do *you* want a place to yap about strollonso? to yap about f1 generally and pretty much anything you want but primarily strollonso of all categories? join our new discord server!!
Check out the the strollonso club community on Discord - hang out with 31 other members and enjoy free voice and text chat.
i’ve been on there for a while and made really good friends. if you enjoy microwaving them gently and lovingly and yelling every time they interact, come join!!
⚠️nsfw⚠️
omegaverse friendly
having all the strollonso enthusiasts in one place is life changing let me tell you
He wakes up, disoriented. It’s not even light out yet, why the fuck is he awake? His throat’s a little sore, his hips are a little sore. Jeez. Didn’t even bother to put some pants on last night, and did he chafe his ass on like, the sheets or something? Wow. He’s sore all over. A settled, pleasant kind though, a muscle ache too deep for him to reach. Maybe he can skip the gym today, hop on a stream, relax. Grab Carlos for a round of golf before he leaves, if he’s not too busy mapping Monaco on his bike.
He turns to his left. Claps a hand over his mouth, shrieks into it.
Like, he’s groggy. He doesn’t have the remnants of a disaster headache, so he’s not hungover. But it’s early, and he never wakes up early. Must be why he’s hallucinating.
When he can bring himself to look again, Carlos is still there. Close enough that Lando can hear the air whistling softly through his teeth.
Lando shifts uselessly, stares. That’s Carlos, alright. He’s always been a loud sleeper. Back in their McLaren days, when they’d shared hotel rooms, Lando had taken voice recordings to prove to an adamant Carlos that he snored. The memory makes his lips twitch. It’s nice Carlos looks well-rested. Better than he has in awhile. A pretty trophy will do that for you. If he wants, Lando can choose to waste precious time counting Carlos’s lashes while he figures out what to do. He’ll lose count at probably a hundred.
That’s Carlos, alright.
What were they doing last night? Surely Lando would remember. The party was loud, raucous, the Prince of Monaco victorious here at last. All podium finishers present, fourth place included. Drinking, laughing, cozying up to one another. Carlos and Oscar smiling tentatively at each other after sharing just one couch, animosity seemingly forgotten. The prickly itch crawling under Lando’s skin, until Charles finally manages to bag him a set. The music, beats pounding a tattoo into his brain. He remembers all of that.
Surely he would remember taking Carlos’s clothes off. He’s wanted to for—
Lando slaps both hands onto his cheeks, hard enough to sting. He needs to take a leak.
He squeaks out of the bed, as quietly as he can. Trips over a pair of jeans that look vaguely familiar, rams his toe into the wheel of a suitcase that definitely wasn’t there last night. Finds the bathroom, closes the door with a silent snick.
Fumbles around like a dunce for the light switch, right there where all light switches usually are.
Flicks it on. Shrieks for real this time, without his hands to cover the noise.
It’s a good thing Carlos has always slept like the dead. To be absolutely fucking certain, Lando peeks his head out.
Yep, still asleep. That’s Carlos, alright.
Deep, deep breaths. As deep as he can go without passing out. He returns to the mirror. Feels for his face like it’s a foreign object.
Which it is. Because that’s Oscar Piastri, looking right back at him.
--
He means to start off with something useful. Something like, Hey, do you remember what drugs we were on last night? E? Salvia? Because mate, these are the strangest withdrawal symptoms I’ve ever experienced. Or even something funny, like Haha, now I know what you look like naked. The fans are going to have a field day.
Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “Why are you sleeping with Carlos?”
“Good morning to you too,” Oscar says, after the longest pause on planet fucking earth.
He didn’t mean for that to sound as sulky as he did. But he’s sore all over, and his lips, which are not his, but Oscar’s, feel extremely kissed, and he definitely does not expect that to make something in his chest twist tighter than a coiled spring.
“Aren’t you going to answer?”
“What did we drink last night?” Oscar says, unsurprisingly choosing to be the level-headed one in this conversation.
“Something bright green, something ocean blue. Dunno. Lost track during the set.”
“Lando,” Oscar says patiently, in Lando’s voice. Which is just all kinds of weird. “Something green, something blue, doesn’t sound all that normal.”
“I knew that DJ couldn’t be trusted.”
The world-weary sigh Lando receives makes his skin prickle with heat. Things have been happening. The car’s gotten faster. From his grandmother to the mechanics, everyone’s been talking about a chance he could pull like magic out of thin air. It’s not his fault he wasn’t paying attention. At the club, or to every encounter Carlos and Oscar had prior to this that has led them here.
“Look, I’m gonna—where are you?”
“In Carlos’s room,” Lando says, rudely, unhelpfully.
“Right. I’ll. I’ll be there in. We’re staying just, two blocks away, right? I’ll be there in ten. Could you. Could you please, just—”
Lando expects him to say something totally condescending. Please just don’t freak out. Please just don’t do anything until I get there, because I’m being responsible and you’re being a baby.
“Just, go back?”
“What?”
“Be next to him, when he wakes up?”
Lando swallows. The acid from yesterday must be making his stomach churn. Oscar—in Lando’s fucking voice, sounds smaller and more hopeful than Lando ever wants to hear himself sound.
“I don’t want him to think.” Oscar stops. Lando can practically see him scrubbing at the back of his neck. “I don’t want him to think I left, or anything like that. Could you—”
Lando hangs up.
The earnestness. The, the audacity.
The phone rings again, and Lando hangs up again, out of pure spite. He paces wildly, in front of the mirror. Each time he turns on his heel he imagines his body morphing back into what’s right. Each turn smacks him with the image that Oscar’s pale, freckled skin turns splotchy red when he’s angry.
What. A useful thing. To know.
It’s been half an hour since he’s woken up. Which means, oh fuck. Fuck. Carlos’s body clock has always been impeccable. Eight, on the dot, he springs out of bed like it’s a wonderful thing being alive at that hour, and then goes and makes coffee without fail. Which means in three, two minutes, Carlos will open his eyes. And, and he’ll be alone in bed.
He’ll be alone. That’ll make Lando feel better, right? Carlos will be alone, and then Oscar will no longer be a problem, and then the itch under his skin will disappear, for good.
Carlos will be alone.
He flicks off the light, slips out of the bathroom. Bangs his toe again on that damned suitcase. Slides under the covers, adjusts himself into a position he hopes might be believable. Head on one hand, face tilted toward Carlos. Body leaning, reaching. Always reaching. Eyes half-closed.
But open enough so that he can see the exact moment Carlos wakes. See that small, relieved smile. See the way Carlos clicks his jaw askew, the way he always does before making a decision. Then feel Carlos run the backs of his knuckles against a face he wishes were familiar.
"Last night the RLL family celebrated the premiere of Bobby Rahal: True American Racer. The man, the legacy, the race that changed everything. 🏁" - may 20, 2026
📷 @.rllracing / instagram
sick to death of people giving up on their fav athletes bc they have bad bouts of performance . i will stay delusional until the very end. they will win it all. they are the goat. best to ever do it. in the game forever. never ever doubting them. hashtag my losing dog 4ever
what if... more strollonso. because the last were beautiful and i love them and i love you and im screaming and sobbing and throwing up about them at all hours of the day
Tumblr is stuffed to the brim with 18-25 year olds who talk endlessly about being a hole for old men and have a heart attack the second a consenting adult is in a relationship with an old man
i keep getting this instagram ad for what i assume is a romantasy novel that begins w the phrase “imagine knowing your destiny in life…is to die” n it’s pissing me off SO BAD. everyone’s destiny in life is to die. that’s like. kind of the main one.
yousharknotpass
2087
discoholicmusic
dededos
romaincrisis
theartofmadeline
