▄▀▄▀▄ lily ▄▀▄▀▄

#𝟖𝟏𝟒. 𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐝.

[piastriprincess]

⸺ LIGHTS OUT, AND AWAY WE GO !

lily. twenties. she/her. #1 landoscar luvr and oscar piastri wdc 2026 manifestor. inbox is open, come chat with me ! requests are currently closed.

about me ⛐ masterlist ⛐ slashfic sideblog

✎ RECENT WORKS guess i’m a bad liar - AA23 ; someone to hold me down - LN4 part one , part two , epilogue ; anything but all of you - LN4 ; drop dead - OP81

[piastriprincess]

all the lando sungod glasses pics give love island lando SO GOODDDDD I LITERALLY HAVE A HEART ATTACK EVERY TIME I SEE THEM ☀️☀️☀️☀️

fun fact the photo of lando from the love island au title graphic is actually from the silverstone sungod collab last year 🥹 but sooooooooooo agree. specifically this clip from sungods insta makes me fucking insane like that’s soooooo love island lando when charles says something insane and he’s nodding along waiting for yn to notice so they can secretly laugh about it

[cerealbowlbxtch]

holy moly

pi-ass-tri strikes again

[piastriprincess]

haiiii my love!! i hope your doing okay after everything that happened today, 🫂

i wanted to send you an update of the STHMD pinterest board since i’ve been influenced by IRLS to watch love island so i’ve been rewatching season six and slightly following season eight through tiktok. but while i watch all i think about is my favs love island landoyn and wondering what they’d be doing skajdhwjeiekwk

anyyywho i hope this cheers you up, sending hugs and love to u!

lots of love, clove! 🍀

ohhhh clove thank you for this my darling, you're gonna do it every single timeeeeee !!!!!! like the summer vibes... i'm obsessiana. i also truly wish i could watch usa s6 again for the first time like that season was just reality tv excellence. i hope you love it

love island landoyn are going strong don't worry <3 they're relaxing and enjoying their summer in london together !! yn got invited to be an aftersun guest host for the new uk season which she declined. lando on the other hand is hosting watch parties of the new season at his local and telling everyone he can find that they should apply next year bc that's where he met his future wife

and who knows... you might be getting some more love island content sooner than you think...

[piastriprincess]

good lord WHAT are these anons today. boyfren im nervous

SDJKHSDKJHS elena im crying at this reference. and i DID legitimately feel like addison rae 2020 looking at my inbox last night !!!! hope ur ok as well my love <3

[albonk]

[papaya-gremlins]

leaving this here to remind everyone that it’s real

[piastriprincess]

this may be a crazy place to post this but does anyone have any must do recommendations for dublin or anywhere else in ireland…

[norrisnymph]

⌛ landoscarrr

send me a prompt for magical hijinks!

word count 2.4k author's note more below the cut !! lowkey this one was soooooo fun to write, i got carried away and it's like 2.5k words. but i might build it out a bit more if yall want more........... thank u to anon for requesting !!!

⌛ time travel/transported to alternate timeline — landoscar

Lando wakes up alone with an apology on his tongue.   He doesn’t want to call what happened last night a fight, but — it’d been such a stupid fight, really, the same horrible, dragged-out thing they’d been circling since Abu Dhabi. He’d just gotten back from cleaning himself off, tossing the tied-off condom in the bathroom trashcan, making a beeline for his pile of clothes on the floor, when Oscar’d said, in that sleepy tone he always slipped into after he’d been properly fucked: “You could, like, stay. Y’know. If you want.” “Not really what we do, is it,” Lando had replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling his briefs back on facing the door. He couldn’t look at Oscar. He knew if he turned around, saw the pretty pink flush high on Oscar’s cheeks, the smooth swell of his ass in the dim light of the hotel room, he’d never leave. He’d expected the usual silence in return — the tiny exhale, the rustle of the sheets that meant Oscar didn’t like what Lando was saying but was too exhausted, too fucked-out to push it. Lando honestly felt insane with it, sometimes, how well he knew Oscar.

But this time, there was a sharp little intake of breath from behind him, and Oscar said “What is it that we do, then, exactly?”

Lando’s hand faltered on the waistband of his joggers. “I don’t — it isn’t — we’re mates, Osc. We, like, hook up, sometimes,” he’d mumbled, pulling his hoodie over his head and feeling briefly grateful when it covered his face. “Don’t make a frickin’ thing out of it right now.” 

“It’s already a thing, Lando,” Oscar had snapped, then, composure finally cracking enough to expose something unbearably raw underneath. “It’s been a thing for months, you just — you don’t want to talk about it, or, I dunno, can’t or something—”

Lando made the mistake of moving his head just enough to see Oscar in his peripheral. He was propped on his elbows, duvet pooled around his waist, hair wrecked, a bruise in the shape of Lando’s mouth purpling carelessly over his collarbone. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he’d interrupted, voice coming out small and rushed. “It’s — it’s casual. It’s been good, yeah? Like, it works the way it is.”

Oscar stared at his side for a long moment. The room was so quiet that Lando could hear his own blood thundering in his ears. 

“Wow. Okay. Leave, then,” Oscar’d said finally, voice flat, devoid of anger. Devoid of anything at all, really. “Go. Since that’s what works.”

It’s exactly what Lando had wanted, to engineer Oscar into being the one to tell him to go. Now that he had it, though, it felt so shit that he had the absurd urge to throw himself at Oscar’s feet and beg him to take it back. Beg him to let him stay, let him bury his head in Oscar’s chest and let him play with his curls in the way Lando swore to himself he didn’t like. 

Instead, he’d dragged himself to his feet, picked up the slides he’d worn over with one hand, and walked towards the door. “See you tomorrow,” he’d said, hand on the knob, because it felt too strange to leave without saying anything at all. 

Oscar laughed, but it sounded tired and hollow, a carcass of the one he knew. “Just get the fuck out, Lando.”

So he’d gotten the fuck out, letting the door swing shut behind him and walking the fifteen feet back to his own room next door. He’d still been able to hear Oscar through the wall, the faint sound of the TV turning on, probably to the cricket highlights he watched when he couldn’t sleep. 

It was slightly annoying, trying to go to bed while being audibly reminded of what he’d left behind. The fight, Oscar, this thing between them felt inescapable that way, pressing in on Lando’s whole life without his permission. He’d tried to make it smaller — after every race weekend, he’d fly home and sit in his apartment and think okay, done, got it out of my system, and then race week would come around again and Oscar would glance up at him in the garage and Lando’s whole chest would go tight with it, this enormous, stupid thing he kept refusing to name, and he would just fall into it all over again.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to stop, anymore. Wasn’t sure he even could. 

The last thing Lando’d thought before he drifted off was this would all be so much easier if there was any fucking distance between us.

It takes Lando about a second of consciousness in the morning to realize that he’s late. The light is all wrong, Spanish sun slanting golden through the curtains at an unfamiliar angle. His phone’s dead, which is strange, because he could swear he plugged it in last night when he got back to his room, but it explains the lack of alarm, at least. He’ll have to wait to speak to Oscar, he realizes, and can’t decide if it’s a relief or a disappointment. 

Lando brushes his teeth in about forty-five seconds, pulls on the first team polo he can find, and spends the entire car ride to the circuit rehearsing an apology he already knows won’t be sufficient in his head. A shitty apology’s better than none, though. He’ll say whatever Oscar needs to hear, get Oscar’s clipped, polite little response back. Maybe they’ll mess around a bit before the quali strategy debrief, if Oscar’s feeling generous. And then they’ll go back to not talking about it.

He badges in, cuts the back way through hospitality to avoid Jon telling him off, stops in his driver’s room to plug in his phone and then knocks twice, quick and hard, on the next door over. “You in there, mate?” he calls, picking at his cuticle and immediately hating the nerves audible in his voice. There’s silence, and then footsteps inside, and the door swings open towards him, and —

Pato O’Ward is standing in front of him, sipping on a protein shake. 

“Hey, Lando,” he says, easy as anything, like this is normal, like he and Oscar have become best mates behind Lando’s back sometime in the past twelve hours. “What’s up?”

Lando blinks. “Um. Hey,” he says, keeping his voice carefully level. Does Pato know about — what they're doing? Would Oscar have told him? The thought makes him dizzy, and he braces his hand on the outside of the door frame to steady himself before he speaks again. “Why are you in Oscar’s room?”

Pato squints. “Lando,” he says, gentle and measured, like how you’d talk to a toddler. “What are you talking about? This is my room.”

And — okay. He gets it, now. Oscar’s annoyed with him for last night, and this is his twisted way of getting even. He’s roped Pato into some elaborate bit, taking the piss out of Lando until he grovels properly. He thought they were over the head games after last year, but fine. He supposes he deserves it a little bit. 

“Alright. Very funny, mate,” Lando snorts, going for something breezy and unbothered. “But seriously, where’s Oscar?”

Pato tilts his head. “Oscar Piastri?” he says, and he sounds genuinely confused. It’s a decent bit of acting, honestly. Lando didn’t know Pato had it in him. “Why would he have a driver’s room in the McLaren garage?”

Lando rolls his eyes. “Because, you muppet,” he starts, and then stops, because now that Pato’s moved his bloody enormous head out of the way he can see past into the room and it’s — wrong. 

It’s all wrong, actually. It’s neat as a pin, for starters, no clothes tossed haphazardly over the floor. There are no Tim Tams on the high shelf for Lando to steal. The helmet on the table is neatly colorblocked, white-green-red; no insane patchwork of patterns, no Australian flag. The racing suit is pressed neatly on a hanger, PO5 embroidered on the waist where OP81 should be.

Pato touches his arm. “Lando,” he says. He sounds like he’s a million miles away. “Are you okay? Do you want me to call Jon, or —” 

“No,” Lando says, high and unsteady, backing up until his shoulder blades slam into the corridor wall and he jumps half out of his skin. “No, I’m — it’s fine, mate, I’m fine.” 

He’s not fine. He’s been drugged, maybe — his pulse does feel high in his throat, face sweaty and mouth dry the same way it gets when Max wheedles him into doing a bit of molly over summer break when he knows he won't get tested. That must be it. Spiked water in the hotel or something. It would explain the mass hallucination he seems to be having right now. 

He’s walking unsteadily towards hospitality for water when he spots Tom across the garage, and he exhales for the first time in what feels like hours, because Tom he can trust. Tom will know where Oscar is, because Tom always knows where Oscar is; it’s basically his job, keeping track of Oscar’s schedule and moods and the twelve specific pre-session rituals Oscar needs to not be a miserable prick before quali.

Lando changes course, jogging towards him at a pace that’s probably inappropriate for work. “Tom,” he calls, and he can hear the barely-contained mania bleeding into his voice but can’t do a single thing to stop it. “Tom, something’s — where’s Oscar? I need Oscar.”

Tom’s brow creases. “Piastri?” he says, tugging at the collar of his polo. “Dunno, Lando. I’m really not sure of his schedule.”

“You’re not sure of his — you’re his frickin’ engineer, Tom, how do you not know Oscar’s —”

“Lando, I’m Pato’s engineer,” Tom says slowly, giving him a long, careful look that makes Lando’s skin positively crawl, a cold prickle sweeping his entire body. “Have been since he signed. You alright, lad?”

Lando doesn’t answer. He pushes past Tom, walks straight towards the exit, towards the buzz of the paddock. He needs fresh air, a crowd to disappear into, five seconds to himself, and then he’ll go get his phone and he’ll ring Oscar and they’ll sort this all out. He shoves through the door on unsteady legs, sun breaking over his face so brightly that he has to close his eyes against the force of it. 

When he opens them again, he sees Oscar. 

He’s maybe thirty feet from Lando, walking with Pierre, of all people, which is another bizarre occurrence to add to the list. But he’s here, and he looks so familiar — same maroon shirt and ugly khaki shorts, same swoop of dark hair over his forehead, same smile crinkling his eyes at the corners — and the relief that slams through Lando is so violent it nearly takes his knees out from under him, because that’s his Oscar, right there, and whatever nightmare the last twenty minutes has been is about to end.

“Osc!” he calls, jogging to catch up before he’s even really decided to, plowing through a group of Ferrari engineers in his haste to just get to him. “Osc, oh my god, mate, you won’t believe the morning I’m having, I mean, everyone’s gone completely mental and —”

He gets a hand on Oscar’s shoulder, and Oscar stops and turns to look at him, and it’s wrong, too. There’s no fondness, no warmth; none of their private frequency, the shine that Oscar seems to reserve just for him. This is more like Oscar’s sponsor look. Professionally pleasant, privately hoping the interaction will be over as quickly as possible.

“Oh. Hey, Lando,” Oscar says. He glances sideways at Pierre, then back, doing a very poor job of hiding the fact that he clearly doesn’t understand why Lando Norris is standing in front of him, slightly out of breath, talking to him like they know each other. “Sorry — um, what did you say?”

Lando doesn’t really know what to say, then. He’d had an apology ready, had practiced ten different ways to say I’m sorry I left last night without saying anything more damning, but he’s getting the feeling that Oscar would have no fucking clue what he’s talking about. He was inside him less than twelve hours ago and Oscar's looking at him like they've spoken maybe a handful of times.

He feels like he’s standing in front of a stranger wearing his favorite person’s face. Distantly, he realizes that Oscar’s collarbone is unbruised, perfect pale skin jutting out from under his t-shirt.

“Nothing,” Lando hears himself say, voice echoing in his own head like he's underwater or something. “It’s — sorry. It’s nothing. Good luck today.”

Oscar looks surprised, but he gives Lando a polite smile anyway. “Uh, yeah, thanks,” he says, already turning back to Pierre and walking away. “You too,” he adds over his shoulder after a moment, like Lando is an afterthought. A minor, unplanned blip in his day, an interaction he’ll forget about within the hour. 

Lando stands there and watches them walk all the way down the paddock together. Pierre leans in and murmurs something and Oscar shakes his head, a little half-smile on his face — the one Lando knows means don't worry about it. Pierre must say something funny, then, because Oscar throws his head back laughing and bumps his shoulder against Pierre’s, easy and practiced.

That’s what he does with me, Lando thinks dully before the rest of his brain can catch up and correct it. He still doesn’t know where he is, but he suspects Oscar doesn’t do much of anything with him, here.

When he gets back to his driver’s room, moving on some kind of horrible autopilot, his phone’s already powered back on. He swipes into his messages and has to scroll back months to find his thread with Oscar, when it should be in its rightful place, next to Max's, starred at the top. He reads through every message they’ve ever exchanged in five minutes. Nice race. Thanks mate cheers. The kind of messages you send to a coworker you don’t even really like. He swipes into Safari instead, types in oscar piastri, has to retype it three times because his hands won’t stop shaking.

The first result loads. The thumbnail is Oscar’s official headshot — same jaw, same steady brown eyes, same face Lando has traced with his mouth in the dark. But this Oscar isn't wearing papaya. His suit is a sickly sort of pink. 

Underneath the photo, it reads, in clean bold type: Oscar Jack Piastri (born April 6, 2001) is an Australian racing driver who has competed in Formula One for BWT Alpine for four seasons. 

Lando’s stomach lurches, sudden and violent, and he barely makes it to the bin in time before he’s doubled over and retching, one hand braced on his knee and the other white-knuckled around the rim. Nothing comes up, but his body keeps trying anyway, long awful dry heaves that leave him gasping and snotty and shaking on the floor. 

He stays there for a while, forehead pressed to the cool metal of the bin, breathing through his mouth, listening to the distant whine of a car on the track and the muffled thump of bass from Pato’s room, until he remembers it: this would all be so much less complicated if there was any fucking distance between us.

Lando laughs, half-hysterical. Well, he's got it, hasn't he?

He wishes desperately that for once, getting what he thought he wanted wouldn't feel like the worst thing he’s ever felt.

[ihaventbeenhuggedinyears]

[dzekdzek]

daily affirmations:

I am not a jinx to the team I am rooting for

I am allowed to watch a game because my viewership will not alter the outcome of the game

I am but a drop in the bucket and the world is not affected by me watching a game

The score did not change because you looked at it funny

[norrisnymph]

⌛ landoscarrr

send me a prompt for magical hijinks!

word count 2.4k author's note more below the cut !! lowkey this one was soooooo fun to write, i got carried away and it's like 2.5k words. but i might build it out a bit more if yall want more........... thank u to anon for requesting !!!

⌛ time travel/transported to alternate timeline — landoscar

Lando wakes up alone with an apology on his tongue.   He doesn’t want to call what happened last night a fight, but — it’d been such a stupid fight, really, the same horrible, dragged-out thing they’d been circling since Abu Dhabi. He’d just gotten back from cleaning himself off, tossing the tied-off condom in the bathroom trashcan, making a beeline for his pile of clothes on the floor, when Oscar’d said, in that sleepy tone he always slipped into after he’d been properly fucked: “You could, like, stay. Y’know. If you want.” “Not really what we do, is it,” Lando had replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling his briefs back on facing the door. He couldn’t look at Oscar. He knew if he turned around, saw the pretty pink flush high on Oscar’s cheeks, the smooth swell of his ass in the dim light of the hotel room, he’d never leave. He’d expected the usual silence in return — the tiny exhale, the rustle of the sheets that meant Oscar didn’t like what Lando was saying but was too exhausted, too fucked-out to push it. Lando honestly felt insane with it, sometimes, how well he knew Oscar.

But this time, there was a sharp little intake of breath from behind him, and Oscar said “What is it that we do, then, exactly?”

Lando’s hand faltered on the waistband of his joggers. “I don’t — it isn’t — we’re mates, Osc. We, like, hook up, sometimes,” he’d mumbled, pulling his hoodie over his head and feeling briefly grateful when it covered his face. “Don’t make a frickin’ thing out of it right now.” 

“It’s already a thing, Lando,” Oscar had snapped, then, composure finally cracking enough to expose something unbearably raw underneath. “It’s been a thing for months, you just — you don’t want to talk about it, or, I dunno, can’t or something—”

Lando made the mistake of moving his head just enough to see Oscar in his peripheral. He was propped on his elbows, duvet pooled around his waist, hair wrecked, a bruise in the shape of Lando’s mouth purpling carelessly over his collarbone. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he’d interrupted, voice coming out small and rushed. “It’s — it’s casual. It’s been good, yeah? Like, it works the way it is.”

Oscar stared at his side for a long moment. The room was so quiet that Lando could hear his own blood thundering in his ears. 

“Leave, then,” Oscar’d said finally, voice flat, devoid of anger. Devoid of anything at all, really. “Go. Since that’s what works.”

It’s exactly what Lando had wanted, to engineer Oscar into being the one to tell him to go. Now that he had it, though, it felt so shit that he had the absurd urge to throw himself at Oscar’s feet and beg him to take it back. Beg him to let him stay, let him bury his head in Oscar’s chest and let him play with his curls in the way Lando swore to himself he didn’t like. 

Instead, he’d dragged himself to his feet, picked up the slides he’d worn over with one hand, and walked towards the door. “See you tomorrow,” he’d said, hand on the knob, because it felt too strange to leave without saying anything at all. 

Oscar laughed, but it sounded tired and hollow, a carcass of the one he knew. “Just get the fuck out, Lando.”

So he’d gotten the fuck out, letting the door swing shut behind him and walking the fifteen feet back to his own room next door. He’d still been able to hear Oscar through the wall, the faint sound of the TV turning on, probably to the cricket highlights he watched when he couldn’t sleep. 

It was slightly annoying, trying to go to bed while being audibly reminded of what he’d left behind. The fight, Oscar, this thing between them felt inescapable that way, pressing in on Lando’s whole life without his permission. He’d tried to make it smaller — after every race weekend, he’d fly home and sit in his apartment and think okay, done, got it out of my system, and then race week would come around again and Oscar would glance up at him in the garage and Lando’s whole chest would go tight with it, this enormous, stupid thing he kept refusing to name, and he would just fall into it all over again.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to stop, anymore. Wasn’t sure he even could. 

The last thing Lando’d thought before he drifted off was this would all be so much easier if there was any fucking distance between us.

It takes Lando about a second of consciousness in the morning to realize that he’s late. The light is all wrong, Spanish sun slanting golden through the curtains at an unfamiliar angle. His phone’s dead, which is strange, because he could swear he plugged it in last night when he got back to his room, but it explains the lack of alarm, at least. He’ll have to wait to speak to Oscar, he realizes, and can’t decide if it’s a relief or a disappointment. 

Lando brushes his teeth in about forty-five seconds, pulls on the first team polo he can find, and spends the entire car ride to the circuit rehearsing an apology he already knows won’t be sufficient in his head. A shitty apology’s better than none, though. He’ll say whatever Oscar needs to hear, get Oscar’s clipped, polite little response back. Maybe they’ll mess around a bit before the quali strategy debrief, if Oscar’s feeling generous. And then they’ll go back to not talking about it.

He badges in, cuts the back way through hospitality to avoid Jon telling him off, stops in his driver’s room to plug in his phone and then knocks twice, quick and hard, on the next door over. “You in there, mate?” he calls, picking at his cuticle and immediately hating the nerves audible in his voice. There’s silence, and then footsteps inside, and the door swings open towards him, and —

Pato O’Ward is standing in front of him, sipping on a protein shake. 

“Hey, Lando,” he says, easy as anything, like this is normal, like he and Oscar have become best mates behind Lando’s back sometime in the past twelve hours. “What’s up?”

Lando blinks. “Um. Hey,” he says, keeping his voice carefully level. Does Pato know about — what they're doing? Would Oscar have told him? The thought makes him dizzy, and he braces his hand on the outside of the door frame to steady himself before he speaks again. “Why are you in Oscar’s room?”

Pato squints. “Lando,” he says, gentle and measured, like how you’d talk to a toddler. “What are you talking about? This is my room.”

And — okay. He gets it, now. Oscar’s annoyed with him for last night, and this is his twisted way of getting even. He’s roped Pato into some elaborate bit, taking the piss out of Lando until he grovels properly. He thought they were over the head games after last year, but fine. He supposes he deserves it a little bit. 

“Alright. Very funny, mate,” Lando snorts, going for something breezy and unbothered. “But seriously, where’s Oscar?”

Pato tilts his head. “Oscar Piastri?” he says, and he sounds genuinely confused. It’s a decent bit of acting, honestly. Lando didn’t know Pato had it in him. “Why would he have a driver’s room in the McLaren garage?”

Lando rolls his eyes. “Because, you muppet,” he starts, and then stops, because now that Pato’s moved his bloody enormous head out of the way he can see past into the room and it’s — wrong. 

It’s all wrong, actually. It’s neat as a pin, for starters, no clothes tossed haphazardly over the floor. There are no Tim Tams on the high shelf for Lando to steal. The helmet on the table is neatly colorblocked, white-green-red; no insane patchwork of patterns, no Australian flag. The racing suit is pressed neatly on a hanger, PO5 embroidered on the waist where OP81 should be.

Pato touches his arm. “Lando,” he says. He sounds like he’s a million miles away. “Are you okay? Do you want me to call Jon, or —” 

“No,” Lando says, high and unsteady, backing up until his shoulder blades slam into the corridor wall and he jumps half out of his skin. “No, I’m — it’s fine, mate, I’m fine.” 

He’s not fine. He’s been drugged, maybe — his pulse does feel high in his throat, face sweaty and mouth dry the same way it gets when Max wheedles him into doing a bit of molly over summer break when he knows he won't get tested. That must be it. Spiked water in the hotel or something. It would explain the mass hallucination he seems to be having right now. 

He’s walking unsteadily towards hospitality for water when he spots Tom across the garage, and he exhales for the first time in what feels like hours, because Tom he can trust. Tom will know where Oscar is, because Tom always knows where Oscar is; it’s basically his job, keeping track of Oscar’s schedule and moods and the twelve specific pre-session rituals Oscar needs to not be a miserable prick before quali.

Lando changes course, jogging towards him at a pace that’s probably inappropriate for work. “Tom,” he calls, and he can hear the barely-contained mania bleeding into his voice but can’t do a single thing to stop it. “Tom, something’s — where’s Oscar? I need Oscar.”

Tom’s brow creases. “Piastri?” he says, tugging at the collar of his polo. “Dunno, Lando. I’m really not sure of his schedule.”

“You’re not sure of his — you’re his frickin’ engineer, Tom, how do you not know Oscar’s —”

“Lando, I’m Pato’s engineer,” Tom says slowly, giving him a long, careful look that makes Lando’s skin positively crawl, a cold prickle sweeping his entire body. “Have been since he signed. You alright, lad?”

Lando doesn’t answer. He pushes past Tom, walks straight towards the exit, towards the buzz of the paddock. He needs fresh air, a crowd to disappear into, five seconds to himself, and then he’ll go get his phone and he’ll ring Oscar and they’ll sort this all out. He shoves through the door on unsteady legs, sun breaking over his face so brightly that he has to close his eyes against the force of it. 

When he opens them again, he sees Oscar. 

He’s maybe thirty feet from Lando, walking with Pierre, of all people, which is another bizarre occurrence to add to the list. But he’s here, and he looks so familiar — same maroon shirt and ugly khaki shorts, same swoop of dark hair over his forehead, same smile crinkling his eyes at the corners — and the relief that slams through Lando is so violent it nearly takes his knees out from under him, because that’s his Oscar, right there, and whatever nightmare the last twenty minutes has been is about to end.

“Osc!” he calls, jogging to catch up before he’s even really decided to, plowing through a group of Ferrari engineers in his haste to just get to him. “Osc, oh my god, mate, you won’t believe the morning I’m having, I mean, everyone’s gone completely mental and —”

He gets a hand on Oscar’s shoulder, and Oscar stops and turns to look at him, and it’s wrong, too. There’s no fondness, no warmth; none of their private frequency, the shine that Oscar seems to reserve just for him. This is more like Oscar’s sponsor look. Professionally pleasant, privately hoping the interaction will be over as quickly as possible.

“Oh. Hey, Lando,” Oscar says. He glances sideways at Pierre, then back, doing a very poor job of hiding the fact that he clearly doesn’t understand why Lando Norris is standing in front of him, slightly out of breath, talking to him like they know each other. “Sorry — um, what did you say?”

Lando doesn’t really know what to say, then. He’d had an apology ready, had practiced ten different ways to say I’m sorry I left last night without saying anything more damning, but he’s getting the feeling that Oscar would have no fucking clue what he’s talking about. He was inside him less than twelve hours ago and Oscar's looking at him like they've spoken maybe a handful of times.

He feels like he’s standing in front of a stranger wearing his favorite person’s face. Distantly, he realizes that Oscar’s collarbone is unbruised, perfect pale skin jutting out from under his t-shirt.

“Nothing,” Lando hears himself say, voice echoing in his own head like he's underwater or something. “It’s — sorry. It’s nothing. Good luck today.”

Oscar looks surprised, but he gives Lando a polite smile anyway. “Uh, yeah, thanks,” he says, already turning back to Pierre and walking away. “You too,” he adds over his shoulder after a moment, like Lando is an afterthought. A minor, unplanned blip in his day, an interaction he’ll forget about within the hour. 

Lando stands there and watches them walk all the way down the paddock together. Pierre leans in and murmurs something and Oscar shakes his head, a little half-smile on his face — the one Lando knows means don't worry about it. Pierre must say something funny, then, because Oscar throws his head back laughing and bumps his shoulder against Pierre’s, easy and practiced.

That’s what he does with me, Lando thinks dully before the rest of his brain can catch up and correct it. He still doesn’t know where he is, but he suspects Oscar doesn’t do much of anything with him, here.

When he gets back to his driver’s room, moving on some kind of horrible autopilot, his phone’s already powered back on. He swipes into his messages and has to scroll back months to find his thread with Oscar, when it should be in its rightful place, next to Max's, starred at the top. He reads through every message they’ve ever exchanged in five minutes. Nice race. Thanks mate cheers. The kind of messages you send to a coworker you don’t even really like. He swipes into Safari instead, types in oscar piastri, has to retype it three times because his hands won’t stop shaking.

The first result loads. The thumbnail is Oscar’s official headshot — same jaw, same steady brown eyes, same face Lando has traced with his mouth in the dark. But this Oscar isn't wearing papaya. His suit is a sickly sort of pink. 

Underneath the photo, it reads, in clean bold type: Oscar Jack Piastri (born April 6, 2001) is an Australian racing driver who has competed in Formula One for BWT Alpine for four seasons. 

Lando’s stomach lurches, sudden and violent, and he barely makes it to the bin in time before he’s doubled over and retching, one hand braced on his knee and the other white-knuckled around the rim. Nothing comes up, but his body keeps trying anyway, long awful dry heaves that leave him gasping and snotty and shaking on the floor. 

He stays there for a while, forehead pressed to the cool metal of the bin, breathing through his mouth, listening to the distant whine of a car on the track and the muffled thump of bass from Pato’s room, until he remembers it: this would all be so much less complicated if there was any fucking distance between us.

Lando laughs, half-hysterical. Well, he's got it, hasn't he?

He wishes desperately that for once, getting what he thought he wanted wouldn't feel like the worst thing he’s ever felt.

[oscarpiastrihq]

🇪🇸 14.06.2026 | F1 Grand Prix of Barcelona-Catalunya: Post race interview

BARCELONA - Oscar Piastri (McLaren) after the Formula 1 Barcelona-Catalonia Grand Prix. SANDER KONING / ANP

[comraderoscoes]

106

[oscunt]

For better or for worse, Oscar always p1 in the pretty boy podium

exactlyyyyyy. p1 in pretty boy, p1 in cinched waist, p1 in pink cheeks, p1 in whore thighs out, most specialest guy ever world champion 🥰

[piastriprincess]

i remember the first time i slimed out lando and i got instant karma from the anons in my inbox.. they need to get employed IMMEDIATELY!!!!! anyway, hope ur okay lovely <3

and this was oscarina on oscarina crime too 💔 thank you so much angel, i touched grass and reminded myself it wasn’t that deep… appreciate u checking in, means the world xx

[piastriprincess]

okay sorry i have a lot of writing coming that i’m proud of + the pure and childlike heart of a poster so you’re not bullying me off this app 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ but anon is turned off until you all learn to behave bc today was genuinely horrifying !