#v fun for me but less writing ukno

[serve-cunt]

did you end up writing the f1 wag fic! I didn't see anything!! did i miss it?

oh no this is embarrassing I was hoping everyone had just forgotten LMAO

umm ok yes long story short I signed up with the intention of writing a Pretty Woman AU bc I got briefly obsessed with that movie. and I was like "HA easy 10k fic"! nice! except I could NOT pull it together in 10k because i have a bad habit of jabbering ... so it's looking like a 30k fic now and I couldn't finish it in time & now I'm stressed out bc the pieces are not falling together as neatly as I hoped ..... anyway all that to say here is the first part I'm not sure when/if the whole thing will be on ao3 but I still like the idea a lot!!!

working title "cinda-fuckin-rella" under the cut...

ch. 1 - strawberries

They had been talking for fifty minutes before Oscar mentioned he was late for a meeting he couldn’t miss, which annoyed Lando because up until that point he’d been pretty sure he was going to get a night of relatively easy dicking and a hefty tip on top of the usual, and instead it appeared that he had wasted an hour of his time with somebody who had to be somewhere, actually. 

Earlier, when he had sidled up to where Oscar was perched on a chair at the bar, Oscar had looked up from his drink and raised his eyebrow, as if waiting for Lando to say something, or ask something. 

“Here by yourself?” Lando had asked, obligingly.

Oscar had blinked back at him for longer than men usually did, in similar situations. Then he’d said, “Yes.” He gave Lando a once-over, like he was calculating the price in his head. Then he shifted over to give Lando room and said, “Buy you a drink?” 

Lando had smiled, nodded, and slid in next to him. 

Oscar surprised him only by being slightly more interesting to talk to than the average middlingly attractive businessman alone at a hotel bar on a weeknight, and also by being his age—or close to it. Lando had pegged him as older because of the suit; then, a moment later, as younger because of his round cheeks—and the fact that he wore his suit uncomfortably; then as older again, when Oscar had started talking. Now he was settled on Oscar being around his own age. 

Oscar had introduced himself immediately, and so smoothly that Lando could almost believe he'd given his real name. Thrown, Lando had accidentally given his own real name in exchange. Usually he picked a new one, depending on the kind of night he wanted to have. 

Oops, he thought, as soon as it was out of his mouth. But, well, Oscar would never see him again. He could have Lando’s real name. 

“You just in town for the night?” Lando asked. 

“Yeah,” Oscar said. “No—sorry. Two. I’ve got—meetings. Don’t really know anybody in the city, so…” 

“S’pose that’s a relief,” Lando said. “Getting to be anonymous for a night.” Oscar looked at him for an oddly long, still moment, before Lando continued, into Oscar’s pause: “No girlfriend, or whatever. Or boyfriend. Make your own schedule, and things.” 

Oscar’s expression changed, but pretty much from “neutral” to “differently neutral.” He had the kind of face that seemed to stay mostly at flatlining. “Yeah,” he said, after another pause. “It kind of is. How about you? Know the city well?”

Lando laughed. “Yeah,” he said. “Like the back of my hand, don’t I?”

“You weren’t born here, though.”

“What gave me away?” Lando asked, with a wink. “My charming Texan drawl?”

Oscar’s smile blinked on and off. “Where’re you from, then? You sound… Southern? Somerset?”

Lando was impressed, despite himself. “Bristol,” he admitted. “Not too shabby, Aussie-boy. You must have spent some time on our soggy little island.” 

“I went to school there,” Oscar said. “In London. What brought you out here?”

Lando shrugged. “A friend of mine lives in Hollywood. Thought I’d give sunny California a whirl.” That was about as much information as he’d ever given anybody. He never talked about his dad’s creative investment plans, nor the resulting fall from grace. Only Daniel knew what had happened there, and even he didn't know everything. “I ended up staying longer than I thought I would. You seen the beaches yet? They’re killer.”

Oscar shook his head. “No time. But if I was going to, where would I go?”

“Depends what you’re looking for. Surfing?”

“If I had somebody to teach me.” 

Lando leaned in with a smirk. “I’d teach you. You look like you could handle a tumble in the waves.” 

Oscar raised an eyebrow, minutely, his smile sticking around this time. Lando counted it as a win. A reaction! he thought, and was oddly proud. He leaned back. “Alright, well, for beginners I’d say… El Porto, maybe County Line. Food’s better at County Line, so we’ll start there. I’ll lend you my second best board.” 

“Thanks,” Oscar said, dry.

They talked easily, without pause. Mostly Oscar let Lando speak, about surfing and driving in LA and the night life, laughing generously at his stupid jokes. He bought Lando a drink—whiskey and coke, which the bartender knew to make just a coke—and then another, without asking, ordering a straight whiskey for himself both times. Lando decided within five minutes that he’d let Oscar fuck him, and decided within the following ten that he wouldn’t go through Oscar’s wallet while Oscar was in the shower. 

He was just starting to get a little impatient, and had decided to drop a hint about getting up to Oscar’s room, when Oscar looked at his watch. 

“I’m late,” he said. He didn’t say it with real urgency. It was just an observation. 

“To what?”

“I’ve got a meeting,” Oscar said. 

Lando grabbed his wrist, pulling Oscar’s watch towards him. “It’s nine PM.” 

“That’s when my meeting was.” 

“Guess you missed it.”

Oscar shook his head. “I can’t. I’ve got to go.” 

Lando couldn’t tell if he was serious. “Who has a meeting at nine PM?”

“I do, I guess.” Oscar took his hand back. “I just need to figure out where it is.” He fumbled his phone out of his pocket, swiped open a maps app.

After a beat, Lando leaned back. He was annoyed and disappointed, and a little confused. He felt like he’d got this one locked in, and now Oscar suddenly had places to be. Basically, he’d just gotten an hour of Lando’s time out of him, without paying for it. What a fucking con. Lando should start charging for company, instead of just sex. 

He slurped moodily at his soda, looking around at the bar. There wasn’t anybody else he fancied; he was probably going to have to chat up the hang-dog fifty-something mouth breather who’d been ogling him all last night. Gross. Maybe he’d have more luck next door, at the Marriott. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Oscar tapping at his phone, which seemed frozen. Then it winked off, the screen abruptly a black void. Oscar stared at it, then gently turned it over and laid it screen-down on the bar top. 

“Hard luck,” Lando remarked. 

Oscar continued to stare at the metal case, his reflection shining back at him. Then he said, “Fuck.” He seemed exhausted, and a little drunk. His head lolled on his shoulders, like he was having trouble keeping it upright. “I really need to go to this meeting. And now I don’t know how to get there.”

Call a cab? Lando thought. But when he opened his mouth, what came out was, “Where’re you going? I’ll give you directions.” 

Oscar looked up. “Yeah? Would you?”

Sure,” Lando said. And then, so the night wouldn’t be a complete waste, he added: “I’ll come with. So you don’t have to remember it all.” 

Oscar hesitated, then said, “Okay. Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”

“Well. I charge by the hour.”

“Ha,” Oscar said. 

Lando smiled. “Ha,” he echoed. “No, really. Five hundred bucks.” 

“To give me directions?” 

“To give you directions, baby. Anything else and we’re talking four digits.” 

Oscar blinked. He glanced at the drink in front of Lando, and then at his own. “I don’t need anything else,” he said. “I just need to get to the Ritz-Carlton.” 

Lando whistled. Fancy. “Alright, well, I know where that is. Five hundred, and I’ll get you there.” 

“I could just charge my phone,” Oscar said. “I could call somebody. This is actually an easy problem for me to solve.” His face had a new expression now: the expression of somebody who had just figured something out, and was annoyed at himself for not understanding it earlier. 

Oh. 

Lando was almost, almost, regretful. He hadn’t realised Oscar hadn’t known. Although if he was so naive as to not know, well. That was Oscar’s fault. He was the one who had been sitting alone at a hotel bar on a Thursday, looking forlorn. Lando was wearing a silk collared shirt open practically to his navel and jeans so tight they cut off circulation if he wasn’t careful how he sat: he hadn’t been hiding anything.   

“If you could call somebody, you would’ve already done it,” Lando pointed out. “Now you’re late. We could leave now.” 

“We?” Oscar asked. 

“You can’t drive. You’ve had three drinks. At least.” 

“I’m a good driver.”

“Mm hm. Are we in a drink driving advert?” Lando made a show of looking around for the camera. “Can’t let you get in a car, mate.” 

“I’ll get a cab.” 

“Just let me drive,” Lando said. “I know the way, we’ll get there in ten minutes.”

“So—five hundred an hour—eighty bucks?” 

Lando grinned. “I round up. Learned that from a lawyer.”

Oscar didn’t seem all that surprised. “Most expensive chauffeur I’ll have ever hired.”

“Most fun, too,” Lando said. He leaned forward, slid his hand onto Oscar’s knee. “A thou, and we’ll make sure of it.” 

Oscar shifted. “Five hundred,” he said. “Drive me to the hotel.” 

Lando took his hand away. “You got it, babe.” He stood up. “C’mon then.”