silverstcness - Tumblr blog

silverstcness · 3 months ago

Text

STAND BY ME.

You and your best friend, Lando, made a pact to marry each other if neither of you started dating anyone within the next 10 years—a promise Lando never fails to remember.

pairing. Lando Norris x bsf! fem! reader.

warnings. drunk lando, drunk decision, best friends to lovers, humor genre.

music. Better Off (Alone, PT.III) by Alan Walker // Stand By Me by Ben. E. King.

THE MEMORY WAS HAZY, but some moments from that wild, reckless phase of your teenage years stayed sharp as glass. You and Lando were unstoppable back then, two troublemakers who fed off each other’s impulsiveness. Whether it was sneaking out late at night, stealing booze from parties where you didn’t belong, or egging each other on to make the dumbest decisions imaginable, those days were pure chaos—and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

But one night stood out more than the others. The air was thick with the scent of summer, and the streetlights outside cast faint shadows on the walls of his living room. You were lying on his couch, limbs splayed as if the weight of the world didn’t exist, while Lando leaned back against the armrest, a lazy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. There was something unspoken between you, a familiarity that didn’t need words, and in that quiet moment, he turned to you with an idea.

“If we don’t date anyone by the time we’re 25,” he said, his voice smooth but tinged with mischief, “we’ll get married.”

You turned your head, arching a brow at him. The absurdity of it made you laugh at first—a carefree, genuine laugh that echoed through the room. But as the words settled, you realized that, in some inexplicable way, it made sense. With Lando, everything always seemed to make sense, even when it shouldn’t. “Deal,” you said, matching his grin with one of your own.

The two of you even wrote it down, scribbling the pact on a scrap of paper you scrounged from his kitchen drawer. The handwriting was messy, barely legible, but it didn’t matter. At the time, it felt like you were cementing something sacred, a promise sealed not just in ink, but in the unbreakable bond the two of you shared.

Over the years, you found yourself navigating the ups and downs of teenage dating, testing the waters with a few boys along the way. But somehow, it always felt like Lando was there, lingering at the edges of your relationships, subtly or not-so-subtly sabotaging them. A missed call here, a well-timed comment there—it wasn’t overt, but the signs were undeniable. And, if you were being completely honest, you didn’t mind. There was a part of you that found it comforting, almost like you knew deep down that none of those boys could ever measure up.

Lando had his own share of girlfriends, too. There were moments when you’d watch from the sidelines, wondering if he’d found someone who might pull him away from you. But, time and time again, those relationships fizzled out as quickly as they began. You didn’t even have to try—it was as if some unspoken force kept pulling you both back into each other’s orbit.

The club buzzed with life, neon lights flashing and music thumping as you danced alongside your friend Alex. The energy in the room was infectious, pulling you deeper into the rhythm as laughter and excitement mingled around you. The celebration for the Las Vegas Grand Prix had brought together crowds of exuberant fans, drivers, and friends, and for you, it was the perfect way to mark the occasion.

You swore Lando had been there just moments ago, his unmistakable presence in the crowd. But as you glanced around, there was no sign of him. A fleeting thought crossed your mind—maybe he’d gone to the bathroom or stepped outside for air. It wasn’t unusual for him to slip away for a moment in the chaos of a party. You didn’t think much of it, instead letting yourself get lost in the music and the carefree spirit of the night.

Alex leaned in, laughing about something you couldn’t quite catch over the booming bass. You laughed along, the atmosphere too good to interrupt with stray thoughts. But still, somewhere in the back of your mind, the flicker of Lando lingered—a quiet, unspoken sense of anticipation that you couldn’t quite shake. This was his kind of scene after all, and you wouldn’t be surprised if he reappeared soon, grinning in that way that had always made everything feel lighter.

The club's music thudded in the background as Max tapped your shoulder, leaning close to make himself heard over the pulsating beat. “Y/n! Can you come with me outside?” he asked, his voice urgent enough to catch your attention despite the chaos around you.

“Of course,” you replied without hesitation, nodding as you turned to follow him. Something in his tone piqued your curiosity—Max wasn’t usually one for abrupt interruptions during a night out. You glanced back instinctively, your eyes scanning for Alex to see if he had noticed you leaving or was following you. The kaleidoscope of neon lights and swirling figures blurred in your periphery as you stepped away from the dance floor.

Max led the way towards the exit, his demeanor seeming slightly more serious than usual. The cool desert night air hit you as the door swung open, a stark contrast to the warm, frenetic atmosphere inside. You couldn’t help but wonder what was waiting for you out there—something told you this wasn’t just a casual chat.

The scene outside the bar was something straight out of a comedy sketch. Carlos, Oscar, and Charles stood in a perfectly straight line, their expressions overly serious, like they were guarding the entrance to some exclusive event. You blinked, trying to process what you were seeing. What the actual fuck?

Carlos cleared his throat with exaggerated drama, drawing all attention to himself. Oscar, playing along with equal flair, handed him a piece of paper as if it were some sacred document. “Ten years ago, on this day…” Carlos began, his voice dripping with theatrical gravitas. You turned to Alex, your face a mix of confusion and disbelief, only to find her grinning ear to ear, her phone held up to capture every second of this absurd spectacle.

Carlos continued, undeterred by your bewilderment. “Lando Norris and Y/n L/n made a pact that confirmed they’ll get married if they don’t date anyone else,” he declared, his tone so serious it was impossible not to laugh. You could feel your cheeks starting to ache from the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

“And on this day, at the age of 25,” Carlos concluded, pausing for dramatic effect, “they appear to be both single.” His words hung in the air for a moment before the absurdity of the situation hit you like a tidal wave. You doubled over, laughing so hard you could barely breathe. The whole thing was so over-the-top, so utterly ridiculous, that you couldn’t help but lose yourself in the hilarity of it all. What was even happening? This was chaos, and you were absolutely here for it.

The trio parted like the curtain of a grand stage, revealing Lando standing there, his messy curls catching the faint glow of the streetlights. His white shirt was half unbuttoned, the casual disarray somehow making him look even more like the Lando you’d always known. He stepped closer, his movements deliberate yet slightly unsteady, his hands reaching out to gently take yours.

“Y/n, the love of my life,” he began, his voice carrying the unmistakable slur of someone who’d had a drink or two, but you didn’t care. The sincerity in his eyes was enough to make your heart skip a beat. “I hoped all my life to get to this day with you,” he said, his words soft but weighted with meaning.

You felt your breath hitch as he continued, his grip on your hands tightening ever so slightly. “Do you promise you’ll always stand by me, even though I’m a dick sometimes?” he asked, his tone shifting to something almost boyish, as if he were afraid of your answer. You nodded, a smile tugging at your lips despite the tears welling in your eyes.

And then, slowly, he began to kneel, his movements deliberate as he reached into his pocket. The world seemed to hold its breath as he pulled out a small box, the kind that could only mean one thing. “Y/n,” he said, his voice steady despite the chaos of the moment, “will you marry me?”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so you did both, the emotions bubbling over in a way you couldn’t control. “Yes,” you managed through your laughter, your voice trembling with joy. “Yes, I will.”

Lando slid the diamond ring onto your finger, its brilliance catching the faint glow of the city lights. It was exquisite, almost unreal, and the thought lingered—had he just pulled off some last-minute miracle, or had he been holding onto this ring, waiting for the right moment? Either way, the gesture felt deeply intentional, like he had always known it would lead to this moment.

As he stood up, his smile wide and genuine, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close in a hug that felt like home. His lips found yours in a kiss that was soft yet filled with all the emotions words couldn’t convey. It felt perfect—chaotic, surprising, and utterly perfect.

Behind you, the ever-lively Max broke the moment with a cheerful shout. “Can I be bridesmaid?!” His words were slurred with enthusiasm, drawing laughter from everyone around. You turned back to him, your grin widening as you replied without hesitation, “Of course, Max.”

The night had been unpredictable, filled with energy and celebration, but nothing could have prepared you for this—the moment you got engaged to your best friend on the pavement outside a club in Las Vegas. It was messy, spontaneous, and entirely unexpected, but somehow, it fit the two of you perfectly.

@haniette <3

2K notes · View notes

silverstcness · 3 months ago

Text

the first one. that's all i have to say.

oscar leaning forward in interviews thanks for coming to my ted talk

4K notes · View notes

silverstcness · 3 months ago

Text

say it first! ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

THIS IS: FORMULA ONE, A MILESTONE EVENT 📀 this is something that demands the truth that oscar has spent years running from.

♫ starring: oscar piastri x ex-girlfriend!reader. ♫ word count: 3.3k. ♫ includes: romance, humor. mention of food. reader is a mclaren social media admin, exes to friends to ???, bad-at-being-exes, everyone is sick of your shit. anon requested any role model song (my choice: say it first). ♫ commentary box: this was in my drafts for too long. i'm pretty sure i overthunk it, but now... have whatever this is <3 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Oscar is the one who slips up. On your first day of work, he unceremoniously blurts out a “bye, love you.”

It’s just three words, but it’s three words that has the entire McLaren team short-circuiting. Lando chokes on the marshmallow he’d been chewing on for the video challenge. Your fellow social media officer nearly drops her phone.

Oscar— well, Oscar freezes for just a second.

And then he’s moving, walking out of the driver room like it never happened. There are small signs, though. How the tips of his ears burn red. How his pace is a little quicker than usual. How he barely glances over his shoulder when Lando sputters out, “Hey, hey, wait a second! What was that?!”

You try to keep your expression neutral. It’s hard, though, when you know exactly what caused the ‘mistake’.

It’d been the typical ending to all of your conversations back when the two of you conversed on the regular. Bye, love you. While it’s been years since, it seemed like Oscar was still a man of routines.

Old habits always did die screaming.

When you run into him in the McLaren hospitality later on— after a free practice he dominates, to no one’s surprise— you can’t help but bring it up.

“Hi,” you greet cheekily, sliding into the seat across from him. “Love you.”

He levels you with an unamused glare.

“It’s your first day,” he deadpans.

“And here you are, already declaring your love for me.” You nudge his foot under the table. “What happened to keeping it on the down low, huh?”

It was something you both agreed on, after all. You weren’t cruel enough to show up at the McLaren headquarters without a word to Oscar; when you’d gotten the acceptance letter, he was one of the first people you told.

I didn’t show up in any of the background checks?, he had responded. Congratulations, though.

The two of you settled on being lowkey. It wasn’t like you got the job because you were Oscar Piastri’s ex-girlfriend. You’d bagged the social media marketing role completely by your own merit; being Oscar’s ‘the one that got away’ (his joking words, not yours) was an entirely different chapter altogether.

Present-day Oscar runs a hand over his face. Despite the frustration rolling off him in waves, you feel some semblance of relief at the recognizable gesture. Despite the coveted orange polo and the thousands of adoring fans, this was still, even just a little bit, the same Oscar from back in boarding school.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he says, his tone a touch distressed. “It just came out.”

“It’s alright if you still love me, Osc,” you coo.

The taunt earns you another glare, though there’s something softer underneath it. If you squinted, it might look a lot like hope.

But that flicker of softness is gone in an instant, replaced by Oscar nudging your foot in retaliation. “Boundaries,” he chides.

“I wasn’t the one who said bye, love—”

“Okay, okay. I got it!”

You laugh. It’s a bright, warm sound. The closest Oscar will get to a verbal confirmation of I missed this. I missed you.

And when you notice Oscar watching you, when you see him fighting back a smile, you have some idea of his unspoken response. The quiet, tender, I missed you, too.

Oscar already knows he’s going to hate whatever this is.

It’s written all over his face, probably, because Lando keeps side-eyeing him like he’s waiting for Oscar to say something snarky. Which he might, if he wasn’t using every last ounce of patience to get through this brainstorming session without visibly disassociating.

“And then we can do the ‘who’s most likely to’ challenge,” one of the social media girls chirps, scrolling through a doc on her tablet. “Like, who’s most likely to cry during a movie, or forget a teammate’s birthday.”

Oscar doesn’t sigh, but it’s a near thing.

They’re seated around one of the conference rooms tables, the kind usually reserved for media interviews and PR obligations, but today have been carved out for social media content. Content that, apparently, involves getting through as many TikTok-style gimmicks as humanly possible.

Lando, to his credit, looks amused by all of this. The man thrives on chaos.

Oscar? Not so much.

“That’s not really my thing,” he says mildly, which is the diplomatic version of, I’d rather not.

It’s then that he hears your voice. “We’ll keep it quick.”

Oscar looks up.

You’re standing just behind the admin with the tablet, your tone curt, your smile a little conspiratorial. There’s a glint in your eye he remembers well— from late-night debates in the common room, from dares whispered under breath, from that first time you kissed him behind the science block just to prove he wouldn’t chicken out.

And just like that, he’s toast.

“Fine,” he says, too fast. Crap, he thinks. He clears his throat, tries again. “Yeah. Okay. If we keep it quick.”

Lando lets out an exaggerated snort. “Wow. Alright, then.”

Oscar doesn’t dignify that with a response, doesn’t attempt to scrutinize his co-driver’s knowing look. He’s too busy watching you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, pleased. Too busy noticing the way your shoulders relax now that he’s said yes.

It shouldn’t matter. It’s just content. Just a bit for the team page. Just another post in the endless stream of media obligations.

The way you look at him— like you still get him, even after all these years—makes it feel like something more, though.

Oscar presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, schooling his expression. He’s not getting ahead of himself. He’s not.

But when you glance back at him and wink, the act just discreet enough to go under everyone else’s radar? Oscar knows old habits aren’t the only thing that die screaming.

Hell, it looks like there are some things that don’t die at all.

The paddock is buzzing even hours after the checkered flag. McLaren’s 1-2 finish has everyone riding high, which is great— for morale. Not so great for the person stuck editing half the day’s content while the rest of the team flits between press obligations and celebration drinks.

You’ve posted the podium shots, clipped the best soundbites from the post-race interviews, and now you’re in the process of syncing audio over one of Lando’s Instagram stories when someone’s shadow blocks the light from your screen.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” comes Oscar’s voice, exasperated. “Why are you crouched in the corner like some kind of content goblin?”

You don’t even look up. “Because every other surface in hospitality is either sticky with champagne or covered in people celebrating. I needed quiet.”

Oscar huffs, clearly unimpressed with your chosen hideout. Wedged between a drinks cart and a flight case, your laptop balanced on your knees, headphone cord tangled like your patience. “You know there are desks. Actual ones. With chairs.”

You glance up. “And coworkers who won’t stop asking me for post copies or tagging me in memes when I’m trying to sync reels. Let me have my shady little corner, Piastri,” you say, the slightest hint of annoyance edging your tone.

He crosses his arms. You had to give him credit. Oscar had always known when to push and when to back down. “Fine,” he says. “Just don’t electrocute yourself when someone spills Red Bull back here.”

“Thanks for the concern, champion.”

He turns like he’s going to leave, but you call after him before he’s taken more than a few steps.

“Hey. Congrats on P2.”

Oscar pauses. Looks over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he says, and for a moment, he looks like he might stay.

It’s not a look you’re particularly accustomed to. You’re used to his leaving, to his coming-and-going’s, so you’re unsurprised when he walks away.

A few minutes pass. You’re just syncing the final cuts when he returns, this time with a paper plate in hand, stacked with food from the driver’s party. He sinks down next to you, legs bumping yours slightly as he sets the plate between you.

You shoot him an amused look.

“Don’t say I never bring you anything,” he mutters.

“Didn’t peg you as the sharing type.”

“I was taught to always give to the needy.”

You pinch his arm. He swats your hand. You don’t say it out loud, but it’s written all over your face— your gratitude for the gesture.

For a moment, there’s peace. The buzz of the paddock fades behind the drone of your laptop fan and the occasional clink of a fork. Oscar picks at a spring roll, and you quietly nibble a mini quiche, your shoulders brushing every now and then.

A passing teammate does a double take. That’s the night that sparks the rumors; everything else before that had been negligible. The bye, love you had been chalked up to the moral equivalent of accidentally calling your teacher ‘mom’. The easy acquiescence had been blamed on Oscar just wanting things to end faster.

This one, though, where podium-finisher Oscar Piastri is squeezed into a corner with you instead of celebrating his win?

Well, there are some things people can’t deny.

The sun’s high, the court’s dusty, and Lando’s just served another shot with too much spin for Oscar to return cleanly. He grunts, scrambling to his left, barely getting the edge of his paddle on it.

“That’s 4–2,” Lando calls, smug.

Oscar wipes his forearm across his brow. “Only because you cheat.”

“Please. I’m just better.”

Oscar shoots him a glare, but Lando’s already sauntering back to position, twirling his paddle like he’s auditioning for Wimbledon.

Then—

“So, what’s your actual score with her?”

Oscar misses a step. "What?"

Lando grins. "You know. You and our lovely new social media admin. Are you, like… just awkward exes or awkward exes with unresolved tension and late-night texting?"

Oscar serves without answering. Lando returns it easily.

“I’m not wrong.” Lando catches the ball and tosses it back lazily. "You've been weirder than usual. And you’ve been normal-weird since you joined the team."

Oscar exhales. This was bound to come up one way or another. There was no use dancing around it. “We dated,” he answers tersely. “In boarding school.”

Lando whistles. “Serious-serious, or school-serious?”

“Four years.”

“Damn. That’s basically a marriage.”

Oscar shrugs. Lando hits another shot across the court, which Oscar barely scrapes back.

“So,” Lando calls as he skids across the court, “why’d you break up?"

“Picked racing,” Oscar shoots back.

It’s the short story. The long story is fraught with evenings spent in Oscar’s dorm, the two of you turning over and over the prospect of the relationship surviving his climb through the ranks. A part of him knows he could say it was mutual, that the two of you called it quits and both simply grew around your first love.

That would be a lie. You had let him go; he had reluctantly walked away. He knows, he knows it’s why he got as far as he did, and he’s grateful. But sometimes, he can’t help but think—

“Shit,” Lando huffs as he narrowly misses the padel ball. Whether he’s cussing out Oscar’s lackluster answer or his own shitty reflexes, Oscar doesn’t bother to find out.

They rally for a few beats in silence, the rhythm filling in what words don’t. Lando, inevitably, is the one who asks the million-dollar question.

“And now?” Lando presses. “You getting back together?”

The question comes while Oscar is turning mid-swing.

He promptly trips over his foot. The ball sails past him, and Lando whoops excitedly.

“Game,” Lando announces gleefully.

Oscar groans from the ground.

You’re elbow-deep in editing footage when Oscar finds you again.

The McLaren media room is unnaturally empty; you’ve tucked yourself into a corner desk near the window, headphones in, focus locked on syncing B-roll to Lando’s commentary about tire degradation. You don’t hear Oscar approach, but you definitely feel the stare.

He’s the last person you want to see right now.

Earlier, the two of you had gotten into some petty spat. Oscar was known to buck on producing social media content, but this one he’d felt particularly strongly against. And maybe you had pushed, gotten upset because you were used to his easy acquiescence.

He stormed off to free practice. You nearly cracked the McLaren-mandated phone’s case.

Your expression is flat as you focus on the screen in front of you. “If you’re here to complain about the TikTok trend again—”

“I’m not.” Oscar’s tone is no-nonsense. “I’m here to apologize.”

That gets your attention.

You pause the video, swiveling in your chair to face him properly. Oscar is still in his race suit, a towel slung around his neck, damp hair curling at the ends. There’s a smear of dried sweat along his jawline, and a kind of crumpled look about him, like someone who’s spent most of the afternoon spiraling through self-recrimination.

His FP1 results weren’t the best. P12 raised a couple of eyebrows, especially with Lando setting the fastest lap. For the most part, commentators just assumed Oscar was holding back ahead of qualifying. (The rest of the team figured it might have to do with your little tiff.)

“You didn’t have to be so dramatic about it, y’know,” you say lightly, picking at a thread on your sleeve. “I wasn’t asking you to dance. It was one trending audio. Lando did it.”

Oscar exhales, slow and steady. “I know. I was just— frustrated. With myself. Not you.”

You shrug, feigning indifference. “You were a dick.”

“I was a dick,” he agrees immediately, and his sheer desperation to get back in your good graces almost has you folding.

Silence stretches between you for a few beats. Then, he awkwardly stutters, “Can I…?”

“Can you what?”

He opens and closes his mouth once. Then, as if powering through sheer muscle memory, he leans down and gives you the most stilted, painfully tentative hug you’ve ever received. His arm hooks over your shoulder like a coat hanger. His chin grazes your temple for a split second before he’s already pulling away.

You frown up at him, the annoyance from earlier replaced by an annoyance at this. “What was that?”

He looks at you like you’re the insane one. “A hug,” he snipes.

“That was not a hug. That was a hover,” you huff, arms crossing over your chest. “Try again.”

You’re pushing it, you know. It’s the type of petulance he got a front-row seat to when the two of you were dating, and if things truly haven’t changed, then Oscar would still be a little weak to it.

He mumbles something under his breath, but steps forward again. This time, he actually commits— arms around your back, chin resting on your head. The kind of hug that feels like a home you forgot you missed.

You don’t uncross your arms, giving some semblance of distance between the two of you. It’s all you can do to keep yourself from returning the embrace and never letting go.

Just as he’s about to pull away, he presses a kiss to the crown of your head. It’s so natural, so familiar, that neither of you realize what’s happened until it’s already done.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

To say something would be to acknowledge that the two of you fall in to old routines when it comes to each other— bickering like an old couple, seeking touch like you’re starved for it.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are flushed. And unfortunately for you, the blush does not go unnoticed.

He blames it on the heat. You say it’s because it’s cold.

The McLaren team glance at their weather apps— the perfect, lukewarm temperature glaring up at them— and heave out heavy sighs.

Oscar hears the door click before he really registers that it’s shut.

It’s a distinct click, sharp and final, like the punctuation on a sentence you didn’t realize was ending.

He twists the handle. Then tries again.

Locked.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he mutters.

You look up from where you’re half-sprawled on the lounge, phone in hand. “What?”

Oscar jerks his head toward the door. “Locked.”

Your brows shoot up. “Locked locked?”

He tries the handle again, harder. “Locked locked.”

And then, as if summoned by tension, a text chimes on your phone. You glance at it, snorting before you angle it towards Oscar. He barely has time to feel a pang of jealousy for Lando’s contact name, which features an absurd amount of emojis, because he’s too fixated on the taunting text:

no one comes out until a move has been made. don’t bother calling. this is zak approved. 😋

Osca’s eyebrows raise. “He did what?”

“Apparently, it’s a team-building exercise now.”

Silence follows. The kind that’s so heavy it could tip over into something else, something messier, if you let it. Gracefully, you don’t— not when you lead with “They’ll have to let us out eventually. Wanna play 20 Questions while we wait?”

The mention of the game actually makes Oscar wince. He doesn’t remember the last time he played it, though it was probably all the way back in school. Hell, it’s what had gotten him the courage to confess to you in the first place. How, as a teenager with sweating palms, he had sprung the penultimate query at question 18. Is there anybody you have a crush on?

He buries the memory and forces himself to come back to where the two of you are right now. He could tease you, could joke about it being a trap and a ploy. Instead, he sighs out, “Sure. Why not.”

“You go first.”

He thinks for a moment. “What’s your favorite city on the calendar?”

“Singapore.” You stretch your legs out toward him, socked feet nudging his knee. “My turn. Question two: Do you think we should get back together?”

Oscar freezes.

For once, the quick reflexes honed by years of racing fail him.

His eyes search yours like he’s looking for the catch, the punchline. There’s none. Just you, sitting there like you hadn’t just sent the entire emotional scaffolding of his world tilting sideways.

He licks his lips. “Is this part of the game?”

You shrug, but there’s something vulnerable in the gesture. “I just figured… we’re stuck. They want us to make a move. Might as well be honest.”

Oscar lets out a shaky breath. The question hangs between you like something sacred and dangerous all at once. Outside the driver room, he hears laughter— probably Lando and the others camped outside, pretending to look for a key. But here, it’s quiet.

Too quiet. The kind of quiet where what’s unspoken will stay just that— unspoken— unless a voice is given to it.

This isn’t the flirtations of the past couple of months, isn’t the slips of the tongue and the affection that runs far deeper than what’s propriety. No, this is something that demands the truth that Oscar has spent years running from.

He reaches for the words slowly.

“Yeah,” he says, “I think we should.”

Your eyes widen slightly. He fights the urge to call you out; it’s not like it’s unexpected. He hasn’t said anything out loud, sure, but he hasn’t been hiding either.

Oscar had missed you. Oscar still loves you.

He didn’t think he had to say it, not until he notices the way you try to tamp your giddy smile. This had always been Oscar’s way— love you, bye had been his thing, because he never said the words first, but he was going to make damn sure he said them last.

He clears his throat. Tries to not smile too wide, either. “My turn,” he chirps. “What’s your favorite song right now?”

“We are not changing the topic!”

Oscar can’t help it. He lets out an affectionate laugh, a laugh that only you can pull out of him.

It sounds an awful lot like I love you, I love you, I love you. ⛐

1K notes · View notes

silverstcness · 3 months ago

Text

autumn leaves ⛐ 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏

oscar loves you through the seasons. (or: 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘦.)

ꔮ starring: oscar piastri x café owner!reader. ꔮ word count: 4.9k. ꔮ includes: romance, fluff fluff fluff, angst -ish. mentions of food. established/long-distance relationship, oscar is down bad :(, just a lot of sweetness all around. ꔮ commentary box: cold coffee is one of the fics i've gotten the most love about, and so it feels apt to roll this out today! this can be read as a standalone. birthday podium for the birthday boy, lfg <𝟑 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

♫ autumn leaves, ed sheeran. home, new west. please don't change your mind, lizzie no. can this morning never end, david kingston. thumb war, ande estrella. something tells me, bailen. falling in love at a coffee shop, landon pigg.

Oscar spends winter in your café.

It’s technically the circuit’s summer break. A two-week reprieve, but it’s smack dab in what Melbourne considers to be its gripping cold spell. And so he calls it what it is— a winter spent with you.

A few mornings a week, he shows up at the café with no real reason other than the excuse of needing a warm drink. He always says he’ll only stay a little while, but you notice how often his mug lingers empty on the table long after he’s finished drinking. He picks the seat near the corner window, lets the sunlight stretch across his arms, and listens as you hum to the tune of whatever’s playing over the speakers.

“You like being here,” you say once. It’s not a question.

Oscar looks up from the crossword puzzle you left by his cup. He blinks, caught, then shrugs. “It’s peaceful.”

You raise a brow. “You travel the world, but you call my dinky little café peaceful?”

“Exactly,” he says without missing a beat.

Sometimes, he helps behind the counter. Especially on slower days. You hand him an apron once, mostly as a joke, but he ties it on with alarming sincerity. It turns into a bit, the two of you inventing fake menu items while you refill the pastry case.

He gets flour on his cheek once and you don’t tell him until you’ve stared at it long enough to memorize the curve of his jaw. You saw his hand away every time he tries to steal a bit of chocolate for himself, and his touch lingers on your fingers like it physically pains him to pull away.

At night, after you lock up, he walks you home. You don’t invite him in; the act seems a little too intimate, and he seems happy to just see that you’re safe at the end of your shift.

It becomes routine. The world outside the café might be spinning on a faster axis, but here, with the two of you, time is gentle.

You learn why he doesn’t like to drink coffee. He finds out why you can’t function until your second cup. He tells you about his sisters; you show him photos of your kindergarten self. He watches you pour latte art with the same reverence he gives to telemetry data.

And then, one night, it snows.

It’s a treat. Whenever it snowed in Melbourne, it was mostly in High Country. You’re more well-versed with grey clouds and frost on the sidewalk.

That evening, the two of you linger on the front step of the café as the snow falls— sure but steady. A snowflake lands in your hair. Oscar brushes it away gently, but not without a small voice in the back of his mind murmuring Beautiful.

He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and rocks back on his heels like he’s working up to something. “You ever get scared it won’t last?” he asks suddenly. His voice is quiet, almost hesitant.

You glance at him. “What won’t?”

“This.” He motions between the two of you. “Us. This… whatever we’re figuring out.”

As it is, the two of you are still an open-ended question. This was the wait-and-see part of dating, the carnage of you giving Oscar your number after he’d supposedly pined over you for years.

You think about it. About how he has a plane ticket waiting and a team counting on him. About how your days are measured in regulars and espresso shots, while his are measured in laps and podiums.

Two entirely different lives. You, staying in place; him, always leaving one way or another.

Are you scared it won’t last?

“Yeah,” you admit. “Sometimes. But it also feels worth it.”

Oscar’s gaze finds yours in the soft glow of the streetlight. “It does, doesn’t it?”

You nod, and before you can overthink it, you reach for his hand. He meets you halfway.

Fingers laced, cold breath between you, Oscar leans in until his forehead rests gently against yours. “Thank you,” he says out of the blue.

“For what?”

“Letting me be a person here. Not a driver.”

It feels like such a small thing, a small grace, and you don’t realize the gravity of it. He’s a renown racecar driver, sure, but he’s also the same guy who came in with his sisters; the guy who saved the café when he contracted you as a race caterer that one prix. In that moment, you’re only thinking of the way your fingers slot together as you gently squeeze his hand. “Always.”

Under the hush of falling snow and the hum of something unspoken, Oscar lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, winter could last a little longer.

You fall into something softer after that. There are no declarations, no explicit conversations about what it all means. But he lingers longer. He clings to you in the back room when no one’s around. He texts you from his parents’ place late at night, asking if you’re still up, if you want to go for a walk, if you’re cold and want to borrow his scarf.

You tease him about being a romantic. He rolls his eyes. Tells you to hush. (But he smiles every time.)

And then, there’s that unassuming Saturday— one where you’re baking early, radio humming in the background. Oscar is seated at the counter, still warm from sleep, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows as he peels an orange.

Your friend from the shop next door pops her head in. “Hey, your boyfriend’s blocking the cream cheese again.”

Oscar snorts, standing to move. “Sorry, sorry— didn’t mean to keep your resources hostage.”

You laugh, shooting your friend a look before turning back to your tray. But it isn’t until she’s gone that you register what had happened.

She had referred to Oscar as your boyfriend. And he didn’t even flinch, had taken it in stride. Whether or not he realized it is yet to be seen.

The thing is, you want to see. And so you glance at him, brows lifted. “Boyfriend, huh?”

Oscar pauses mid-peel. It seems to dawn on him, then, as he mumbles a soft cuss of shit. He looks struck, like he hadn’t realized it much either. This was the impression the two of you were giving people— that you were in a relationship. And he hadn’t corrected her.

“You liked that,” you tease.

“Don’t be mean,” he groans, covering his face with his fruit-stained hands.

“Well, boyfriend,” you say, savoring the word, “do you want to help me with the frosting or just hide behind your orange?”

Oscar lowers his hands. There’s a kind of wonder in his expression, the kind that’s not just embarrassment. Something rawer, gentler.

“You’re not mad?”

“I doubled down, didn’t I?”

And that’s when it happens— he makes a noise so flustered, so delighted and overwhelmed that he knocks his elbow into the tray of clean spoons. They clatter to the floor in a chorus of chaos.

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”

Oscar is red to the tips of his ears, bending to pick them up with a muttered, “That’s fine. Totally fine. Not at all indicative of how much I’ve wanted to call you that.”

You crouch beside him, brushing your shoulder against his. “You can call me that whenever you want,” you say, trying to hide just how giddy you are at the prospect.

Oscar isn’t faring any better. He chews his lower lip as if he’s biting back a smile, but you can see in the glint in his eyes that he’s just as happy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then. Girlfriend.”

The title bursts out of him like it’s something he can’t hold himself back from saying. The moment the word has escaped him, he gives up on his facade of nonchalance. He laughs, disbelieving and low— and with a courage he could almost applaud himself for— he leans in.

In that kitchen, surrounded by cinnamon and sugar and the soft drip of rain outside, Oscar kisses you like he’s been waiting for winter his whole life.

Spring is strange when you’re chasing it across time zones.

Some race weekends, Oscar lands in cities where it’s still snowing. Others, it’s already sweltering— sticky with heat and the sharp scent of tarmac. But somewhere between Melbourne and Monaco, in the blur of media days and debriefs, he realizes it feels like spring anyway.

Because of you.

In between sessions and flights, there are your texts. Photos of latte art attempts gone wrong. Updates on which flowers you’ve planted outside the café. A blurry snapshot of your handwritten specials board with a cheeky text of Guess who forgot how to spell ‘mocha.’

He lives for them. For the quick selfies of you squinting into the sun. For the way your good morning texts come in while he’s wrapping up his day. It grounds him, makes the whirlwind feel a little more like a rhythm.

He doesn’t expect you to watch his races live. You’re busy, and he knows the café doesn’t run itself. Still, he catches glimpses of your support— the congratulatory messages, the carefully curated playlists you send before back-to-back races. One time, you mail him a tiny good luck charm, and he tucks it into the lining of his travel bag without telling a soul.

It’s late in Japan when it happens. The call starts as usual: You in your flat, him in a hotel room with his hair damp from the shower and exhaustion clinging to his voice. He props his phone against the pillow and lies on his side, just watching you talk.

You’re rambling about a new barista who can’t steam milk properly, and Oscar is smiling like an idiot. He could listen to you talk for hours, he’s sure. But then somewhere in the middle of your story, your words slow, your eyelids start to droop.

“You tired?” he asks gently.

You blink, shake your head. “No, I’m— still talking, just…”

Your voice trails off. A beat passes.

Then another.

And then you’re out, cheek squished against your pillow, the phone still in your hand. Mid-sentence, mid-reassurance, mid-call.

Oscar doesn’t hang up. He watches the rise and fall of your breathing, the way your fingers twitch every now and then. There’s a soft crease between your brows that he wants to smooth out with his thumb.

His chest aches.

It’s a new kind of ache. Tender, full. A knot of something warm that tightens when he realizes you fell asleep with him on the line. That you let him be there, even if only in pixels and soft light.

He takes a screenshot before the screen dims. Not to tease you with later (though he probably will). But to remember this. The quiet intimacy of it. The small, gentle trust of falling asleep.

“Sleep well,” he whispers, even though you can’t hear it.

Then he closes his eyes, the echo of your voice still playing in his head, and lets himself pretend— just for a little while— that he’s with you back home.

Melbourne's spring is a finicky thing.

It’s sunny one minute, rain-lashed the next. The mornings might begin clear and bright only for the wind to pick up by midday, scattering leaves down the laneway and making the café's front windows rattle.

You keep a spare jacket hung by the espresso machine, switch the fans off and on at least twice a day, and have long given up trying to guess if you’ll need an umbrella.

Some things don’t change, though.

Like the way your chest tightens when you see Oscar on the television screen. The way the café hushes when he’s announced on the grid, your regulars quietly cheering for him with their cappuccinos in hand.

Race Sundays are sacred in your café. You mute the usual playlist and flip on Sky Sports. The regulars know better than to ask you questions during qualifying. You serve flat whites on autopilot, one eye always on the TV. And when Oscar’s car crosses the finish line— when he clinches another win— you’re already reaching for your phone.

The messages aren’t elaborate. Just a few words, sometimes a stupid emoji. Nice one, champ. Or: Still faster than you talk. Once, just a GIF of a trophy and a smug-looking penguin. You send something every time, whether he finished on the podium or in the points or neither.

He doesn’t always respond right away. Sometimes it’s hours. Sometimes it's the middle of your night when your phone buzzes against your bedside table.

But he always replies.

Couldn’t have done it without the world’s best barista, he texted once, followed by a rare selfie. His champagne-drenched face, a peace sign, and a smile that he reserves fro you.

You had laughed. Saved the photo, too.

That’s the thing about Oscar. He’s everywhere, all the time— jetting from country to country, circuit to circuit. And yet, he still finds a way to feel near. Like springtime warmth breaking through the clouds. Like a small, bright constant in a city that never quite decides what weather it wants.

You watch him during post-race interviews, grinning at how he deflects praise with the same awkward charm you first met him with. You listen for the jokes he doesn’t quite finish. You catalogue the curve of his grin, the way his eyes crinkle when he knows he's done well.

And always, always, you keep your phone nearby.

Just in case he replies with something that makes you blush in front of the espresso machine.

Just in case he reminds you that no matter how far he is, you’re still a part of his every win.

Summer in Melbourne means winter break for the racing world; whatever it is, it also means Oscar is yours again for a couple of weeks.

He returns during the off-season like he never left, easing back into routine with a kind of softness you wouldn’t expect from a man who spends most of the year under pressure. He doesn’t text to say he’s coming. He just shows up— like clockwork— pushing open the café door with his usual boyish grin and an apologetic wave if the bell above the door startles you.

He slides into the same seat near the corner window. Orders the same drink. Teases you the same way he always does when you write his name wrong on the cup.

And when the regulars begin to whisper— recognizing him in quiet awe— he keeps his head down and eyes on you, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

On some days, when it’s slow and the air conditioning hums lazily against the heat outside, Oscar hops behind the counter. He doesn’t ask. He just washes his hands and starts helping. Restocking cups, organizing the pastry shelf, sneaking samples of cookies when he thinks you’re not looking.

People talk. Of course they do.

Oscar Piastri has a girlfriend. Oscar Piastri, McLaren F1 driver, hometown hero— is in love with you.

Strangers whisper when he wipes down tables. When he brings you a drink before you can ask for one. When he laughs too loudly at something only you could’ve said. Someone snaps a photo once, subtle but unmistakable. You pretend not to see it. He pretends not to care.

But later, when you’re in the back room counting inventory, you let the anxiety creep in.

“You know they’re starting to figure it out,” you say, not looking at him.

Oscar doesn’t miss a beat. “Figure what out?”

You glance over your shoulder. “Us.”

He hums, thoughtful. “Good.”

“Good?” You set the clipboard down. “Oscar, I don’t want this to hurt your image. Or make things harder for you.”

He crosses the rooms and slip an arm around your waist. “You think I care what strangers on the internet think?”

You give him a look. “You should.”

“I care what you think,” he says firmly. “And if the whole world knows I’m crazy about you, then great. Saves me the trouble of saying it myself.”

Your heart skips, because he says it like a fact. Like gravity. Like the sun rising in the summer sky.

“I mean it,” he adds, tilting his head to meet your eyes. “I’m not hiding from anyone. Not from this. Not from you.”

You lean into him before you can think better of it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Outside, the sun blazes. Inside, he kisses you like this part of your relationship is going to last forever. Being private but not a secret. Stealing quiet moments with each other as an invisible timer hangs overhead, every second nearing the moment when he has to go again.

And then, summer, like all good things, comes to its inevitable end.

But before it does, Oscar makes a point of being the boyfriend he doesn’t always have the time to be. He borrows his mum’s car and convinces you to shut the café down for two days. Just two, he promises, hands wrapped around your wrists and lips pressed to the side of your neck. You give in. Of course you do.

You leave before sunrise, the windows down, the wind teasing your hair as Melbourne fades behind you. The Great Ocean Road stretches ahead like something out of a film. The sea is to your left, wild and endless. The radio plays a messy mix of whatever stations come through clearly.

Oscar sings along, because you once said it’s your favorite thing in the world— having things of him that he doesn’t give to anybody else. There’s not a lot that he can give, so he grants you this. His belting, his hand on your thigh, his eyes on the road even though he wants so badly to look at you with the little time he has left.

“You know you’re tone-deaf, right?” you tease, glancing at him from behind your sunglasses.

Oscar, entirely unbothered, turns up the volume. “And yet you stay,” he screeches over the pop song and the waves and the thrum of your heart.

“Regretting it now.”

“Liar.”

You grin and lean your head against the window, the salty breeze kissing your skin. The road winds and weaves, dipping into forests and sweeping along cliffs. You stop for coffee at tiny beach towns, for photos near the Twelve Apostles, for stretches where you do nothing but exist side by side in easy silence.

Eventually, you find a quiet cliffside lookout. The sea churns below, sun low on the horizon, casting everything in golden light. Oscar spreads a blanket on the grass, and you sit with your knees drawn up, the wind cooler here but not unwelcome.

He joins you, shoulder to shoulder, gaze fixed on the water. For a while, it’s just the rhythmic crash of waves and the distant cry of gulls.

Then, softly, Oscar says, “I’m going to miss you.”

You turn to him. He’s not looking at you, but his jaw is tight, eyes glassy with unsaid things.

“I know it’s not forever,” he continues, voice low, “but every time I leave, it feels like I’m putting us on pause. And I hate that. I hate that I can’t stay.”

Your heart clenches.

You reach for his hand.

“You’re not putting anything on pause. We’re still us, even when you’re away,” you remind him.

It’s true, at least on your end. His papaya car can take him from the starting line to the chequered flag, can put him in countries all across the world. At the end of it all, he’s still the same Oscar you’d do anything and everything for.

He doesn’t say anything much after that. You can only hope he agrees, that he’s reassured. It comforts you that Oscar has always been a man of action, not so much of words.

When he leans in, when he kisses you there with the sun dipping behind you and the ocean singing below, it feels like summer is bending into something softer. Something that might just last.

Autumn comes quietly, almost unnoticeably. One moment i’'s late summer— your hand in his as you both watch waves kiss the Great Ocean Road— and the next, Oscar is gone again.

Back in a race suit, back on the grid, back to being the driver the world demands him to be.

The season restarts with a rush: Press events, simulator work, endless travel. Countries blur into each other. Time zones fracture his routine. He wakes up jet-lagged more often than not, sometimes unsure of what day it is until he checks his calendar.

In one city, it's humid and bright; in another, the rain feels like hurricanes. But somewhere in his chest, it feels like autumn. Like something has started to drift.

He still texts you. Still calls when he can. But the gaps between your conversations stretch, elastic and fragile. Sometimes he sends voice notes— quick, clipped, often in between meetings or on the way to a track. Sometimes you hear the edge in his voice, exhaustion making his tone heavier.

He apologizes more than he used to.

Sorry, I meant to reply last night.

Sorry, my flight got delayed.

Sorry, I missed our call.

And you’re kind. Always so, so kind.

You tell him you understand. That you’re proud of him. That you’ll just be here.

But Oscar starts to worry that your kindness is a finite resource. That even the gentlest patience has an expiration date.

He watches you through his screen most days. Watches the way you smile softly when he asks how you are. Watches your fingers cradle your mug, the steam curling between your knuckles. It hurts, in ways he never expected, to see you pixelated after having you differently.

Because yesterday— what feels like yesterday— you were with him. And today, you’re miles away.

And none of it feels simple anymore.

In the end, he doesn’t mean to wake you.

It’s late in Japan, or early, depending on how you look at it. The hotel room is dim, lit only by the glow of his phone screen and the occasional blink of city lights beyond the window. He sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, thumb hesitating over the screen.

You answer on the third ring, voice thick with sleep.

“Osc?”

“Hey,” he says, barely above a whisper. “Sorry. I didn’t think you’d actually pick up.”

“You called.”

“Yeah.” He exhales slowly. “I just... I needed to hear your voice.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Then the rustle of blankets, the sound of you shifting closer to the mic.

“I’m here,” you murmur. “What’s up?”

He closes his eyes, lets the words settle. His hands fidget with the edge of the hotel duvet, reminding him of the worn, well-loved comforter you have back at your own place. His mind is louder than it should be at this hour, cycling through worries like laps on a circuit.

“I don’t know why I’m like this,” he admits. “It’s just... everything’s so fast right now. The races, the media, the pressure. And I keep thinking— what if I drop the ball with you? What if you get tired of waiting for the person I keep promising to be?”

You’re quiet for a moment.

Then: “Oscar, listen to me.”

He does.

“You don’t have to earn my patience. You don’t have to prove yourself to me every time the world starts spinning too fast,” you say. “I know who you are, even when you’re tired and stressed and a thousand kilometers away.”

His throat tightens. He stares at the carpet, blinking back something heavy.

“You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” you say gently. “You love me. I love you. That’s the whole thing.”

Oscar swallows hard. He’s never been good at this sort of thing; he’s honest when he has to be, sure, but the emotional part of everything has never been his forte.

He sticks to his honesty. “I wish I was there,” he says.

“I know.”

“It’s autumn now.”

“I know.”

“I’d hold you so tight you’d forget I ever left.”

You chuckle, sleepy but fond. “I don’t forget. But I forgive.”

He presses the phone closer to his ear, like proximity might make the distance easier to bear. And in that quiet, in your breath and your heartbeat slowed by sleep, he finds a thread of calm to hold onto.

“I’ll come home soon,” he promises, quiet but certain.

And when you say “You always do,” he wants so, so badly to give you everything he has.

It’s why he fulfills his promise sooner than what was probably expected.

After a brutal triple-header weekend, the kind that chews drivers up and spits them back out in time zones that blur together, Oscar finds himself on a red-eye to Melbourne before he can talk himself out of it.

He’s running on less than four hours of sleep, still in his team hoodie and airport sneakers when he finally gets to your door. The flowers in his hand are half-crushed, stolen from the bushes just outside your café— he knows he should’ve stopped somewhere proper, but he just couldn’t wait any longer.

He rings the doorbell. The sun hasn’t even risen yet.

You answer groggily in an oversized McLaren jersey, hair a mess, blinking at him like you’re not sure if he’s real.

“I know, I know,” he starts before you can say anything. “They’re from outside the shop. I’m sorry. I didn’t plan this well. I just— I had to come home. I couldn’t stop thinking. I missed you. I’ve been shit at this, haven’t I? I mean, not just the flowers— everything.”

You take one look at him, wild-haired and a little breathless, with dirt on his cuffs and sincerity in his eyes, and your heart cracks open in the quietest, softest way.

You step forward and kiss him, then. Still sleepy, still barefoot. It’s not hurried or desperate. It’s grounding. Like you’re reminding him he’s here now. Like you’re saying, It’s okay, I’ve got you.

He kisses you back with a gentleness that belies the hoops he had to go through to get here. He could be more desperate, urgent, but it’s not something he wants to push while you’re half-awake. While you’re soft, practically melting in his arms. He settles on kissing you as if it’s an apology, a confession, and a promise all rolled into one.

You take the flowers from his hand and pull him gently inside.

“Welcome home,” you murmur against his lips, and Oscar exhales like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

It’s not complicated, not really. Not when love looks like showing up, like late flights and half-crushed flowers, like a kiss in the early morning and a place to rest your heart.

The apartment is quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the early morning birdsong outside your window. The light through the curtains is soft, golden— the kind that makes you pause and breathe a little deeper. After the flowers have been put in a vase and Oscar has changed into more comfortable clothes, you pad into the kitchen.

You start the coffee, the motions muscle memory by now. As it drips into your mug, you lean against the counter, waiting for Oscar to inevitably follow suit.

You don’t hear his footsteps, but you feel him. The way his arms wrap around your waist from behind, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder like it belongs there. There’s probably an alternate universe where this could be your reality. Lazy mornings with Oscar, where he doesn’t have to fret over return flights and race strategy and all that.

It’s not something you yearn for. You’re happy with the cards you’ve been dealt, with the Oscar you have right now.

He hums lowly, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “Can I have some too?”

You blink, startled. “You? Want coffee?”

“Might as well learn to like it,” he murmurs into the side of your neck. “Means I get to be awake with you longer.”

You turn in his arms, eyebrows raised. “Oscar... you don't have to change yourself for us.”

He shrugs, a lazy, boyish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I know. But maybe I want to anyway.”

With half an eye roll, you hand him your mug instead. It’s exactly how you like it, and— to no one’s surprise— it’s everything he hates. He takes a sip and immediately grimaces.

“Still tastes like regret, huh?” you joke as your arms find purchase around his middle.

“Worse,” he says, and then pulls you in for a kiss before you can say anything more.

It’s a little coffee, a little toothpaste, and all you. There’s a little more of an edge to this, a promise of something more later, but it’s also just a reminder in itself. This is what the two of you had. This is what the two of you could work with. And it would last, would go on for as long as the two of you put in the work.

Oscar pulls back only when he absolutely has to, forehead against yours, breath warm.

Outside, the trees rustle in the breeze, gold and red and fading brown. The autumn leaves fall slowly, drifting one by one in a soundless, unhurried dance.

Oscar falls in love like that, too— quietly, fully, with every part of him.

He falls in love with you again, right then, in the middle of the kitchen, with bitter coffee on his tongue and your smile against his. ⛐

654 notes · View notes