acewritespoop
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- Formula 1 RPF (20)
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Lando's official first day on the job doesn't go as planned.
Plucking his own soiled undergarments from a pile of royal fabric in the form of clothes had certainly not been part of the plans. And having the crown prince, the very man he works for, blindly groping across the space between them until he finds his target, sleep-warm skin contacting Lando’s hip, and tugging Lando back into bed—the bed lined with sheets consisting of a royally high thread count—had certainly, most definitely, not been part of the plans either.
Lando is royally fucking screwed.
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There comes a day called The Day—unofficially. Nobody knows when it will happen. It can be on your twentieth birthday, or some random insignificant day like the fifth of May when you’re 50 years old. You can’t talk about it, because half the world will think you’re mad unless they’ve experienced it for themselves, and most don’t.
On The Day, you wake up to the same sun, the same sky, and the same date circled on the calendar. Once, twice, ten times, a thousand times—as many times as it takes. Maybe until the day you snap and force the hands of the clock into your own hands, force your final seconds to tick. The irreversible method, anything to get out of the time loop. Or, as many times as it takes for you to finally find your soulmate.
Lando’s been here long enough. Maybe it’s time to give up.
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Lando might be going clinically insane, cursing and fuming and spewing out choice words that'll have his own grandmother rolling in her grave when absolutely no one save for his steering wheel will be able to hear. Still, he smacks his palm down on said steering wheel, horns blaring out.
But then he sees it, that opening right there, and that other lane seems to be faring slightly better. So he yanks on his steering wheel, absolutely floors it—pedal to the metal and all that—attempts to divebomb his way into that gap. He doesn't bother putting on his signal lights, doesn't check his mirrors or he'll hesitate. He’s nosing his way into the lane, he’s got it, he’s there, he’s an amazing driver unlike these terrible useless drivers who shouldn't have even been able to sit behind a wheel—
And then there's a terrible resounding crunch, his whole car frame shuddering from the impact. Lando takes a second to register what that even means, another second to look out the window and see the man floored on the tarmac with his motorbike, and he thinks: shit.
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fka: pedal to the metal and all that -
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And then the grand reveal happens, the prince stepping through the doors with his servants in tow. Eyes follow him past the rows of chairs, up until he comes to a stop at the red velvet seat at the head of the table. He slips his cape off—a shade of blue so deep in the colour of regality—handing it off to the side, turns around as he takes his seat, and Lando nearly drops his glass.
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Oscar doesn't know what to feel about the guy. He's a mystery, an enigma, an idiosyncrasy to be studied. He knows next to nothing about the neighbour of his, apart from the fact that he, like Oscar, lives on the fourth floor.
Here's what Oscar does know about the guy:
He spends his mornings fighting to tame his curls, filling Oscar with the irrational, overwhelming urge to tear those rough hands away and run his own fingers through the hair to see if it's as soft as it looks.
He works out on the balcony, shirtless, like an asshole.
He chugs vodka straight from a bottle, likely with a one-way wish ticket to liver disease.
He's the most inconsiderate neighbour in the whole building, blasting twangy country music from his speakers at three in the morning. Or maybe he's been living in a cave for most of his life and has never seen or heard of headphones. Who is Oscar to judge? Maybe he should get him a pair as a belated housewarming gift.
Lastly, his walls are fluorescent yellow. Which. Is a choice. Oscar is forever going to associate that colour with the man now.
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“I can’t believe this keeps happening.” Lando says, once Oscar’s sat back against the headboard. “I’ve never even had one sex injury before, and now we’re on the third.”
Oscar smiles gravely. “We’ll get it right next time.” He says.
“I’m a little scared of what else we could injure next time.” Lando mumbles.
“Don’t be.” Oscar says. “I’m kind of determined to get it right, now. Against all the odds and shit.”
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4 times Lando and Oscar tried to get down to business and got it wrong + 1 time they got it right
Bookmarked by acewritespoop
24 Aug 2025
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Ancient magic, Mark had explained, is a rarity. Something left over from when the world formed, maybe, or an excess of some sort. No one really knows what it is, but we know it’s powerful.
You wield it, he’d said to Oscar. What will you do with it?
On the morning of the first day of term, Lando senses, with a sort of tugging feeling in his chest, that this year is going to be nothing like he’d been expecting.
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- Part 1 of fortune
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Oscar hesitates. Lando is technically his competition. But the poor guy looks like he’s about to throw himself off the top most diving board in frustration, and Oscar can’t help himself.
“Alright, mate?” Oscar says, and Lando jumps, raising his head from his hands quickly. When he sees it’s Oscar, he seems to relax slightly.“Oh, hey man,” Lando says, trying to grin, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. “I’m all good, yeah, don’t worry.”
“Did you-,” Oscar hesitates again, then pushes on, “did you need a hand with anything?”
“I -,” Lando starts, then stops. He eyes Oscar wearily for a second. Takes inventory of his competition, eyes raking Oscar’s pale torso and sweeping across his face. He makes some sort of decision, maybe that Oscar doesn’t have any ulterior motive in asking that he’s alright, then he sighs.
“You don’t happen to have a spare cap, do you?”Oscar almost laughs, before he realizes it’s not a joke.
Oscar and Lando and the rest of the grid are pro swimmers. Chaos ensues. Problems must be solved. Love always wins.
Bookmarked by acewritespoop
22 Jul 2025
Bookmarker's Notes
“Please don’t make me say it?” Oscar says, and it comes out as a wobbly question.
(...)
“I want you,” Lando says, and his voice is low. Something hot and violent twists in Oscar’s gut. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything, I think.”
Oscar inhales. “Jesus,” he says. It’s all he can say. They sit like that for a moment, eyes locked. Then, when he doesn’t think he can stand it anymore, he asks, “how far is your hotel from here?” -
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“If you’re kissing all your girls like that,” Oscar starts, his voice is slower, drawn out, “Then its no wonder they aren’t moaning.”
It’s almost goading, the way he says it—the words undercut with a challenge. Oscar knows him too well to assume he’s going to back down.
”Yeah?” Lando tilts his head, eyes narrowing, “Big talk, Piastri. You think you’re a better kisser than me?”
Oscar rolls his eyes at his tone, there really isn’t a reason for them to be doing this. ‘Just because’ isn’t a good enough reason to make out with your best friend, no matter how drunk or high you are, and Oscar knows that. But it sticks in his chest like nicotine tar, aches with every shuddering breath he sucks in.
Bookmarked by acewritespoop
20 Jul 2025
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I'm not surviving this, he thinks, delirious, pressing closer. The beat of Lando's heart is bright against his fingertips. There's no way I'm surviving this.
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Oscar hits the wall.- Language:
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Bookmarked by acewritespoop
19 Jul 2025