Landoscar oneshots

I've got a burning desire for you, baby. 4k (smut)

Summary:

"I had a few shots back in my room, couldn't help myself," Lando mumbled, finally answering Oscar's earlier question.

Lifting his arm from his eyes, Oscar gazed at the mop of curls, unable to see Lando's face from that angle. "You don't drink though," Oscar mumbled, making it more of a statement than a question.

Lando shrugged, and another bout of silence settled between them. Lando seemed to press even closer to Oscar, as if afraid the Aussie might disappear. Both of Lando's arms wrapped around Oscar's torso, holding on as if seeking reassurance. Oscar sighed contentedly, running a hand through the Brit's damp curls, and Lando let out a contented almost-purr, finding comfort in the shared warmth and the simple act of being close.

__________

The realization hit both Oscar and Lando like a double whammy when they received the instruction to box during the Vegas qualifying, signaling the end of their run in Q1. It marked yet another disappointing Grand Prix for Oscar, a bitter pill to swallow. The air hung heavy with frustration, and Oscar's sentiments were vividly expressed in a wry comment to himself: "Great, absolutely lovely."

Contrastingly, Lando, who had been putting in a stellar performance, appeared surprisingly calm as he emerged from his car. The calmness seemed almost preternatural, as if he had anticipated the outcome. Oscar, on reflection, admitted to himself that he wasn't entirely surprised by the turn of events.

As Oscar climbed out of his car, his eyes instinctively sought out Lando. The Brit's swift movements caught Oscar's attention, and the calm demeanor persisted as Lando removed his helmet and walked purposefully toward his engineers. A series of nods and shakes of the head comprised Lando's interaction with the team, devoid of spoken words.

In that brief moment, Oscar and Lando shared a glance. Their eyes communicated a shared understanding, a silent acknowledgment of the disappointment they both felt. However, the distance between them, separated by their respective pit walls, mirrored the emotional chasm created by the frustrating turn of events.

No gestures were exchanged, for there seemed to be no need. Both drivers knew why they found themselves out of the competition. The collective frustration stemmed from the team's strategic misstep – a failure to employ two sets of tires, a misjudgment that had nothing to do with the car's pace, which was deemed perfectly fine. Lando, in a moment of contemplation, ran his tongue over his teeth, his gaze lingering on Oscar's face before redirecting his attention back to the engineers.

Oscar, choosing to downplay the silent exchange, redirected his focus to the team, engaging in a minute-long discussion before the impending obligation of the media pen beckoned. Another sigh escaped him as he reluctantly left the pit area.

-

The interviewers predictably fired away with the questions Oscar knew were coming. "Hey Oscar, sorry about that. Do you think... blah blah blah." Oscar had to bite back the urge to roll his eyes; he knew Charlotte wouldn't appreciate that. Keeping his composure, he answered as professionally as possible and stepped away. Tiredness hung heavily on him, and the entire Vegas Grand Prix felt more like a chaotic spectacle than a proper race. The decision to schedule qualifying and practice sessions in the middle of the night baffled him. Oscar was exhausted, drained, and disappointed. All he wanted at that moment was to escape and catch some sleep, or maybe even take a nap. The race had taken a toll on him, leaving him yearning for a break from the relentless chaos of the Vegas GP.
Oscar was supposed to catch a ride back to the hotel with a driver, alongside Lando. But who knows where the Brit had disappeared to – probably off somewhere making out with someone by now. Oscar couldn't help but roll his eyes, reflecting on Lando's weird coping mechanisms. For Oscar, sleep was usually the solution. Not waiting for anyone, he swiftly changed out of his racing suit in his driver's room and strolled over to a sleek black McLaren. Settling into the driver's seat, he revved the engine and headed off to the hotel. He had no intention of sticking around any longer; the media people can go fuck themselves, as far as he was concerned.