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theferrarieffect · 8 days

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snickerdoodles, chapter 2: a hard day's work, meeting the drivers, a lesson about taking someone for granted (4.1k words)

previous chapter here!

warnings: stupid sexy sainz glazing, potentially inaccurate descriptions of medical training in the UK, a bit of angst

chapter 2: cinnamon goodbyes

Beep. Beep. Beeeeeeep.

You could hear that damn pager every day for the rest of your life, and you’d still never get used to the way it just grates on your eardrums. Forcing your eyelids open, you blearily scrabble around the nightstand for your glasses—unfortunately, you’re blind as a bat without them.

“Hullo, this is the junior doctor on trauma call,” you mumble into the speaker.

The emergency med consultant on the line informs you that there’s a few traumas about to start rolling into the hospital. If you weren’t awake before, you’re alert now. You yank on a pair of clean scrubs and the first jacket you can find in the heap of clothes on your couch—the laundry may have gotten done, but that didn’t mean you got around to folding it. Only on the drive to the hospital do you realize it has the McLaren logo embroidered on your left chest.

You shake your head, smiling to yourself. Every time Oscar comes and goes, he seems to forget something at your flat. A cap, a sweatshirt, a pair of socks. The forgetfulness is cute…until you spy a piece of abandoned orange gear during a moment of particular weakness, and feel a pang of longing that promptly needs to be tamped down.

But today is a good day. The jacket makes you smile instead of filling your eyes with bitter tears. You and Oscar had polished off the pavlova, agreed to attempt lemon bars the next time he was around (despite the fact neither of you knew when exactly that would be), and parted with the usual hug and jaunty waves two weeks ago now.

A part of you felt guilty at the tiny bit of relief you’d felt watching the cab take him away to the airport. Of course you’d been excited to see him—he’s Oscar, your best friend, the person who knows you inside and out, the person you’d go running to at a moment’s notice if he needed you, the person who makes you feel utterly comfortable. Made. Unfortunately, nothing about this last visit felt comfortable.

Get a grip, you tell yourself firmly. You’ve done this before, you can move past it again.

This being the completely unreasonable, completely irrational crush you seem to be developing on Oscar. You’d say developing again, but if you thought about it hard enough—which, admittedly, you tried to avoid at all costs—you’d have to say it was just one long crush that just came and went.

A flash of plasma splits the dark sky in two, jerking you out of your reverie, followed almost immediately by the roar of thunder. You’d put money on the traumas being a result of accidents on the slick motorways, careless drivers skidding along the roads, thinking nobody else would be driving at that hour. You’re being extra careful yourself as you gingerly pull into the car park and slot yourself into the closest spot you can find. You pull the hood of Oscar’s jacket over your head as you run into the doors of the A&E, jumping puddles and sending up the same prayer you do before every shift.

Please let all of the cases go well today.

And thankfully, despite the veritable typhoon outside, you get your wish. Today is a good day. You scrub in on a patient in pretty bad shape after a motor vehicle accident, but the trauma consultant’s nimble fingers track down the source of the bleed swiftly, and your team’s able to patch him up and send him to the recovery wards before noon. Then you walk into a different OR—this one working on a fall patient—but the table is crowded with other junior doctors, and the consultant waves you away.

It’s not until you step outside and the bright midday sun sears your eyeballs that the wall of post-call fatigue hits you. You stagger into your car, not caring really that your hair is matted from being in a scrub cap since two in the morning, or that the bridge of your glasses dig painful grooves into your nose. Miraculously, you make it home in one piece.

The hot water of your shower pounding your back is the only thing you can think about as you wearily open your mailbox and grab the sheaf of envelopes within. Then how good your pillow’s going to feel, as you toss the mail carelessly onto your coffee table and head into the promised land of your shower.

Towel secured around your dripping hair, you walk into the kitchen to drug yourself with melatonin—an unfortunate necessity to cope with the utter lack of circadian rhythm medical training has cursed you with—and flip aimlessly through your mail as you wait for it to kick in. Bills, adverts, more bills.

Then you notice a creamy white envelope with your name and address scrawled on it. You’d recognize the little hook of the y's, the c's that seem to quit before they finish their curve upwards, anywhere.

Wide awake for the second time today, you tear it open gingerly.

I know we agreed to do lemon bars, but George just told me about his mum’s shortbread cookies. So maybe you can give it a try while I’m gone. Let me know how you like it!! -Oscar

Written below, in the same penmanship, is presumably George Russell’s mother’s cookie recipe.

Oh, Oscar. Even when he’s a million miles away—well, however far from the UK Qatar happens to be, anyway—he never fails to make your day.

You bring the card into your bedroom and prop it up on your nightstand. It’s the last thing you see before you mercifully sink into a deep, dreamless slumber.

“Hey, Oscar’s here!” your brother’s shout echoes up the stairs.

Instantaneously, you drop the pencil and straightedge you’d been using to painstakingly graph a titration curve on your chemistry homework, wasting no time in racing downstairs.

“Hey, man,” you hear Oscar’s voice say, and the sound of two palms crisply colliding.

When you reach the foyer, your brother’s staring up at Oscar with naked adoration. But Oscar’s smile is directed straight at you. “So what are we baking today?”

“Well, we just bought a boatload of cinnamon,” you inform him. “So I was thinking…snickerdoodles?”

Oscar’s eyes widen. “No way,” he exclaims.

“Yes way,” you laugh. “Are you a fan?”

“They’re, like, my favorite cookie of all time.”

“Perfect,” you respond, feeling a bit pleased with yourself as you lead the way into the kitchen. “So you won’t mind putting them in and taking them out of the oven.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “You really don’t like the heat, do you?”

“It’s hot,” you complain. “And knowing me, I’d just find a way to burn myself really bad.”

It’s been maybe two months, give or take, since the first time you baked together. Since then, not a single Friday has gone by without ending in something sugary and delicious, courtesy of you and Oscar’s toils. Last week, it was peanut butter cookies. This week, snickerdoodles. Needless to say, you’ve become quite popular with your families, friends, and the occasional fortunate Home Ec classmate.

Now, you have it down to a science. The recipe’s already pinned to the fridge with a cookie-shaped magnet. Without having to say a word, Oscar hits the button to preheat the oven as you dump butter and sugar into a bowl and feed it to the stand mixer.

“It gets really hot in the karts, too,” Oscar says, almost under his breath.

“Huh?” You’re not sure if you heard him correctly. Did he mean car?

“The karts,” he repeats quietly. “You’re basically sitting on top of the engine. So it gets hot.”

You knit your brows. “Karts? Like, go-karts?”

And that’s all it takes to open the floodgates; Oscar launches into an explanation of the racing categories, the formats of the races, even the components of the kart itself. You’ve never heard so many consecutive words come out of his mouth, and you’re pretty sure yours hangs ajar, just slightly. Clearly, it’s something he lives and breathes—and you would never have guessed it from the perpetually bored boy sitting next to you every day, too young even to have a real driver’s permit.

It’s pretty incredible.

“You think so?” Oscar asks, a smile creeping onto his face. You blush. Didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Yeah,” you squeak. “Is this something you could, like, do for the rest of your life?”

Oscar’s face suddenly goes serious, but a dreamy look takes over his pupils. “If you’re good enough…” he trails off. He clears his throat, and his voice fills with steely resolve. “I’m working on it.”

Impressed by his determination, you nod. “Well, it sounds like you’re committed. So there’s no reason you won’t make it.” You’re rewarded with the sight of a dimple on his left cheek.

He turns to the countertop, starts tearing off pieces of dough, rolls them methodically between his palms. A golden brown ball forms in his hands, and he places it onto the greased baking sheet.

“Your turn,” he says casually, as he shapes another cookie.

You reach over him to start rolling your own dough. “My turn for what?”

Oscar keeps churning out cookies, but fixes his gaze on you. “To tell me what you want to do for the rest of your life.”

Oh.

It’s not like you don’t have an answer. In fact, for most of your life, it’s been the only answer. But suddenly, faced with such a direct request to share, you hesitate.

“You don’t have to tell me if—” Oscar starts.

“No,” you say quickly. “I just—I don’t know.” You stare down at the overworked ball of dough in your hands. “Maybe it feels like I’m jinxing something if I say it.”

You think that maybe Oscar would find you silly, but he doesn’t laugh.

“I get it,” he says simply.

“But that’s dumb,” you continue, a little forcibly. You shake your head. “I want to go to medical school. At Oxford. Or maybe somewhere in the States.”

Oscar’s eyes widen. “Wow. So you want to be a doctor.”

“Not just any doctor,” you carry on blindly. “A neurosurgeon. I’ve wanted to be one for as long as I can remember. That’s why I want to study in the UK, or the US…they have the best ones in the world over there.”

He laughs. You want to kick yourself for telling this random boy about the dream you’ve kept secret your entire life, not even your parents privy to it yet. And he laughs. You flush angrily, but Oscar continues to chuckle as he says—

“And I thought the Formula One thing was badass. A brain surgeon? I should’ve known—you’re just…built different.”

“Stop it,” you protest weakly. Your cheeks still burn, but now just with embarrassment at your presumptiveness. “I mean, who knows if I’ll change my mind. Or even make it to that point.”

Oscar shakes his head so emphatically, you’re afraid his chunk of dough will go flying across the kitchen. “No.”

“What?”

“No,” he repeats. His eyes are warm. “I’ve seen you in class…you know everything. I dunno a single person smarter than you, and there’s a lot of nerds in our grade.”

You laugh, ask him if he’s accusing you of being a nerd. Now it’s Oscar’s turn to blush.

“I’ll make you a deal,” you say, pushing the baking sheet towards Oscar, who seamlessly slides it into the oven. “If you make it to Formula One, you invite me to a race. And I…”

Oscar’s lips curl in a smirk. “Don’t you dare say you’ll operate on my brain!”

You burst out laughing. “Alright, alright, no free brain surgery.”

“Sounds like a deal,” he says, and holds out his hand, slick with oil.

You giggle as you take it, like two executives shaking on a crucial business deal.

When the smell of cinnamon perfumes the air, Oscar spares you from having to take the snickerdoodles out of the oven. Through mouthfuls of cookie, he tells you about driving in the rain.

It’s sunny at Silverstone, a rare occurrence. Only a few fluffy white clouds interrupt the expanse of the bluest sky. But there’s no opportunity to admire the sky, because it’s taking all the concentration you can muster not to bump into someone—especially someone rich or important, who you weren’t aware was rich or important—as you follow Oscar through the bustling paddock. A guest pass dangles around your neck, and you marvel at the fact that despite having lived in Oxford for six years and London for one, it’s your first time watching a race in the flesh.

Oscar brings you to a throng of people, dressed in the same orange—excuse me, papaya, Oscar had made sure to inform you—polos as him. “This is McLaren,” he gestures.

A chorus of “welcome”s and “nice to meet you”s greets you. You recognize Lando Norris, his curly brown hair poking through the opening of his cap, brim facing backwards, of course.

“You’re Lando, right?”

Lando smiles at you widely. His eyes are icy blue. “Yep. And you’re Oscar’s…friend.” He might as well have winked, smirked, and nudged you in the side for good measure, he’s that tactless.

F1 drivers, you sigh in your head. They’re no better than the boys in uni. You suppose then that some of them are, in fact, about as old as the boys in uni.

“Nice to meet you.” You accept his outstretched hand.

“Oh hello, who is this?” Two more guys materialize behind Lando. One’s tall—too tall, honestly, to be a driver—and one you can only describe as looking utterly, well, American. They’re wearing navy shirts, emblazoned with a sky blue W on the chest.

Lando smirks. “Ask Osc. It’s his guest.”

A look of surprise flashes across the tall one’s face. “Really now?” He smiles politely at you. “Pleasure to meet you. My name’s Alex.”

Alex…Alex. Oh yes—Alex Albon. He’s missing the bleached hair, but then again, that was last season’s headshot. So what if you’d studied up on the drivers’ faces, what if you might even have made a few flashcards? You wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of Oscar’s colleagues.

“Logan,” the blond one says, and you think that the name Logan Sargeant could not be a more stereotypical name for the sole American driver.

“What do you do? Like as a job?” Lando butts in. Alex chuckles.

You glance at Oscar, but he seems unbothered by the interrogation. Lando sure is nosy.

“Well,” you say a little awkwardly, only recently having gotten used to the title, “I’m a junior doctor. I work at Imperial College in London.”

Lando lets out a low whistle; Alex raises an eyebrow. Logan’s the only one who seems unfazed, and it occurs to you that he’s probably never heard of Imperial.

“It’s, like, Harvard in the UK,” Oscar clarifies, surprising you, and Logan’s eyes widen.

“Beauty and brains,” Lando says. “Where can I get one too, Osc?”

Oscar rolls his eyes.

Logan smirks. “Do you have any hot friends?” he adds.

Well, two could play at that game. “I don’t know,” you grin back at him. “Do you?” You cast a casual glance around the crowds, until—

You stop short.

“Who is that?”

Oscar follows your gaze across the paddock, through the scarlet-clad engineers and pit crew milling around the Ferrari garage, to a man in a matching red shirt and slightly atrocious light wash skinny jeans. He gestures to another guy in headphones, and they both tilt their head back in laughter. He runs a hand through a head full of Disney prince hair.

“Ugh,” Oscar mutters almost imperceptibly, under his breath.

“What?” you demand.

The beautiful stranger catches you staring, flashes you a smile that you didn’t realize normal humans could conjure. You just know your cheeks are as red as the Ferrari livery as he strides over, out of place yet oddly familiar among the McLaren staff.

Lando grins at you, cuffs you lightly on the shoulder as if you’ve been friends your whole life, instead of having met not even ten minutes ago. “Looks like there’s another Carlos groupie in the paddock today.”

“I like my groupies, Lando,” Carlos replies teasingly. His voice is gravelly and deep. Melodic. He extends a hand connected to a deeply tanned arm, and despite your brain short-circuiting at the worst possible time, you manage to reach out and shake it.

“Nice to meet you,” you force yourself to say. “I’m Oscar’s friend.”

“Carlos Sainz,” he says, his brown eyes boring into yours. He has the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen. That headshot of his had done him so dirty. Hell, he looked like a normal person in it. Handsome, sure. But you’re not entirely sure the man standing in front of you right now isn’t some kind of mirage your horny mind has cooked up…

“Alright then,” Oscar cuts in, his voice suddenly having taken on an edge that definitely wasn’t there moments ago. “I wanna show you around the motorhome. Good seeing you, Carlos.”

“Always,” Carlos responds smoothly, but his gaze remains stubbornly trained on you. You can’t help but giggle.

As Oscar leads you through the doors of the motorhome, you glance back to see Lando and Carlos whispering conspiratorially like a bunch of schoolgirls. You remember watching a video on Youtube of them screeching as they reached blindly into a mystery box, and you can see why people like to pretend they’re a couple.

“What’s gotten into you?” you prod Oscar.

Oscar huffs, lips set in an annoyed line. “Just because he looks like—like—”

“A Disney prince?” you supply helpfully.

“Fine, whatever, a Disney prince,” he grumbles, clearly refusing to lend any personal credence to the words. “He’s bad news. You should stay away.”

You chuckle at his uncharacteristic animosity. “Are you salty because he forced you off the track that one race?”

“No,” he snaps. “You know I’m not the kind of guy to be stupid overprotective. But Sainz…well, he likes women way too much. And you’re basically guaranteed to get your heart broken if you fall for him.”

“Damn, is everyone on Ferrari just a red flag then?” you quip.

Oscar visibly relaxes. “I knew you’d get it,” he says, obviously relieved. “Yeah. Let’s just say Charles and Carlos…not the best track record with girls on the grid.”

“No pun intended.” And Oscar holds open the door as you giggle your way into the motorhome.

Sometimes, one isn’t sure of when the significance, or perception, of someone shifts from one thing to another. When you realize you no longer recognize the girl you used to ride your scooter down the street with, donned in matching pigtails, when your parents aren’t infallible gods, when your young English teacher shows up tired on a Monday and you realize they were, in fact, hungover.

But with Oscar...you could pinpoint the exact moment it happened.

It’s any other Friday. Instead of listening to your teacher talk about the extreme value theorem, your pencil dances curlicues around your paper. You and Oscar are baking cinnamon rolls tonight from scratch, and your mouth already waters at the thought of warm cinnamon and the drizzle of white glaze atop the rolls.

When class ends, you walk out the double doors where Oscar is leaning against the wall, waiting for you like he always does. His buddies nudge him with their elbows when they see you, and you’re all too aware of their smirks. You roll your eyes.

To be fair, it’s not like your friends are any better about it—and no amount of you (or Oscar) insisting that there’s nothing going on between you two will convince them otherwise.

“Ready to go?” he asks, jingling his keys in front of your nose. Oscar just got his license, and until you turn 17 he’s going to waste no opportunities lording it over you. You always make a big show of being afraid for your life, even though he’s the best karter in Australia.

You walk together to his car in the parking lot. Oscar seems quiet, so you chatter on about your friends’ latest woes, the chemistry test you’re pretty sure you’re going to fail (whoever invented acid-base titration deserves to go to hell, honestly), whether you two should cough up the cash to buy almond flour for notoriously finicky macarons.

It isn’t until he sticks the keys in the ignition that you realize he hasn’t said more than five words.

“Hey,” you say. “You good?”

Oscar’s eyes are unfocused. “Yeah...” He clears his throat. “Actually...I don’t know.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Maybe we should go home first.” Oscar’s voice is gentle, but something is definitely up.

“You’re scaring me,” you tell him in what you hope is a lighthearted tone, as he pulls out of the parking spot, staring directly ahead the entire way to your house.

He only tells you after he’s removed the steaming rolls from the oven. Something about Formula 4 and a sponsorship from HP Tuners and moving to the UK, except you really only hear the last part.

Your insides turn to ice.

Oscar looks down at your feet, as if he’s afraid to meet your eyes, afraid to see your reaction.

The smell of cinnamon wafts from the counter. It makes you feel sick.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“When?”

Oscar tilts his head.

“When—when do you go?” you ask again, hating the way your voice shakes.

He closes his eyes.

“In a month.”

One month. In four weeks, this boy who you had to sit next to in Home Ec will walk out of your life as abruptly as he walked into it. In thirty days, this boy who you’ve baked for as many Fridays with, who’s become your best friend and then some, will be ten thousand miles away.

And then you think about Oscar. How he’s leaving behind not only you, but everything he’s ever known in Australia. You’re losing him. He’s losing his entire world.

So you only nod, choking back the sob building in your throat.

“I’ll miss you,” you say evenly. You wipe your clammy palms, surreptitiously, on your jeans. His eyes flare in surprise, probably at how calm you appear. “But you should know—I’m really, really proud of you, and you’re going to make all of your dreams come—”

Oscar cuts you off mid-sentence, wrapping his arms tightly around you.

He smells like cinnamon and flour, and only then do you realize that you’d never really hugged before. He’s taller than me now, you think, as your hands slide below his armpits. And when he’ll undoubtedly grow enough to tower over you, you won’t be there to see it.

You drop your arms, and Oscar tenses up, releasing you too. He clears his throat just as you cough, almost simultaneously. Both of you laugh awkwardly.

“Well,” you say.

“Well,” he echoes. “We’ll keep in touch, right?”

“Right,” you say, but it comes out barely a whisper.

Oscar picks his backpack up off the floor, slowly sliding the straps onto his shoulders, as if dragging it out would prevent him from having to leave your house.

You wave at him as he walks down your driveway and climbs into his car, but as soon as he turns the corner and disappears, tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You wipe them away with a sleeve.

Then you turn and go back to the kitchen, to clean up the mess you two made. You slowly flick the cinnamon rolls into the trash, one after another, listening to the hollow thunks they make against its aluminum walls.

Oscar was never just Oscar. But people tend not to know what they have.

Until it’s gone.

taglist: @sideboobrry11

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 fanfiction #f1 fluff #op81 x you #op81 x reader #op81 #oscar piastri x you #oscar piastri x reader #formula 1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 fanfic #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 fic #fanfic #fanfiction

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theferrarieffect · 10 days

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snickerdoodles - an oscar piastri x reader fic

One fateful day in Home Ec, you and Oscar are tasked with making something edible for class. Neither of you have ever baked in your life. Neither of you have any idea that a cookie will change your lives forever...

send me a message or an ask for taglist!

tim tams and meringues - best friend butterflies, and a daunting assignment turns into quite the baking adventure

(coming wed, 5/15!!) cinnamon goodbyes - a hard day's work, meeting the drivers, and not knowing what you have until it's gone

#new chapter alert!

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theferrarieffect · 13 days

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the slip up l lando norris x reader

request/summary – lando and reader are in a secret established relationship, until lando accidentally slips up on stream

author's notes – first piece of writing, feedback appreciated!!! this is just my thoughts written down honestly, i didn’t have much idea where i was going with it so enjoy.

Max was streaming with Lando at his place. Lando drags his feet over to the stream room, sitting on a chair next to Max. He was scrolling on his phone, trying to pass the time.

“Mate, I’m gonna leave, you’re being so boring,” Lando joked under his breath as he ran a hand through his hair.

“I’ll make things more interesting then. Chat, wanna know something really interesting about Lando?” Max asked with a mischievous smile as he looked back at Lando. Lando watched with suspicion of what max could say next.

“Lando’s got a secret girlfriend,” Max sings to annoy Lando. Lando’s eyes shot up, his heart pounding as he turned off his phone, the same phone he was using to text you, his girlfriend. “I don’t, chat, don’t listen to him. He’s just trying to piss me off,” Lando says as he shoots Max a glare.

—————

A few months later, everyone has chalked up that interaction to Max simply trying to annoy and rile up Lando, and no one thought much of it. On a miracle of a night in spring, Lando was in Monaco and decided to stream. He had a hoodie on, his hair all messy, but a smile on his face. About an hour into the stream, I knock on the door of his stream room quietly. Lando immediately turned off his video and mic, telling chat to give him a minute.

I walk in, a black slip dress on with a cropped white cardigan, my hair and makeup done all fancy. “Hi, baby,” Lando says as he pulls me in by the waist, onto his lap. “Girls night tonight, right?” He says with a soft smile. He always makes sure to pay attention to anything I’ve mentioned to him, including my plans to hang out with Lily and Carmen tonight, Alex and George’s girlfriends.

I hum in response. “Yeah, we’re gonna get dinner and then take some Instagram photos,” I say as I stand up from his lap, “you like the dress? It’s new.” I give him a little twirl to show off the dress.

Lando smiles brightly. “I love it, baby, you look gorgeous. Like always,” he says as he leans in for a kiss. “Text me when you’re done and need me to pick you up, yeah?” I nod and smile.

Once I leave, Lando puts his headset back on, turning his mic and camera back on. He scrunches up his face as he’s met by shouting from Max into his headset. “What’s your problem, man?” Lando asks with confusion. Max sighs. “Lando, you had your mic on the whole time. People heard that whole conversation and I was trying to tell you but as always, you ignored me,” Max says with some frustration in his voice, but mostly amusement.

“Oh,” Lando says as he realizes what has happened. Not knowing what to do, Lando panics and ends stream.

When my friends and I reach the restaurant, we find it pouring rain, which was the most of our worries since the restaurant was outdoor. With frowns, we all pile back into the car and drive ourselves home. I arrive home only twenty minutes after I left, my dress soaked. My brows furrow in confusion to see Lando on the couch on his phone when i come back, and not on stream.

I slip off my shoes. “I thought you were streaming?” I ask softly as I make my way over to him. “What happened to you? You’re all soaked! Here, let me get you a towel and you can get dressed into some of my hoodie and sweats to get comfy,” Lando says, trying to avoid the fact that he had just live streamed his whole conversation with his girlfriend.

I saw the panic in Lando’s eyes. “Stop,” I say as I stood in front of him, “what did you do?” Lando shoots me a bright grin. “I love you, babe. So so much. And you know I’d do anything for you.” This made me even more suspicious. “Lan,” I say as my eyes narrowed.

“Okay, okay. I might have forgotten to mute my mic when we were talking right before you left. I swear I thought I had turned it off!” He says as he panics before beginning to ramble. “And I called you baby, and gorgeous, and your voice was heard too. And Max was telling me the whole time through my headset, but it was off and even if it were on, you know I don’t think about anything else when I’m with you. And there were thousands of people on the stream and you specifically told me you wanted to keep it private because you didn’t want to get hate crimed by the fans and you wouldn’t be able to handle it and I mean, I wanted to but it just slipped and im so so sorry but-“ He stops in confusion when a giggle escapes my lips. “Why aren’t you upset?” He asks slowly.

I smile as I slip my arms around his neck, his hands instinctively wrapping around my waist. “Well. Number one, you’re cute when you panic. Number two, no one saw me, so it’s okay. I mean, considering how in love you are with me, they were bound to find out at some point that you had a girlfriend,” I tease with a smile tugging at my lips.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes playfully at me. “Okay, yeah. I am absolutely in love with you. Still, you’re not bothered by this?” he asks slowly, hesitation lacing his voice.

“I promise I’m not. It was a mistake. Plus, that just means it’s gonna be all the more fun trying to watch them figure out who it is you’re dating,” I say playfully with a giggle.

“That’s true,” Lando says softly with a hum, “I love you.”

“I love you too. Although, don’t make me have to have you on adult supervision every time you stream now to make sure nothing else slips out of your mouth,” I tease as I playfully poke his side.

“Ah! Okay okay, promise,” he says with a giggle as he leans in for a gentle and loving kiss.

#fic rec :')

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theferrarieffect · 14 days

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snickerdoodles, chapter 1: best friend butterflies, and a daunting assignment turns into quite the baking adventure (3.6k words)

warnings: bit of pining, the slowest burn, ✨friend tension✨

chapter 1: tim tams and meringues

The kitchen is chaos. Bowls and spatulas are strewn all over the messy counter, a timer shaped like a cow chirps angrily for your attention, and you’re pretty sure there’s flour on your chin. You open the oven door, grimacing at the heat—once upon a time, you never had to be the one to do that—precariously move a tray of cookies from a sheet pan to a wire rack, and top them off with a dusting of cinnamon and sugar. Another tray beside it boasts row after row of perfectly piped meringues.

Three slight taps on the door, and your heart leaps. Your taste tester has arrived, just in time.

Abandoning the still-hot cookies on the counter, you saunter your way to the door. Not too quickly—too eagerly—but not too slowly, keeping your guest waiting. Deep breath in, deep breath out. You turn the handle.

As soon as you see each other, Oscar’s stoic face breaks out into a cheeky grin. You meet his outstretched arms halfway, bury your face in his soft hoodie.

“Long time, no see,” you murmur into his chest.

“I could say the same for you.” He rests his chin on top of your head. Then he sniffs your hair. “Let me guess,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “Snickerdoodles?”

You break apart, and finally you can take all of Oscar in, his normally cropped hair starting to curl over his ears, the Lando Norris hoodie he has on—supportive teammate, huh—the little mole under his left ear, a constant presence for as long as you can remember.

“That’s cheating,” you say. “I always make snickerdoodles.”

Snickerdoodles are Oscar’s favorite.

Oscar steps into the living room, takes his shoes off without you having to ask. “Hmmm...can’t you give me a hint?”

“Fine.” You get up on your tippy toes and cup his eyes with your hands. “I’ll let you smell them. And no cheating!”

“Okay, okay,” he laughs, taking your wrists gently and lowering them to your sides. He closes his eyes obediently.

You take the opportunity to run into the kitchen, scoop a small pile of meringues into your hands, and return to the living room. You hold your cupped hands up to Oscar’s nose.

He inhales deeply. Thoughtful twin dimples appear above his eyebrows. “Are you even giving me anything to smell?”

You stifle a giggle, because in fact, you were just the tiniest bit cruel with your hint. As far as cookies go, meringues don’t smell like much at all, given that they’re mostly egg whites and sugar.

“Maybe you need a taste test,” you tease.

Oscar opens his mouth and sticks his tongue out, just far enough for it to look comical. You don’t try to fight the laughter anymore as you place a single meringue on his tongue.

“What the?” Oscar says as the cookie starts to dissolve in his mouth. His eyes fly open. “Are these—are these?—these taste like the world’s most boring pavlova.”

“Hey!” you say indignantly. “The meringue is the best part of the pavlova.”

“Hard disagree. Hard. It’s the whipped cream and the fruit that carry it.” The comment earns him an eye roll.

“Well,” you huff, feigning irritation, “then you won’t mind helping me finish it up.”

Oscar’s eyes light up. “You’re not done yet?”

“No, dummy. If I’d put the fruit and the cream on top it'd just melt the cookie underneath. And I wasn’t sure exactly when you were gonna get here.” You turn and head back into the kitchen, Oscar trailing close behind.

Neat rows of small meringues are arranged on one baking sheet, a larger one piped in a sort of flat nest on the other. “I already sliced up the fruit, if you want to get it out of the fridge,” you nudge, and Oscar retrieves the cold metal bowl, draped loosely in plastic wrap. When he thinks you’re not looking, he swipes a snickerdoodle from the wire cooling rack and stuffs it in his mouth whole.

“I saw that,” you say, loading a dollop of freshly whipped cream into a piping bag.

“Saw what?” Oscar asks innocently, mouth full of crumbs.

You drag your pointer finger through what’s left of the whipped cream in the bowl. You turn to him slowly, and in a flash, dot a tiny bit of it on the tip of Oscar’s nose.

Oscar lunges for the bowl, arms his own finger, and drags a streak of fluffy white cream down your cheek.

“Hey!”

He giggles, pointing at your face. “You look like a kid wearing face paint.”

You attempt to retaliate, but then Oscar grabs your wrist. You become acutely aware of a little lurch your stomach does as he looks you directly in the eye. He raises his other hand, slowly wipes the whipped cream off your face with his thumb. He’s still holding your wrist. Your cheeks burn.

“No playing with your food,” he lilts, and then his hands are gone, as quickly as they came.

You roll your eyes, if only to disguise the fact that your face is probably the color of the raspberries in the fruit bowl. “You’ve lost whipped cream privileges.” You pipe a layer down onto the bed of meringue, and step aside for Oscar to crown the whole affair with the fruit.

He furrows his eyebrows in concentration as he carefully arranges the slices of kiwi, spears of strawberry, raspberries, and blueberries one by one within the crevices of the whipped cream.

Watching him, you feel a rush of nostalgia. It’s just like old times.

Almost.

You and Oscar met in Year 9, when you were assigned to sit next to each other in Home Ec. You wouldn’t have been caught dead in the Textiles section of the class—needles, even the sewing kind, made your head start to spin—but you reasoned that you did like food. Even though your scatterbrained self probably shouldn’t have been trusted around stoves or ovens either.

Oscar looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. After exchanging a perfunctory hello at the beginning of each class, he seemed to mentally launch himself into outer space. You had no idea a pair of eyes could go that blank.

One day, the teacher tells you to pair up for a group project. The assignment? Make a homemade version of a common processed snack.

You glance over at your seatmate, and for better or worse, he looks just as much at a loss as you feel.

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, clears his throat. “Um,” he says quietly. “Any ideas?”

You just shake your head.

He sighs. “I’ll think about it some when I go home.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone. “If you give me your number we can text about ideas.”

You oblige, tapping your name and cell phone number into his contacts.

But judging by the radio silence that night, neither of you experience any bursts of creative inspiration.

The next class period, Oscar’s eyelids droop halfway closed and you’re absentmindedly filling in every other square on your gridded paper like a checkerboard, when the teacher’s voice jerks you both awake.

“Ryan,” she admonishes your classmate. “Put those Tim Tams away. No eating during class.”

Almost telepathically, your heads whip around to face each other, and your eyes lock in agreement. Tim Tams it is.

You invite Oscar to your house for your endeavor to replicate the Tim Tams from the comfort of your own kitchen. Your younger brother had grinned evilly at you when you’d warned him to stay out of the way.

“Oooooooh,” he singsonged. “You’re having a boy over?”

“No, shut up,” you snapped. “It’s for a group project. And besides,” you said wryly, conjuring up in your mind Oscar’s skinny legs, unkempt hair, eternally languid expression and distinct lack of willingness to talk during class, “he’s not even cute.”

And really, he wasn’t.

Oscar knocks timidly on the door, and when you open it, you’re greeted by the sight of him cradling an enormous bag of sugar. It must have weighed at least ten kilos.

“Oscar—” you gasp. “Why on earth, do we need that much sugar?”

Clearly, Oscar hadn’t thought too much about portion sizes when you’d asked him to pick up a bag of sugar on his way to your place. Poor kid. These were the people who needed Home Ec, you supposed.

He turns beet red. “Um,” he stumbles.

You will yourself not to laugh at him; you have a feeling that if you did, he might just never speak to you—or anyone else—ever again.

“Never mind,” you say, waving him through the door. “It’s a lot better to have extra than not enough.”

To your relief, some of the tension leaves Oscar’s shoulders, and he lets the heavy sack of sugar drop to the floor next to your counter.

“So...you know how to bake?” Oscar asks, his eyes roaming curiously over the sheet trays and measuring cups lined up on the counter, the large bag of baking chocolate you’d bought for the project, the gleaming white KitchenAid you’d sweet-talked your mom into letting you use.

“No,” you admit. “My mom’s fantastic, though. I dunno what I’m gonna do when I go to uni and I won’t have a constant supply of her banana bread anymore...”

“We should just have her do the project, then.”

Surprised at his brazen comment, you turn to face Oscar, and there’s a mischievous glint in his eyes. Huh. Oscar Piastri has a sense of humor, you think. “I wish,” you chuckle.

You pull up an online recipe for homemade Tim Tams on your laptop. “It doesn’t look too bad. Tim Tams are basically two biscuits with icing between them.”

“Dipped in chocolate,” Oscar finishes.

“Yep, dipped in chocolate. Should be simple,” you say, and Oscar nods in assent.

Alas, it was not simple at all.

The first batch of biscuits comes out looking, well, a lot like charcoal. Your eyes sting with the veritable cloud of smoke that billows out of the oven. You and Oscar fan at it frantically, trying to disperse it before it sets off the fire alarm.

On the second attempt, the biscuits look edible enough, but something goes horribly wrong with the chocolate coating. Instead of a smooth, homogenous mixture of chocolate and oil, great dark lumps settle below a thick layer of clear liquid.

“Shit,” you say, staring at the bowl. Oscar peers over your shoulder.

“Oh. Oh no.”

“Yeah, oh no. What did we do this time?”

Oscar pulls out his phone. “Troubleshooting...polar...emulsion,” he mutters as he taps away on the keyboard.

“Emulsion?” you say. “That’s the nerdiest thing someone could possibly say.”

Silence.

When you look up from the sad bowl of chocolate, Oscar’s face is flushed. “Oh—Oscar,” you say, embarrassed. “You know—I was just joking, right?”

Oscar’s lips disappear, leaving only a thin line where his mouth was. “Yeah,” he says, tightly.

“No, seriously,” you fumble, a little desperately. “I wouldn’t have made fun of you if I didn’t think it was actually cool. I swear.” Your words sound hollow to you, and you feel like a top tier ass.

He just shrugs. “I’m used to it. I’ve always been the nerd.”

“Please. Until about two seconds ago I thought you were the literal opposite.” You pause, then press forward recklessly. What’s there to lose? “Don’t think I haven’t seen you go practically unconscious every day in Home Ec.”

Oscar stares at you mutely, and you’re sure you’ve now permanently fucked up any chance of you getting along for the foreseeable future, but then—Oscar laughs. His face changes entirely when he does—tiny lines appear at the corners of his eyes, as does a dimple by the crease of his right lip. Like the Australian sun peeking out from behind a passing cloud. It makes you think...something. You’re unsure how to put it into words. But it makes you feel buoyant.

You work much more companionably than before from that point on, and finally, emerge with a batch of chocolate-covered biscuits that to be honest, you’re pretty proud of. Dusk has started to fall outside.

“Will you do the honors?” You hold the plate of cookies out to Oscar.

He grins, and again you’re struck by how sunny his face is, and how reluctant he seemed to hand that smile out. He pinches a Tim Tam between his thumb and index finger and brings it up to his mouth in an exaggerated fashion. You watch his face as he chews thoughtfully.

“Honestly,” he says, “not bad.”

“Not bad?” you pout, slightly miffed. “We worked for hours on this! And all you give me is not bad?”

He chuckles at your annoyance. “Well, look at it this way. We worked on it for a day. The makers of this bad boy—” he fingers the plastic packaging of the original fondly—“have been optimizing the recipe for years.”

“Touché.”

“But really,” he says, suddenly serious, “I think we did great. You did great. I would’ve been totally sunk without you.”

You feel a little bashful at his words. “You too. Thanks for...well, doing this with me.” As if he hadn’t been assigned to.

“I had fun,” Oscar replies simply. And you believe him.

In Home Ec the next morning, as your classmates crowd around your homemade Tim Tams, Oscar meets your eyes, and you both smile.

You sit on the couch, ensconced in an unnecessarily fluffy blanket with Oscar beside you, but you’re freezing. Anyone But You plays on the TV—Oscar, of course, missed it while it was in theaters.

Every so often when he leans forward to grab another handful of crisps, his sleeve brushes your bare forearm, and you shiver. The air feels so tense, you feel like it could snap like a rubber band at any time. But Oscar seems blissfully unaware of your rigidness the entire movie, chuckling at the comical moments between Bea and Ben, poking you excitedly in the side at the dramatic shot of the Opera House.

“Can I stay over?” he asks when the end credits play, even though his duffel, complete with a change of clothes, sits ready in the hall. Even though he knows as well as you do that there’s only one answer.

You pretend to consider his question, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Hmmm…”

Oscar rolls his eyes and gives you a playful shove. Tingles spread through your body; you grit your teeth against them.

“Okay, fine,” you pretend to relent. “But I’m making you sleep on the couch. I’ve gotten zero sleep this week, and you snore like a lawnmower.”

“What?!” Oscar yelps.

“Kidding,” you smirk, and Oscar shoves you again, sending you toppling into the cushions.

In the bathroom, you’re fully preoccupied brushing your teeth while you replay over and over the scene from earlier in the afternoon, when Oscar grabbed your wrist as you decorated the pavlova. The way he said, No playing with your food, in a way you would have sworn was nothing but filthy—if you didn’t know any better.

“Boo,” someone says in your ear.

You almost jump onto the counter.

“Oscar!” you say, the name coming out muffled through a mouthful of toothpaste. You spit into the sink, turn to face him indignantly. “Jesus, you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Oscar nonchalantly squeezes toothpaste onto his own toothbrush, and the two of you continue the evening ministrations side by side, the silence having long since become familiar. He watches you wash your face twice, pat all manner of potions and lotions on your skin. He’s one of the few people who’s ever seen you go through your entire skincare routine, and probably the only one who didn’t immediately get bored, or make some kind of snide comment about it being extra.

“I tried the sunscreen you sent me,” he informs you, and the tinge of pride in his voice warms your heart.

“Oh? It’s about time,” you tease. “Skin’s never looked better.”

“Wait, are you being serious?”

You were mostly joking. But how could you say no to those eyes, suddenly filled with genuine hope? “Yep,” you quickly nod.

“Hey, guess what,” Oscar says suddenly.

“What?”

“Last one to the bed sleeps on the floor!” he says as he sprints out of the bathroom.

You fall for this every time.

“HEY!” You race after him, but Oscar’s already dive-bombed into your duvet. “Ahhhhhh,” he says, stretching out all four limbs luxuriously. “I’ve definitely told you this before, but you have great taste in mattresses.”

You just stand at the foot of the bed, arms crossed in mock anger, doing your best to affix a glare onto your face.

“Okay, okay,” Oscar holds his palms up, but makes no move to arise. Then he extends an arm across the other—empty—side of the bed.

It takes you a full thirty seconds to realize what he’s suggesting. Your jaw drops.

“What—we can’t just sleep in the same bed!” you sputter, feeling what has to be misplaced panic rise in your chest.

“Why not?” Oscar asks.

Then his eyes narrow.

“Oh.”

You tilt your head quizzically.

“Is…is there someone who might be upset that you did?” Oscar asks flatly, his voice no longer blithe.

“No!” you blurt out, even more flustered at the misunderstanding. “No. I’m not seeing anyone or anything. It’s just—”

If you weren’t so frazzled by the entire situation, maybe you would’ve noticed the twinkle return to his eyes at the rather emphatic denial. “Just what?”

“Just—I mean, isn’t it a little bit weird?”

Oscar shrugs. “Not like we’re going to do anything.”

The thought of doing things with Oscar—nope, nope, bad. Begone, thoughts.

“Um.” You chew on your lower lip. “So you’re serious?”

“If you’re not gonna be weird about it, yeah. What’s the point of sleeping on the floor when there’s literally room for both of us here?”

The point is, Oscar, that even you brushing up against me makes me feel weird. So how do you think my brain’s gonna take sleeping in the same bed together? And how are you so freaking calm about it?

But now you know that if you say no, it’s as good as admitting that you are, in fact, being weird about it. You shake your head. “Using my words against me, huh? Fine. You’re right, there’s plenty of room for both of us.”

And to prove it to Oscar, but actually mostly to yourself, that you see him as nothing more than your best friend, you climb into the empty half of the bed, silently willing your heart to stop pounding in your chest.

The day of the glorious Tim Tam show-and-tell, you come home only to realize that Oscar had left his massive bag of sugar in your kitchen.

“That’s some pretty nice sugar, too,” your mom had observed. “Might want to ask him if he wants that back.”

Too bad you gave him your number instead of the other way around. You figure you’ll tell him in Home Ec tomorrow. Hopefully he’ll be awake.

But your phone buzzes with a text as you’re doing the dishes after dinner.

Unknown Hey, it’s Oscar I think I left my sugar at your house, lol

You remember him staggering under the weight of the bag, and grin as you add him to your contacts.

Me Haha yeah you did, I can bring it to Home Ec tomorrow?

Oscar Well actually Wait are you busy rn?

Me I’m doing the dishes lol but should be done in 5

Oscar Okay sounds good

Just as you stick the last of the silverware into the drying rack, your phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Oscar says. He sounds a little hesitant. “Uh yeah, so, basically I let my sisters try the Tim Tams, and they’re obsessed.”

“Really?” you can’t help but squeal.

“Yeah. So uh, if you didn’t hate baking too much, they would like us to make another batch of them.”

You giggle. “Damn, we could start a business.”

Oscar chuckles on the other end, and you picture his shoulders relaxing, just like they did that first day. “I can come get the sugar,” he says. “We don’t have to use your house this time, I feel bad.”

Your mom’s sitting on the couch in the living room, watching TV next to your dad. She raises an eyebrow at you as you stroll out of the kitchen with your phone pressed to your ear.

“Wait just a sec,” you tell Oscar, and cover the mic with a palm. “Mom. Do you mind us using the kitchen to bake?”

“I heard that!” Oscar’s voice sounds faintly through the speakers.

“Not at all,” your mom says. “Honestly, that KitchenAid hasn’t seen enough of the light for a while now.”

“We’ve got her blessing,” you announce to Oscar triumphantly. “That stand mixer is our oyster.”

When Oscar comes over the next week, you do indeed replicate the Tim Tams, but you also decide to make chocolate chip cookies since you’ve already got everything you need for them. You get into a spirited argument over your preferred consistency—you’ll die on the hill of crispy edges, Oscar refusing to budge an inch on his stance that cookies so underbaked they’re practically liquid are superior.

The perfume emanating from the oven is almost intoxicating. Oscar prematurely yanks the sheet tray out of the oven despite your protests, and proceeds to immediately scald the roof of his mouth on the flaming hot cookies.

“Gooey!” he manages to say in delight, despite the tears forming in his eyes.

You laugh until your sides hurt.

Thus began the odyssey that you two eventually dubbed Piastry of the Week.

next chapter here!

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