Oi Brit, Is it True that your chips are called :ahem: crispity crunchy munchie crackerjack snacker nibbler snap crack n pop westpoolchestershireshire queen's jovely jubily delights?
“See..This is why I have to take so many breaks from you humans, you all are so…so weird.” The UK said in utter confusion.
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honestly I’m not a big fan of rusame, but fraUK… well…
I see you are a person of culture
LOL yeah. They absolutely hate each other fs but I think the idea of them still dating or marrying is really funny
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about 500w of a random nothing prequel to this. (814 + r63 + implied infidelity)
The great thing about being young, dumb, and you know, Jenson winks, is that it's socially acceptable to excuse herself from all the schmoozing and shoulder-rubbing to sneak the odd ciggie with the servers.
Back by the venue kitchens halfway into one of these things is where she finds Oscar: plonked on a wooden crate, phone in hand.
Maybe it's the peachy champagne from before, but Lando's limbs feel loose enough to pitch forward, perching her chin on Oscar's shoulder. Mm. Clean and cheap — some kind of citrus soap.
"Whatcha hiding out here for?"
Oscar, to her credit, takes it in stride.
"Not hiding. Just, uh. Quali's on."
Why bother? Obviously Verstappen's taking it. Oscar wrinkles her nose in an ehh gesture, screen angled so Lando can watch too. "Dunno, Red Bull are pretty shit around Marina Bay."
"Bet you only fancy him 'cause he seems like he's hung," she says accusingly, and Oscar fucking. Creases in silent laughter. Huh, easy crowd.
Are they, though? Then again, Oscar still backs Ricciardo out of some vague sense of patriotism, so maybe she's not the best judge of wheel.
With her mouth open, Lando can see how the top line of her teeth dip low in the middle. A bunny rabbit.
Ugh, fine. She has nothing better to do, and Oscar seems like a marginally more interesting time than the other models and heiresses inside. A proper little athlete. Might as well.
"I have three sisters," Oscar offers. They have their backs to opposite walls, legs extended. Lando isn't really tipsy anymore, but she still kind of has this insane urge to close the gap, press her ankle along the exposed square of Oscar's instep. Are those Tommy? Fuck's sake.
It turns out to be quite a long time, them sitting here. Like, two missed calls from her brother long. Nothing important. He's just in town on business and wants to do lunch. On the cusp of closing some deal that would make even Jense's eyes water.
"Mm. And you're the oldest?"
Oscar blinks. "Is it obvious?"
"Bit, yeah."
Seems like a pain, honestly. There's a reason Lando's parents let her get away with everything — because they have Oliver to cushion the fall. Everyone agrees she'll probably land an MRS degree before an MBA.
Oscar smiles, a tad wry. "Bet they're glad you're still making connections, though."
"Whad'you mean?" Lando says, shuttering. The back of her neck feels warm. Fucking—is she being slut-shamed right now?
"Fuck if I know, mate."
Oscar shifts on the floor, looking for the first time: uncomfortable. "Isn't that why you're here?"
Uh. Lando is here because she'd wanted to date a MotoGP rider growing up and Jenson is the next-to-next best thing. Specifically here, in this greasy produce cellar with Webber's little girlfriend, though? Well.
Oscar snorts, her shoulders going lax. She starts to say something else when Lando uncrosses her legs, uncomfy from the sweat building behind her knees. The cream satin hitches up, baring a triangle of thigh that draws Oscar's gaze like a condemned moth to flame. Her mouth snaps shut.
Their eyes lock. Only for a second — but it's enough.
Enough for Lando to pause and consider. And smile. 'Kay then.
Everything after that is a bit of a blur.
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