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putting-it-into-parc · 2 months

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papaya problems

masterlist

part 2!!

Oscar x reader, Lando x reader (4.0k words)

summary: after a chance encounter with oscar, you can’t help but daydream about what could’ve been. lando has other ideas.

warnings: unresolved tension, potentially inaccurate pit crew descriptions, tw: dutch national anthem ;))

papaya problems

On your first day at McLaren, the secretary at the front desk hands you a card attached to a bright orange lanyard. Race Crew, it declares proudly. You slip it over your head right away, feeling a little buzz of excitement.

After shaking hands with what feels like a thousand people, all dressed in orange polos—or, as you were told during orientation, papaya polos—your guide Shawn leads you to a back hallway, tucked well inside Team Hub, the McLaren motorhome. “As you probably already know well, Lando and Oscar are the two drivers for us this season. If we’re lucky, they might be around to say hi.”

A knock on a door labelled with Oscar’s name yields no response. But as you two approach Lando’s driver room, you hear the muffled sounds of two boys screeching.

“AAAAAAAAAH!!!!”

Thump.

“AAAAAAAHHHHH!!! THERE’S TWO OF THEM!!”

“Lando, just open the door!”

“NOOOOOOOO!!!”

You exchange a glance with your guide. His eyes are crinkled at the corners. “Sounds like they’re a bit…preoccupied,” he says. You nod, amused.

The door abruptly flies open, and one of the drivers bolts out. You have just enough time to register a mop of brown curls, and icy blue eyes widened in terror. The taller of the two walks out of the driver’s room much more calmly. His hair, although also brown, sweeps over his forehead in a smooth wave. He raises his straight, dark eyebrows at the two of you.

“This is one of our drivers, Oscar Piastri,” Shawn informs you.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, extending a hand politely.

“Pleasure,” Oscar drawls in a distinctly Australian accent, accepting your hand. His feels warm. Inviting. “And that animal over there, crying over a wasp like the baby he is, is Lando.”

Right on cue, Lando trots over, wiping sweat from his forehead. “That wasp was huge, mate. You’re so calm cause you’re an Aussie. Aren’t the bugs, like, the size of dinner plates there?” He shivers at his own words.

Then he notices you. “You must be new here,” he says. He clears his throat, stands up a little straighter. “I’m Lando. Norris.”

You smile at Lando, offer up your name. “That’s a pretty name,” Lando says. “Pretty girls always have pretty names.” And he winks.

Shawn rolls his eyes. “Lando Norris is our other driver. He has an unfortunate tendency to flirt with anything that moves.”

“Hey, now,” Lando says smoothly. He shoots a quick glare at the guide. “I have the fortunate tendency of not being afraid to appreciate beauty when I see it.”

You accidentally make eye contact with Oscar, who’s standing behind Shawn, and he mouths, You’ll get used to it. You can’t help but smile.

A tiny insect flies out of the driver’s room, and the three of you laugh as Lando dashes back into his room and slams the door.

Later, you’re desperately wandering the halls of the motorhome in search of a vending machine. Your first day was a blur of faces, names, and fact sheets, and you need caffeine now. Finally, you spy one just outside the kitchen. Someone’s already standing in front of it, clearly pondering his choice of beverage. He turns around at the sound of your oncoming footsteps.

“Hey,” Oscar nods. You’re surprised he recognizes you, having only just met you briefly today.

“Hi Oscar. Know what drink you’re going for?”

His eyes are fixated on the row of Coke bottles at the very top. “I’d kill for a Coke.”

“Why don’t you get one?” you knit your brows in confusion.

“Diet. My trainer wouldn’t like that at all.”

Right. The drivers have to maintain weight. And Oscar, being decently tall, is already at a bit of a disadvantage. He sighs and punches in a number. A Diet Coke comes tumbling out of the machine, and he scoops it up and steps aside for you.

You scan the drinks and settle on a tall can of Monster—the most potent source of alertness the vending machine has to offer.

“Wow, a Monster at 5pm,” Oscar muses. A teasing smile has formed at the corners of his lips. He has a dimple on his left cheek.

You sigh. “First days are rough. Although I’ll admit that I’m a bit of a caffeine junkie.”

“Tell me about it,” he says, running his fingers through his already perfect hair. “It’s only Media Day and all I want to do is roll around in my covers. And we haven’t even raced yet.”

The thought of Oscar wrapping himself up in a duvet like a burrito makes you giggle.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

You feel your cheeks burn. “Nothing,” you say quickly. Oscar just stares at you with an inscrutable look on his face.

Great. Now he thinks I’m insane.

“Well,” Oscar says. “I’d better get back. But it was nice meeting you. And I guess I’ll be seeing you around.” He gives you a small smile and slips away.

You want to kick yourself for acting like such a fool in front of Oscar, then you wonder why you care so much in the first place.

Because he’s a driver, and as a pit crew member you wouldn’t want him to think you’re weird. Right. Because you were teammates, and teammates need to get along. No other reason at all.

For the rest of the week, a can of Monster greets you at the door of your hotel room every morning. Oscar. It’s very kind of him. You wonder if he’s this nice to everyone else on staff. You feel a tiny lick of jealousy imagining him ordering drinks for other people, and quickly stamp out the feeling.

Lando, on the other hand, doesn’t settle just for kind. Every time he passes by you on the paddock, he flashes you a winning smile and a wink. On Sunday night, his eyes meet yours as he holds his P3 trophy aloft, and holds your gaze as he sprays his champagne all over Max Verstappen. You notice that Oscar tips back his bottle in a perfunctory swig, but doesn’t mirror their antics. After the podium ceremony, Lando hurries over to you.

“Post-race party tonight,” he says, breathless. “Come with me?”

Frankly, you’re exhausted. Partying is the last thing you want to be doing—Oscar’s burrito technique sounds really good right about now. You give Lando an apologetic smile, murmur something about next time, and shuffle up to your hotel room like a zombie. How the drivers have the energy for this…you’ll never understand.

You’re indulging yourself with a hot soak in your bathtub when you think you hear a knock at your door. Ugh. It repeats, a little louder. You climb out of the tub, wrap a robe around your body, and peer through the little hole in the door.

It’s Oscar. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other. In his hands are a helmet and a small tin.

Crap. You don’t have time to put clothes on. You open the door, just a tiny crack. “Oscar?”

“Hey,” he says cautiously. “Sorry to be a bother.”

“No, not at all. It’s just…I’m kind of only wearing a robe right now. Sorry, I was taking a bath…”

Oscar’s cheeks turn pink. You feel your own face redden.

“So I’m totally being a bother,” he says. “Sorry again. You left your helmet at the paddock, and Lando said you went back to your hotel room because you weren’t feeling well.”

You have no choice but to open the door fully and accept the helmet from Oscar. You’re sure your hair is dripping onto the carpet. He carefully avoids looking anywhere but your eyes.

��Oh my god, I’m a mess,” you mutter, embarrassed by your carelessness. “Thanks so much for bringing it all the way over here.”

Oscar chuckles. “It’s not a problem. We’re like, right down the hall from you.”

“But you should be out at post-race. What are you doing at the hotel at all?”

“I’m not that much of a party guy,” Oscar says quietly. “Not gonna lie, as soon as the podium ceremony’s over, I usually try to sneak back before someone manages to drag me to some bar.”

This surprises you. You figured the drivers would be mostly outgoing, always chasing a new high, overflowing with energy.

“Speaking of which,” he says, holding out the tin he had been carrying in his other hand. “Tea. I know you prefer Monster, but it is pretty late…”

Your heart melts. “Oscar,” you say, taken aback at his sweetness. “You didn’t have to…”

He shrugs. “I felt bad. Don’t want you to get sick.”

“I’m not,” you say guiltily. “I just told Lando I was tired. I guess I’m just not as good at sneaking back to the hotel as you are.”

At the mention of Lando, Oscar suddenly starts to examine the patterns on the carpet with great interest.

Suddenly, curiosity seizes you. “So when you come back early, what do you do?”

“Usually watch TV. Maybe read a book or play mindless video games. Just unwind.” He meets your eyes again. “You? Aside from your bath, I guess.”

“I mean,” you ponder. “I guess I’ll just watch TV too. And I should probably order food—I’m starving.”

“You haven’t eaten dinner?” Oscar asks, looking slightly alarmed.

“No,” you say, “but there’s no way you had time to, either.”

“No,” he admits.

An idea pops into your head. “Honestly, if we’re the only ones here…do you wanna just order a pizza or something? I totally get it if you’d rather just chill alone."

Oscar’s eyes widen slightly. You wonder if you’ve made a grave mistake. But then the corners of his lips quirk upwards. “I’m down,” he says.

By the time the pizza shows up, you and Oscar have established that both of you think pineapple on pizza is a sin, but ham is an absolute necessity. He tells you about Aussie pizza, which apparently comes topped with an egg. You wrinkle your nose.

“Hey, can’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” Oscar says defensively.

Then you find out that both of you are working your way through Killing Eve, so you run to the bathroom to (finally) put some pajamas on, and Oscar’s sitting on your bed, TV remote in hand. You climb in next to him, not too close, and try not to get distracted by the fact that he smells like clean laundry. Halfway through the second episode, your eyelids begin to droop.

“Tired?” Oscar whispers, jerking you awake.

“Huh? Oh…” Your head feels foggy. “No, I’m okay. We can finish the episode…”

The next time you open your eyes, startled, the light is still on and you have no idea what’s going on in the show. You look over to your right. Oscar is slumped over with his eyes shut, mouth slightly open, breathing lightly. Out cold.

“Oscar,” you whisper. His eyelids flutter.

“Oh my god,” he says, looking disconcerted. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”

You laugh. “I think we both did.”

Oscar slides down so he’s fully horizontal, and rolls to face you. “In that case,” he murmurs sleepily, “how do you feel about not kicking me out tonight?”

You’re so drowsy you can hardly think. All you know is that it’s nice and warm under the covers, and Oscar looks pretty damn comfortable too. “I’m okay with that,” you say softly.

Oscar reaches out with a muscular arm, switches off the lamp on the bedside table, and faces you again with a yawn.

And just like that, you both fall asleep.

A ribbon of sunlight streaming through the crack in the curtains wakes you up the next morning. You half-open your eyes to three freckles dotting a pale neck, a soft white t-shirt against your cheek.

What the—

You shoot away instinctively. The t-shirt wrinkles as its owner stirs. Oscar opens his eyes blearily. “What the—” he echoes, looking totally frazzled.

The events of last night suddenly come flooding back to you. Oscar returning your helmet, eating pizza together, watching Killing Eve, falling asleep next to him…

The realization seems to dawn on him at the same time. You look at each other and laugh, a little awkwardly.

“I must’ve mistaken you for my pillow,” you say apologetically.

“I didn’t mind,” Oscar replies quickly. You gape at him, shocked, and he blushes. “Sorry, that sounded weird.”

“’s okay,” you mutter. “I guess we should get going.”

Oscar shakes his head, blinking rapidly. “Yeah…yeah. Thanks for letting me stay over. It was…fun.” He slips on his slides, gives you a long look, and disappears.

You feel dazed, unsure if any of this was real. Did Oscar mean what he said, about you inadvertently cuddling up to him in the middle of the night?

Shut up, you tell yourself. Did you see the way he left, so fucking quickly? He’s probably embarrassed that he stayed over. Don’t you dare start daydreaming about him now.

But no matter how many times you repeat it to yourself, you can’t shake the feeling of his chest against your cheek, his warmth. For the rest of the day, your eyes roam the paddock for the Australian driver. But Oscar is nowhere to be found.

Oscar was verifiably nuts. Bonkers. "I didn’t mind"…really? He really, truly had looked her in the eye and said that. He buried his head in his hands, perched on the edge of the little bench in his driver’s room. Groaned as he remembered the way her soft pink lips had parted in shock.

Truthfully, he remembered waking up briefly in the middle of the night to the feeling of her rolling over, nestling her face into his chest. Her hair smelled like jasmine and vanilla and something else he couldn’t quite place. Oscar had sighed and closed his eyes again, half-thinking it was all just a dream.

His reverie was interrupted by Lando all but kicking down the door.

“Bro,” he demanded, “why weren’t you at post-race last night?”

Oscar grimaced, bracing himself for the impending lecture of you need to get out more and live a little he was inevitably about to receive. “I was bringing one of the pit crew their helmet back to the hotel.” Not untrue.

Lando rolled his eyes so hard that Oscar wouldn’t have been surprised if they fell out of their sockets. “How kind of you. And how utterly fucking unnecessary.”

“I’m a nice guy,” replied Oscar, nonchalantly.

“She must’ve been hot,” Lando deadpanned.

Oscar immediately turned red.

Lando gasped. “No.”

“What?”

“You dirty, dirty dog!” Lando crowed gleefully. “Just returning a helmet, my ass. Who is she? Tell me!” he demanded.

Oscar couldn’t really see a way out of this. He muttered her name under his breath, hoping Lando would somehow not remember her. But the driver’s eyes flashed with instant recognition.

“I cannot believe,” said Lando in a low voice, “that Oscar Piastri picked up a girl the night of the GP. Without so much as going to a bar to do it.”

“Shut up.” Oscar gritted his teeth. “I didn’t pick her up. We didn’t even do anything…just sat there and watched TV.”

And slept together…just not like that, he added in his head silently.

Lando was staring at him, eyes slightly narrow. “What?” Oscar asked, feeling like he was being examined through a microscope.

“Are you into her?”

He felt his face grow warm again. He just shook his head.

Lando looked thoughtful. “So…you wouldn’t mind if I asked her out.”

Oscar felt a little like someone had kicked him in the stomach. “Ask her out?” he said weakly.

“Yeah, mate.” Lando flashed a smile. “She’s cute. I’ve been trying to get her to hang with me this whole week.”

“Why don’t you just ask her out now?” Oscar said, the words coming out a little more rudely than he intended. But it was true. It was unlike Lando to try to get to know someone before just shooting his shot.

“Chill, mate,” Lando said, a little suspiciously. “She’s not just, like, a girl in a bar, you know? And she’s also a papaya…ever heard of maintaining productive team dynamics?” He made air quotes.

“Uh huh,” said Oscar, dubiously.

Lando could do what he liked, Oscar told himself. After all, he was telling the truth—it’s not like anything happened. It wasn’t like he had some kind of claim over her, like she was his territory. And he remembered again, with a heavy sigh, that look of surprise on her face. Even if he did try to make a move…it never would have happened. Not for him.

Oscar decided that he’d do what he did best—and give her, and Lando, the space they probably deserved.

Weeks pass in a repetitive blur of travel, races, a post-weekend crash, repeat. You find yourself settling in to a routine, becoming more comfortable with the rest of the staff.

Except for Oscar. Since Bahrain, you’ve hardly seem him, only running to his car during races to make adjustments, occasionally seeing him in the hallway, exchanging only a polite nod. Neither of you ever mentions that night, of course. Oscar’s probably long forgotten by now. Spending real nights, ones involving long kisses and perhaps even something more, with who knows how many girls. Beautiful, confident, rich ones. Girls that didn’t spend most of their time with their hair in a messy bun under a papaya cap or a helmet, frantically scurrying around with jacks and wheel guns. Every race, you get better and better at tucking him away into a deep back corner of your mind.

At Miami, you casually mention to one of the guys on the pit crew that you have a penchant for CoD and Rocket League. Word must’ve travelled fast, because Lando corners you the very next day and demands you join him and some of “the boys” after FP2 to play a few rounds. You shrug in agreement, expecting to see a group of papayas on their laptops, but walk in to none other than Mercedes’ George Russell, and Williams’ Alex Albon, sitting cross-legged on a bed in Lando's hotel room.

George shakes your hand. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says primly. A proper British gentleman.

Alex, on the other hand, greets you with a warm, sunny smile. “Lando’s told us a lot about you.”

And then Oscar walks in, laptop tucked under his arm. Your heart immediately starts to pound. “Oh.”

“We have guests today,” trills Lando.

“Do you two already know each other?” George asks.

You look anywhere but at Oscar. “Yeah. We’ve chatted a few times.”

“Great!” Alex chirps cheerfully, and grins. “Charles is gonna be so mad we’ve subbed him out.”

“Oh—“ you stammer. Charles Leclerc? In Ferrari? “Wait, I don’t want you to kick anyone out because of me—“

“He’s just joking around,” laughs Lando. “We’ve all been annoyed with Charles. He’s been bailing on us left and right lately.”

George gives Lando a knowing look. “Since Max told him he’s been interested in learning some padel. Coincidence? I think not…”

You realize he’s talking about Max Verstappen. Suddenly, you feel like you shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be privy to this…gossip. Gossip about Formula One drivers. Lando must have really talked you up to his friends.

Oscar clears his throat subtly. “Wanna get on it? Or are you all too busy speculating on Charles’ love life?”

The boys roll their eyes good-naturedly, but fire up their computers. F1 drivers, you think. They’re just like the rest of us.

One day, as you’re busily blocking George’s car from scoring a goal, George calls you “Pastry’s girl.”

You yelp, temporarily dropping your defense. George seizes the opportunity to launch the soccer ball into your goal, accompanied by an evil cackle. Proper British gentleman, your ass.

“Don’t call me that,” you protest.

“Why not?” George grins. “We all know it’s true.”

“What do you mean?”

“All he does is talk about you,” singsongs Alex. “Oh, Alex, have you seen her today? D’you reckon she’d play with us tonight, Alex? How should I ask for her hand in marriage, Alex?”

You shove Alex hard, sending him toppling into George. “Feisty,” he smirks, rubbing his arm.

“That’s not true,” you plead. Alex and George just laugh, exchanging knowing looks. Infuriating.

“Pastry’s girl,” George teases again, and you stick your tongue out at him.

It’s impossible. George is just being a clown. When Oscar won’t even talk to you…

In Monaco, McLaren pulls off a 2-3 podium. You howl with laughter at the sight of Max yanking Lando’s collar and spraying the champagne right down his back, almost as soon as the last note of the Dutch anthem plays. Oscar meets your eyes, and without thinking you mime shaking up the bottle. And for the first time, he does, with a smile that you tuck away in the same corner that you’ve stashed the rest of him in. A smile that you let yourself believe was maybe meant just for you.

Lando, much like at Bahrain, makes a beeline for you after the podium ceremony, waving away eager reporters. He beams at you, and you can’t help but smile at his jubilation.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Congrats on P2,” you tell him.

“Feeling up to the post-race tonight?” he asks.

You’ve gone to a few now. It’s always a bit of a mixed bag. But the Monaco race was a little earlier in the evening, and it’s not like you’d have any company if you went back to the hotel…

“I suppose so.”

Lando plays with the zipper on his racing suit. He looks uncharacteristically nervous, making you feel a little uneasy.

“So…I wanted to tell you something.”

You look at him quizzically.

“Ah, well, the truth is...” Lando says, his fiddling intensifying, “I’ve always thought you were cute, and now I know you’re smart and funny and just, like, fun to hang out with.”

You don’t know why, but your eyes dart over to Oscar. He’s standing at the far end of McLaren’s paddock, smiling amicably for pictures, signing papaya hats, fielding questions from reporters. He doesn’t see you and Lando standing together.

“So.” Lando hesitates. “Will you go out with me?”

You steal another glance at Oscar. Let yourself imagine him saying those words. It would never happen.

Lando’s piercing blue eyes look at you earnestly, awaiting your response. You tear your gaze away from Oscar. Lando is handsome, and charming, and funny, and you think that maybe...maybe you could learn to love the other driver in papaya.

“Sure. Yeah…that sounds nice,” you tell Lando.

He grins from ear to ear, and takes your hand as he leads you away from the paddock, away from Oscar. He never sees you.

notes: wasp scene…poor lando 😂

sequel here! more fics here!

#f1 #formula one #f1 fanfic #oscar piastri #oscar piastri x you #lando norris #lando norris x you #oscar piastri x reader #lando norris x reader #op81 #ln4 #is this deserving of a part 2 pls advise

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