Landoscar
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It’s the profound tragedy of Lando’s life, he thinks, to realise he’s in love with his teammate – just as Oscar Piastri makes a habit of standing one step higher on the podium, forcing Lando to crane his neck to look at him.
Oscar hates watching the light fade from Lando’s eyes with every victory he takes from him. He accepted the inconvenient truth long ago: he loves Lando. But he loves winning more.
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Lando's trained to be the perfect servant. He is polished, pliant, and far too pretty to ignore.
He has every noble lined up for a taste of him. For his beauty, his obedience, and most of all, his blood, so intoxicating that even ancient vampires lose their composure.
But Lando's saving himself. For the master who will finally claim him, body and vein both, the way he has always dreamed. Without shame, without restraint.
When the chance comes at last, he's brought to a court of bloodbound lords and their spoiled pets. Every gaze hungry. Every hand reaches.
All of them aching to have him. All of them except the man he now belongs to.
Oscar.
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- Part 9 of landoscar works by this anon
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我流814
兰多•诺里斯捡到神秘柔弱可怜可爱宛如考拉的纯情男大学生一枚——不过，真的只是男大学生吗？ -
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Silverstone had screamed itself hoarse for him, had waved Union Jacks and neon flags bearing his logo until the grandstands looked like a living, breathing sea of his colors. The world loved him today — revered him with a ferocity he once thought could fill every hollow space inside him.
And it meant nothing.
Because every time he blinked, he saw it again — the angry flush creeping up Oscar's normally composed face during the national anthem. The mechanical, joyless way he'd raised his champagne bottle during celebrations, spraying it at no one in particular with all the enthusiasm of someone washing their car. The way his eyes, usually so warm when they found Lando's, had turned flat and distant, like someone had flipped a switch and turned off everything that made him Oscar.
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They handed him an Omega with ash still in his hair.
Lando stood barefoot on the marble floor of a city that had swallowed his name, his future, and the scent of the man he was promised to. He said nothing. He didn’t bow. He only stared — jaw tight, eyes brighter than any fire that took his home.
Oscar Piastri was a commander, not a keeper of hearts. The boy was a war spoil, nothing more. He told himself that, again and again, as days passed and silence turned into glances, glances into questions, and questions into something dangerously close to care.
The rules of war are simple: Victors take. The conquered yield.
But Lando has never followed rules.
And Oscar? He's starting to forget them.