and orange. The breeze grows cooler, sharper, as minutes pass. He has nowhere to be except home, and the only reason to hurry there would be to beat the chill of night.
Oscar has no need to rush.
It's quiet, this late in the evening and nearing the outskirts of the city. Only a few cars drive past, random and inconsistent. People walking, fewer still, and more sporadic.
"If we keep meeting like this, I'm gonna start thinking you're a stalker."
Startling slightly, Oscar looks to the side and finds the stranger from a week ago.
His attire is perplexingly dichotomous again, consisting of a mint green hoodie and leather bootcut trousers. However, his jewelry remains largely the same as it was the last time Oscar saw him—dainty, twinkling silver.
Realizing he's staring, Oscar faces forward and clears his throat.
"Yet it's you who's approached me both times."
Oscar's already cringing at himself, because he has no earthly idea why he said that, when the man huffs in amusement. A little 'ha!' that's more breath than laughter.
"Touché."
He joins Oscar under the awning, leaning against the bench, far enough away to be respectful. Oscar looks at him quizzically, brows lifting minutely.
The stranger faces him with a cheeky grin. His eyes are beautiful, a green-grey-blue that's reminiscent of something familiar that he's unable to place, so captivating that Oscar nearly misses what he says next.
"I work across the street." He nods his head in said direction. "What's your excuse?"
I don't have one, Oscar thinks and hopes the way his face warms isn't visible on his cheeks.
"Resting a moment while taking the scenic route from work to home," he replies, because that technically isn't a lie.
"Hm, suspicious," the man remarks, squinting his eyes.
Oscar's about eighty percent certain that he's joking. Only eighty because social situations always feel like a test designed for him to fail.
Case in point, he has no clue how to respond to that, so he just chokes out what he hopes is a friendly-sounding chuckle and stares forward again. He contemplates leaving, thinking of how best to announce it, when the stranger fills the silence once more.
"What do you do for work?" His eyes flit over Oscar's clothes, a white button-up shirt and black slacks, pressed and pristine.
He's awfully chatty for a Brit, Oscar muses before he replies.
"Sounds like something a stalker would ask."
"Reckon a stalker would already know the answer," he retorts with a conspiratorial smirk.
"Touché."
Oscar feels weirdly accomplished when that earns him a true laugh. Short, but high-pitched and airy. It reveals a small gap between his two front teeth. His canines are pointed and sharp, serpentine.
Unable to tear his gaze away, Oscar wets his lips.
When the man looks at him again, Oscar answers, "I'm a parish administrator."
The stranger blinks several times.
"Sorry, I have no idea what that means, mate."
Oscar can't help the quirk of his lips. "I manage the finances, communications, and other behind-the-scenes responsibilities of my church."
"Ah, a man of God." Oscar isn't quite able to place his tone, but he thinks his expression remains open and relaxed. "Do I call you Reverend? Father?"
Coughing lightly, heat returning to his cheeks, Oscar shakes his head. "No, those are just for clergy members. Just my name is fine."
"And that name is?"
"Oscar Piastri."
The man laughs again, though Oscar doesn't know why. Until, after he calms, he asks, "You go around telling every strange person your full name?"
"When they ask, yes," Oscar says. "And it's not my full name if I didn't give you my middle name."
The stranger's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Of course, of course. Middle names are reserved for the fifth date, at the very least." He holds out his hand. "Name's Lando Norris."
Breath caught in his throat, Oscar shakes his hand. His palm is warm, but his rings are cool to the touch. When they let go, Oscar's hand tingles. He shoves it in his trousers' pocket and curls it into a tight fist.
"So, what about you?" The words tumble from his lips unbidden.
Lando cocks his head to the side. "What about me?"
"Your job. You said it's nearby?"
"Oh! Yeah, I work as a club waiter part-time. I'm a freelance artist, so it helps pay the bills when clients are scarce," Lando explains with a shrug and a lopsided grin.
Whatever Oscar was expecting, it wasn't that. Interest piqued, he opens his mouth to ask a question he hasn't even prepared, only to pause when Lando suddenly curses.
Oscar watches as he pushes one of his sleeves up to look at his watch, something digital and sleek. He peeks a variety of bracelets as well, a mix of beaded and corded and metal. "Shit, speaking of work, I need to go."
Pushing off of the bench, Lando smiles at him, crooked and bright. Mischievous, almost.
"See ya around, Oscar Piastri."
Swallowing a confusing mix of wonder and disappointment, Oscar offers a smile back. "Take care, Lando Norris."
Lando gives Oscar a lazy two-finger salute, inexplicably charming when it would undoubtedly be cringe-worthy coming from anyone else. Then, he's spinning on his heel, crossing the road with a bounce in his step.
Oscar tries to ignore how his trousers hug tight to his thighs. Fails miserably.
Nails cut into his palm where his hand is still balled into a fist. His wrist throbs.
Snippet 2
Oscar remembers, with stark clarity, the first time he thought about kissing a boy.
He'd been 12 years old, at a summer retreat, and swimming in the lake with his best friend. Following a brutal splash fight, they'd stopped to catch their breath in between uncontrollable giggles. Facing the setting sun, Logan's eyes had been bright, his smile blinding.
Oscar had wondered what that smile would feel like against his own lips.
The fear that had gripped him then was ice-cold and paralyzing. He hadn't been able to look Logan in the eye for the rest of the retreat.
Once back home, Oscar had went to his church's confession booth as soon as he could. Voice still yet high and cracking, he'd told the priest that he'd been having thoughts he shouldn't be having. He hadn't even been able to say what those thoughts were aloud. Had only apologized, over and over and over again, until the priest offered him a suggestion, his penance, and absolution.
As for the suggestion, Oscar had been advised to wear a rubber band around his wrist. To snap it whenever he was plagued with sinful thoughts.
A form of aversion therapy, Oscar would later learn.
It was meant to be a technique to break habits; instead, it felt like punishment.
No one had questioned the rubber band on his right wrist, and he'd been discreet about snapping it. Thankfully, he'd never been asked about its presence.
He wouldn't have known how to explain that he'd had to use it so frequently that the band would often break. Cyclically, he'd replace one that had snapped or had stretched too thin with a brand new one. Rinse and repeat.
He'd continue to do so until he was 15, when he had finally learned that such thoughts aren't simply a habit that one can break.
Snippet 3
"I see how you look at me," Lando remarks, tone betraying nothing. The strobe lights bleed into the tight hallway, painting his cheek in a kaleidoscope of colours.
"And how's that?"
"Like you're starving."
Oscar inhales sharply. Flexes his fingers where they hang at his sides. "I'm straight." He doesn’t bother reminding Lando that he's already told him this.
"You sure about that?" he asks, head cocked to the side, the beginning of a smirk forming.
"What?"
"You said you like to know things, that it bothers you when you're not certain about something. How can you be certain you're straight if you've never been with a guy?"
Oscar throat clicks when he swallows around nothing. "Not sure it works like that." The words are rasped, weak.
"For some people, it doesn't. For some people, it does. Depends on the person." Lando shrugs before fixing Oscar with a stare so intense, so enchanting, that he can't look away. "Which are you?"
Opening his mouth, Oscar moves to answer. Nothing comes, so he shuts it. The tips of his ears are burning.
Lando leans fully against the wall behind him, tilting his chin up to peer down at Oscar like a challenge.
"I can be your test, if you'd like. You can kiss me."
Oscar's gaze drops to his mouth unthinkingly. The rosy pink colour, the bow of his upper lip, the shine of what must be lip balm or gloss. He wonders what those lips would feel like pressed to his own. What they would taste like.
Apparently, Oscar is silent for too long because Lando breathes out a little 'ha!', quiet and bemused.
Tearing his gaze away from Lando’s mouth with far too much effort to be normal, Oscar forces himself to meet his eyes. Lando looks away when he does.
"Not gonna twist your arm, mate. Just thought I'd offer."
He shifts to walk away, angling towards the dance floor, and Oscar moves without thought.
Adrenaline racing through his veins and alcohol blurring his inhibitions, Oscar grabs Lando's bicep to push him back against the wall. He chooses to not think about his surprised expression as Oscar crowds into his space like he's owed the subtle heat radiating off of Lando's body.
Then, stupid and daring and reckless in a way that he never is, Oscar leans in.
Lando's lips are soft and plush. He smells faintly of apples. And his surprised gasp, muffled into the kiss, is sweet and addicting.
Snippet 4
Oscar leans against Lando, selfishly letting him do all of the work. His hands rest loosely on his waist, forehead against his shoulder. He traces the four of Hearts tattoo that lives on Lando’s ribcage like he can discern it's meaning through touch.
"Your tattoo… does it mean anything?"
Lando pauses for a moment, surprised perhaps, before slowly continuing to rinse the soap from Oscar's skin.
"Well, four is my lucky number. The Hearts suit symbolizes love, obviously. But it's also a reminder to treat others with kindness and empathy."
If there's anyone who needs a reminder to be kind and empathetic, Oscar thinks as conditioner is rinsed from his hair with careful fingers, it isn't Lando Norris.
"You only have the one?" Oscar questions, like he hasn't become intimately familiar with the view of him—something which should have remained hidden from sight and mind.
"The pain of getting this one scared me away from getting any more," Lando chuckles.
Not for the first time, Oscar wonders what it's like to be so open about your own vulnerabilities, to not fear their existence.
"Are the hearts meant to look different?"
Oscar winces, immediately regrets asking, is worried it will cause offense.
In an equal amount of time, his worries vanish when delighted, squeaky laughter echoes off of the shower tiles.
"Yeah, they are," Lando affirms warmly. "I had each of my family members draw them." He gently extricates himself from Oscar’s grasp to twist and point to each heart as he lists:
"My dad." Top left heart.
"My older brother, Oliver." Top right heart.
"My younger sisters, Flo and Cisca." The bottom hearts, left and right respectively.
"And my mum." The two twin hearts under the card numbers. "She got two hearts because, well, she's my mum," he finishes, humour-laced fondness layered in his voice.
Lando offers him a small smile, water trailing down his skin like rain on marble, like even the elements yearn to study his body for the answers to their own chemistry.
His smile is patient, like he's fluent in a language that Oscar's still learning. He says softly, "I like to think so."
They finish showering in silence.
Lando offers Oscar the biggest shirt and pair of sweatpants that he owns so that he doesn't have to wear clothes that smell like alcohol and the beginnings of regret.
He drags Oscar to his bed to cuddle because 'it's important'. So Oscar obediently sits up against the headboard and allows Lando to press himself into his side, one arm slung over his lap and wrapping loosely around his waist.
"You can stay if you want," he breathes out. The words tickle Oscar's hip, slightly exposed where his shirt has ridden up. Goosebumps form and he fights back a shiver.
Oscar hums. Not agreement or denial, but an acknowledgement.
The silence stretches.
"You know," Lando starts, speech slurred on the brink of slumber, "card suits originally symbolized social classes. Hearts, which actually used to be Cups, represented the clergy and their role in offering…" he waves his hand in the air like he can weave words into existence, "solace and compassion."
A yawn interrupts him for a moment, too brief for Oscar's scattered thoughts to become comprehensible.
"It also symbolized the path—or, the struggle, really—to achieving inner peace."
Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, Oscar tries not to search for meaning in information so drenched in significance.
"Neat, huh?"
Oscar hums once more. A recognition, a plea, a thank you.
Lando's breath slowly evens out.
Oscar allows himself a moment to watch the way his eyelashes flutter, the way his lips part slightly, the way the tension in his muscles steadily bleeds away.
With only the quiet and his own thoughts for company, his wrist stings.
He carefully slips out of Lando's loose embrace. He changes back into his clothes, folds Lando's, sets them on the couch, and leaves.
Oscar's always been afraid of his own weaknesses.
Snippet 5
When noon rolls around and both of their stomachs rumble, Lando shoves his phone into Oscar's hand to order takeout for delivery.
"Order anything you'd like. Except fish."
"You don't like fish?"
"Fuck no. You do?"
"Yeah."
"Tragic."
Oscar obediently doesn't order fish, and when their fish-less lunch arrives, they eat in bed.
For hours, they talk about anything and everything, meaningful and meaningless.
"Nothing really matters. Not in a 'doom and gloom' type of way, just… our lives are too short to be truly significant."
"Seems… bleak."
"Really? I think it's beautiful. Even with what little time we have, despite our insignificance, we still try to be good. We choose to be gentle. We choose to be loving. We choose to be kind through the smallest acts of compassion."
"Like giving a stranger your umbrella?"
"Or by indulging one in conversation."
They learn about each other, slow and easy and uncomplicated.
Oscar shares tidbits of his life; leaves them as offerings at the altar of a false idol.
"I also have three siblings. All younger sisters."
"No way! That makes sense though, you give off oldest child vibes."
"And you give off middle child vibes."
"I'm taking that as a compliment even though I know it's not. What are your sisters' names?"
"Hattie, Edie, and Mae."
"Are they all in Australia?"
"Yeah. With my mum and dad."
"Do you see them often?"
"I fly down for the holidays. And they occasionally travel here for a short visit."
"Do you get lonely, so far away from them?"
"Sometimes."
And, somewhere in the interim between warm gazes and innocent touches, Lando asks another question. Innocuous, maybe, if the answer were anything except what it is.
Broken down by vulnerability and rebuilt by tenderness, Oscar is honest.
"What's the bravest thing you've ever done?"
"Kiss you."
Snippet 6
They lie on their sides, wrapped around each other, and he watches as Lando's eyelids begin to grow heavy, right before he nuzzles his face into Oscar's neck.
Oscar closes his eyes and prepares himself.
"You always leave after I fall asleep," Lando murmurs against his collarbone.
It isn't a question. Oscar nods anyway. Prays that Lando won't ask why.
"Then… if I don't fall asleep, will you stay?"
Somehow, that's a far more difficult question to answer.
"Please stay," Lando whispers.
Oscar holds him tighter, even as his wrist stings.
