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scarletwidow3000 · 21 days ago

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Absolutely obsessed 🤩💕

The Fast and The Curious (Oscar Piastri x Reader)

Summary: You came to the races to cheer for your boyfriend, not to moonlight as McLaren’s undercover strategy apprentice. But with a notebook, a growing obsession with sector times, and a suspicious amount of “just Googling it later” turns into a paddock reputation you didn’t mean to build. From tire compound tutorials with the crew, secret Twitch missions for racing tips, and pit wall spycraft… to finally catching Oscar’s attention and earning a personal crash course in F1 engineering, you find yourself going from supportive girlfriend to honorary team member.

⸻

The first time you get really fixated on something in the paddock, it’s not a flashy overtake or a pit stop—it’s the way Oscar’s engineers huddle around the front wing like it’s a sacred artifact.

You catch a few words—“trimming the flap,” “compensating in sector two,” “shift the balance forward”—and you have no idea what most of it means. But you will. That’s what your little notebook is for. You jot it all down, alongside the times on the garage clock when you noticed changes in his lap times.

A lap where he’s purple in the first sector but drops three-tenths in the third? Noted. You don’t know the why yet, but the pattern is starting to take shape in your head.

When Oscar finally climbs out of the car, the air in the garage shifts. His helmet is under his arm, fireproofs still clinging to his skin, a soft flush from the heat in his cheeks. His eyes find yours instantly.

“Hey,” he says, voice warm despite the noise of the garage. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to your temple. “Sushi for dinner? Or do you want Italian? There’s a place here Lando swears by, but considering it’s Lando—”

You blink up at him, torn between asking what happened in turn 12 after the rear wing adjustment and answering his dinner question. “…Uh, sushi’s fine.”

He grins, peeling his gloves off. “Perfect. Oh—did I tell you Jules is here this weekend? Saw her near the paddock entrance earlier. You should go say hi before Sunday. Also, Lando told me this morning he’s thinking of starting a YouTube series called ‘Cooking With Norris.’ I give it a week before he sets his kitchen on fire.”

You laugh, even though your brain is still questioning why was the car quicker on the straights after they touched the front wing?

Oscar nudges you gently with his elbow. “You okay? You’re kinda staring into space.”

You shake your head quickly. “Yeah—sorry. Just thinking.”

“About food?” he teases. “Same. I’m starving.”

You hum, glancing toward the car as the engineers start plugging in laptops. “Do you… feel a big difference when they adjust stuff? Like… during the session?”

He blinks, clearly not catching on that you’re fishing for specifics. “Mm, yeah, a little. It’s just part of practice, you know? Tweaks here and there.” He shrugs, as if “tweaks” didn’t involve twenty different aerodynamic changes and real-time data analysis. “Why?”

“No reason,” you lie, scribbling down another note before you forget.

He tilts his head, curiosity flickering for a moment before he smiles again. “Alright, no more car talk. You’re here to have fun, not get dragged into my homework. C’mon, let’s go find you some water before you melt.”

You follow him out of the garage, but your thoughts stay behind—circling the machine that just helped him carve magic into the asphalt, and the quiet hunger to understand exactly how.

⸻

By the next race weekend, you’ve developed a little reputation—not official, but definitely real.

You always get caught staring.

At the car. At the setup changes. At the quiet ballet of the crew swapping parts like it’s second nature.

This time, instead of hovering awkwardly near the garage door with your notebook, you drift closer to the tire racks. The tire guys notice.

One of them grins and tilts a head toward you. “You ever feel the difference between compounds?”

Your brows shoot up. “Can I?”

Before you know it, you’re standing beside stacks of Pirellis, running your fingers over slick surfaces that look identical to the untrained eye but feel worlds apart. One is soft and tacky, another stiffer and cooler. They tell you how each reacts to track temps, how the grip fades, how Oscar’s driving style suits one better than the other. You file every detail away in your head, adding mental footnotes for later Googling.

You’re so engrossed that you don’t hear Oscar coming—just feel a quick kiss to the crown of your head and the low rumble of his voice.

“Having fun?”

You glance up at him, guilty and smiling. “Yeah. Actually, yeah.”

He looks pleased, like your answer is the only one he wanted. “Good. My mom’s on her way over to keep you company, so you won’t get bored.”

You grin automatically—because you love his mom, truly—but your brain does a quick calculation: Nicole arriving = end of sneaky paddock questions.

“Right,” you say with a nod, though you give the tire stack one last longing glance.

She arrives a few minutes later, warm as always, pulling you into a hug before the conversation flows easy. And before long, you’ve forgotten your disappointment entirely—because she starts telling stories.

“…and there was this one time, he was about six, fast asleep on the drive to practice. I thought he was out for good, but as soon as we pulled into the track, his eyes popped open and he was strapping his own helmet on before I could even park.” She shakes her head with a fond smile.

You laugh. “That sounds exactly like him now—quiet until it’s time to drive, and then it’s like a switch flips.”

“Oh, exactly. And he’s always been competitive. Even in our driveway, he’d lean into corners like he was already in Monaco.”

“That’s adorable.” You grin. “Did he win a lot back then?”

Her eyes sparkle. “Let’s just say… he hated losing more than he loved winning. So yes, but only because he’d practice until I had to drag him home.”

You glance toward the garage, where Oscar is in deep conversation with an engineer. “That explains a lot.”

She follows your gaze and pats your hand. “It’s good for him, you know. Having someone who sees him and not just the driver.”

Your chest warms at that. “I like seeing both,” you admit softly.

She smiles like she knows exactly what you mean, and for the rest of the afternoon, the garage fades behind you as she fills your head with memories of a boy who grew into the man you get to come home to.

⸻

Lando’s apartment is pure gamer chaos—half-empty mugs on the coffee table, snack wrappers on the floor, and the sound of tires squealing through surround sound as Twitch chat spams emotes.

You’re curled up on the couch, sipping your drink and watching Oscar and Lando trade the simulator seat like it’s the championship trophy. Their focus is razor-sharp—hands flicking over paddle shifters, knees bouncing with concentration.

You can’t stop watching the way they place the car, how early they brake, how much they turn in.

Then someone overshoots a corner and sails into the gravel. Twitch chat explodes.

And buried in the flood of comments:

ngl i think osc’s girlfriend could beat that time

You laugh softly. “That’s definitely not true.”

Lando’s head swivels. “Ohhh, we’re testing that.”

Before you can protest, Oscar’s holding out his hand to pull you up. “One quick race. No pressure.”

The seat’s warm from Lando. You grip the wheel, heart thumping. Lights out—and immediately, you’re too hot into turn one. You recover, but by lap three you’re rattled, and then it happens:

A high-speed corner, you’re turning in, and the back end suddenly twitches. The wheel feels light, the car sliding sideways—your first taste of oversteer. Your stomach drops, hands flailing for a second before you overcorrect and plow into the runoff.

You finish the race dead last.

When you climb out, you give Oscar a weak smile. “That… was awful.”

“It wasn’t,” he says, tugging you into a hug. “It’s harder than it looks. And you did great.”

You rest your chin on his chest. “I just… I want to know why I went off there—at the apex? Like… shouldn’t that have been fine?”

Oscar smiles softly. “We’ll go over it sometime. But for now, let’s just hang out, yeah?”

You nod, but you’re already filing questions away in your head.

⸻

That night, you make a new Twitch account. Something generic—no way they’d guess it’s you.

The next time Lando streams, you wait until he’s mid-practice lap. Then you type:

hey, what’s the best line for turn 6 on this track? my… friend keeps going off there

“Turn 6?” Lando says between breaths. “You’ve gotta brake earlier than you think. People turn in late and the rear gets light—bam, oversteer city. Hug the inside curb, short-shift on exit. Keeps the car stable.”

You type again, feigning ignorance:

so… if you do get oversteer there, what’s the fix?

“Catch it early, don’t yank the wheel,” he answers instantly. “Ease off throttle, little bit of countersteer—smooth. Panic and you’re toast.”

Your cheeks heat.

cool, thanks

Lando chuckles at the screen. “Man, chat’s really into driving tips tonight.”

You lean back in your chair, grinning to yourself. Next time Oscar leaves you alone with his sim, you’ll be ready—and hopefully, you’ll keep the rear end pointed in the right direction

⸻

Qualifying makes your heart race almost as much as it does Oscar’s.

You’re standing in the garage, tucked just far enough out of the way to avoid being part of the chaos, but close enough to see every flicker of movement in the pit lane. The crew swarms the car like clockwork—jacks, tires, fuel flow—and you thumb your phone’s stopwatch the second the front wheels come off.

2.4 seconds.

The next one? 2.6.

A bobble at the rear right—maybe half a second lost. You jot it down in the margin of your notebook with a little asterisk. Not to judge—just to know.

By the race, you’re settled into your spot in the garage, back pressed against the wall, eyes flicking between the TV feed and the men in papaya jumping into action.

Oscar’s running P8 when the radio chatter changes. You can’t hear all of it, but you catch enough:

Overcut. Undercut.

You immediately pull out your phone under the table like you’re texting—when really you’re frantically Googling “overcut vs undercut F1 explained.” The diagrams make your head spin, but the gist clicks into place: undercut = stop earlier for fresh tires, overcut = stay out longer to leapfrog.

When you hear the engineers start debating again, you lean forward in your chair like you might actually be able to influence the decision.

Eventually, you decide to try something new—sliding quietly into a seat just behind the engineers’ cluster. You’re not trying to eavesdrop, exactly… but if you happen to hear split times, tire degradation updates, or which lap they think the undercut window opens, well—knowledge is knowledge.

You keep your phone in your lap, stopwatch ready for the next stop. The moment the race strategist stands, you know the pit crew’s about to move, and you make a mental note to watch the rear gunner this time.

You don’t say a word the whole race. But by the time the checkered flag falls, you’ve got a full page of scribbled notes—pit stop deltas, tire compounds, stint lengths, and a tiny little doodle of Oscar’s car with arrows pointing to “things to learn later.”

From the outside, you’re just his girlfriend quietly enjoying the race.

From your seat? You’re running your own mini operation.

⸻

It’s quiet in the driver’s room after the race—too quiet.

Oscar’s still in his race suit, the top half tied around his waist, undershirt damp and clinging to his skin. He sits on the edge of the couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s replaying every lap in his head.

You cross the room, dropping into the seat beside him until your knee brushes his. “Hey,” you murmur, your hand finding the back of his neck. “Rough one.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Yeah.” It’s clipped, but not sharp. Just tired.

You rub slow circles into his shoulder, trying to ease the tension you can feel there. “The second pit stop… they put you on hards instead of mediums?”

He glances sideways, a faint crease in his brow. “Yeah. Mediums wouldn’t have lasted to the end. At least… that’s what they thought.”

You nod, filing it away. “And the radio message about engine temps—was that just precaution?”

“Yeah,” he says again, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I had to lift in sector two to keep them down. Lost time there.”

You hesitate before the next one. “So… when you went a bit wide in turn four—”

His mouth twitches. “Missed the braking point by about a metre. Too deep.”

The answers come, but they’re getting shorter. You can feel his patience thinning, like a rope fraying strand by strand.

Still, the big question is burning in your chest. “And… what about the lock-up on the last lap? The one that—”

“Can we not?” The words are sharp, louder than anything he’s said since you walked in. His jaw tightens instantly, eyes closing as if he wants to take it back. “I just… I don’t want to think about the race anymore.”

The sting lands in your chest—not because you think he’s angry at you, but because he’s just slammed a door you’ve been trying to open all season.

You force your voice to stay light. “Okay. No race talk.”

Oscar drags a hand down his face, looking miserable now. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have—” He shakes his head. “It’s not you. I’m just frustrated and… I don’t want to keep replaying it. Not tonight.”

You give a small smile. “I get it.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” he murmurs, but his shoulders are sagging now, his whole posture screaming exhaustion. “Can we just… go back to the hotel and dive in bed?”

You agree, even though your brain is still running the reel of that lock-up—tires smoking, lap time gone, lead vanished. The part of you that’s been quietly studying his every race aches for the answers you didn’t get. But you swallow it down.

Back at the hotel, you both shower and climb into bed. Oscar curls into you instantly, head resting against your chest, one arm flung over your stomach like a tether.

The room glows faintly from the TV, a movie playing you’re both barely watching. His breathing slows first, heavy with sleep.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment, your fingers tracing idle lines over his back. Your mind drifts to brake temps, tire wear, track surface—anything that could explain that lock-up.

You sigh quietly and kiss the top of his head. Another day, you promise yourself.

For now, you hold him close and let the questions wait until morning.

⸻

Oscar didn’t think much of it at first—just another conversation in the garage after practice.

Until his engineer handed him a battered, carbon fiber endplate like it was a gift.

“Here,” the guy said. “Take this home for your girl. She’ll probably want to see where it failed.”

Oscar blinked, holding the piece awkwardly. “…Why would she want this?”

The engineer tilted his head like it was obvious. “Because she’s been learning. You didn’t know?”

“Learning… what?”

“Mate,” he said, chuckling, “she’s been asking half the crew questions. Taking notes. Timing pit stops. Asking about tire deg. Honestly, I thought you’d put her up to it. Girl’s got an eye for detail—writes things down like she’s studying for an exam. I figured she’d want a bit of context for the notes.”

Oscar just stared for a moment, his mind playing back every time he’d caught you tucked in the corner of the garage with your phone or notebook, every quiet look toward the engineers, every moment you’d smiled and said “just watching” when he asked what you were up to.

And he’d thought you were just… passing time.

⸻

That night, he found you curled up on the couch, hoodie sleeves pushed over your hands. He set the carbon piece on the coffee table in front of you.

You looked at it, eyes widening. “…Oh.”

“Oh?” His voice was half amusement, half demand. “Care to explain why my engineer thought I should bring you a broken part of my car?”

You bit your lip, looking almost guilty. “I, um… I’ve been trying to learn. Like… as much as they’ll tell me. And Google the rest. My search history’s basically just car setup, aero balance, and pit stop strategy at this point.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you. Really looked.

“You’ve been studying?” His voice was softer now, tinged with awe.

You gave a little shrug. “I didn’t want to bother you. You already have so much going on during race weekends. I figured… I’d just pick things up from other people, you know? The engineers, the tire guys, even your crew chief once when he wasn’t busy.”

He sat down beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor for a second before looking back at you with something bright in his eyes. “You’ve been doing all this on your own?”

“Yeah.” You felt your cheeks warm. “I just… I think it’s incredible what you do. And the more I watch, the more I want to understand how it all fits together.”

A slow smile tugged at his lips—small at first, then wider, until it turned into the kind of grin you didn’t see on him often outside of a podium. “God, I wish you’d told me sooner.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because, babe, you’re asking the right questions. You’re not just watching for fun—you’re noticing sector times, pit windows, tire wear… do you have any idea how much I love that?” He shook his head, laughing under his breath. “You could never bother me with this. I’d kill for someone to care enough to want the details.”

He leaned back, still looking at you like he was piecing together a puzzle. “I’m seriously impressed. Like, really impressed.”

The warmth in your chest at his words nearly overwhelmed you. “You mean that?”

“I mean it.” His tone left no room for doubt. “So… hit me with it.”

You tilted your head. “Hit you with…?”

“Questions. Everything you’ve been dying to know. No filter. Go.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. “Okay—brake bias. How much can you change during a lap? And that little dial on your steering wheel—what’s that do? How many engine maps do you have? And—oh—how do you know when to use engine braking instead of just lifting?”

His grin widened with each one, his voice animated as he explained. He mimed turning dials, shifting balance, describing how it feels in the car. He didn’t just answer—he painted the picture.

The night spilled away in the hum of conversation, and eventually he pulled you into the sim room.

“You’re not leaving this flat without trying the proper setup,” he insisted.

Three races later, you crossed the line P3.

Oscar actually whooped, spinning your chair toward him. “Podium! That’s my girl!”

You laughed, breathless. “Guess I had a good teacher.”

He crouched in front of you, still buzzing. “You have no idea how proud that makes me.”

You hesitated then, nerves nibbling at you. “So… speaking of learning… could you maybe… introduce me to Ruth Buscombe sometime? At a race?”

His eyebrows shot up. “Ruth? From the broadcast team?”

You nodded quickly, shy but determined. “I love when she talks about strategy on the broadcast before the race. She’s just… so smart. I’d love to ask her questions. If… if that’s not weird.”

Oscar’s face lit up again, pure and warm. “It’s not weird at all. I think she’d love you.”

You smiled, a little blush creeping in. “I might be too starstruck to say anything.”

He squeezed your knee. “Don’t worry—I’ll make sure you get the chance. You’ve earned it.”

And the way he said it made you feel like, in his eyes, you were already part of the team.

⸻

The paddock was already buzzing when Oscar took your hand and tugged you toward the hospitality area.

“You ready?” he asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“For what?” you asked, trying not to trip over a coil of cables on the ground.

He smirked. “To meet some of the smartest people I know.”

You caught sight of Ruth Buscombe first, standing near a monitor bank with her arms crossed, eyes scanning the screens. Just beside her was James Hinchcliffe, animatedly chatting with one of the broadcast crew.

Oscar squeezed your hand before you could freeze up. “Ruth! Hinch!”

They both looked over, smiling as Oscar steered you into the conversation. “This is my girlfriend,” he said, and then—oh no—he went full proud boyfriend mode. “She’s been quietly teaching herself about the car all season. Pit strategies, tire data, setup changes… she’s probably the most observant person in this paddock who doesn’t actually work here.”

You wanted to shrink into the floor, but Ruth’s face lit up. “Really?”

You nodded shyly. “I… just like understanding how it all works.”

“That’s brilliant,” she said warmly, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “Here—give me your number. If you ever have a question, text me. Don’t let anyone make you think this stuff is too complicated to learn.”

Your jaw nearly dropped as you typed your name into Ruth Buscombe’s phone. “Thank you so much. I promise I won’t bug you—”

“I want you to,” Ruth interrupted with a wink. “Curiosity is the best skill you can have in this job.”

Before you could recover, James grinned and stuck out his hand. “James Hinchcliffe. Heard you’re on a motorsport crash course?”

“Trying to be,” you laughed.

“Ever watch INDYCAR?”

You shook your head, and he leaned in like he was about to tell you a secret. “Think F1, but the cars are heavier, less dependent on aero, and you can actually bang wheels without the floor falling off. We run road courses and ovals, and the setup changes drastically between them. For an oval, you’ll see asymmetric suspension—right side stiffer, left side softer—so the car naturally wants to turn left at 200 mph. Road courses? Totally different beast. You’re balancing grip at both ends for tighter, more varied corners.”

Your eyes went wide. “That’s… insane. I didn’t even think about setting a car up to turn itself.”

James chuckled. “That’s the fun part—every track needs a new approach. You’d love the engineering side of it.”

By now, you were practically leaning forward, soaking up every word. “Okay, I’m officially obsessed. Tell me more about the difference in tire strategy—”

Oscar’s hand squeezed your shoulder. “I’m gonna head to the garage to prep,” he said with a smile. “I think you’re in good hands.”

“You go,” Ruth said, waving him off. “We’ll keep her entertained.”

Entertained was an understatement. You spent the next forty minutes ping-ponging questions between Ruth and James—how weather changes affect downforce, how an INDYCAR pit stop differs from F1, what role software plays in each.

By the time Oscar returned, you were grinning so wide your cheeks hurt, notebook already full of scribbles.

“How was it?” he asked.

You glanced at Ruth and James, then back at him. “I think I just signed myself up for a whole new motorsport degree.”

Oscar laughed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Knew you would.”

And as you tucked Ruth’s number into your phone and promised James you’d watch his old races, you felt that familiar, electric pull—the same one that had you timing pit stops on your phone months ago. Only now, you weren’t learning alone.

⸻

It was Saturday morning, and the race weekend buzz felt different from your couch. You had the broadcast on low volume, a mug of coffee in one hand, your phone in the other.

A new text pinged.

👑 Ruth : You watching FP3?

You: Yep. Track looks grippy today.

👑 Ruth: 👀 Okay, test time. If Oscar starts P8, mediums at the start… What's your instinct on the first stop?

Your heart skipped. She was quizzing you.

You: Probably push a bit longer than the soft runners to get track position? Overcut if the times hold up?

Three dots blinked.

👑 Ruth: Correct! You’ve been paying attention. Proud of you!!

You grinned into your coffee.

You: Does that mean I’m allowed to guess the actual lap?

👑 Ruth: Go on.

You thought about track temps, tire wear from yesterday’s data, how much Oscar could extend the stint without losing too much pace.

You: Lap 21?

There was a pause. Then—

👑 Ruth: 👏 If they pit him on 21 I’ll owe you a coffee next race.

When the race came the next day, you sat forward on the couch as Oscar’s lap counter ticked closer.

Lap 20… still out.

Lap 21… pit stop.

Your phone lit up instantly.

👑 Ruth: Coffee’s on me! Good work 😁

You laughed out loud, already typing back.

You: Does this mean I’m officially your apprentice now?

👑 Ruth: Let’s not get ahead of ourselves 😉 But you’re getting there.

And you sat back with your coffee, feeling that same spark of pride you’d felt the first time you’d timed a pit stop in the garage—only now, you weren’t just learning from the sidelines. You were in the conversation.

⸻

You hadn’t expected your birthday to involve this.

You’d woken up to Oscar and Lando grinning like they’d been sitting on a secret for months, which—apparently—they had. By mid-morning, you were walking into a private karting facility, and the first thing you saw was a rolling rack with a fire suit and helmet in your favorite colors waiting for you.

“Happy birthday,” Lando said, handing you the helmet like it was a crown.

“Custom colors,” Oscar added with a proud little smile. “You’re official now.”

You ran your hand over the glossy finish, trying not to grin too hard. “This is insane.”

It got better.

Before you even set foot in a kart, the boys had agreed to do the entire set up briefing with you. They discussed gearing, seat positioning, and even steering sensitivity like you were about to qualify for a championship.

Oscar caught Lando raising an eyebrow at how seriously you were taking it. “Let her enjoy it,” he murmured. “It’s her birthday.”

When it was finally time to get on track, the mood shifted instantly—because between Lando and Oscar, everything was a competition. They chirped at each other over who’d have the fastest lap before you even made it to pit lane.

But Oscar’s entire demeanor changed the moment you rolled onto the circuit. Watching from the wall, he looked less like a rival and more like a dad whose kid had just learned to ride a bike—half beaming, half one bad corner away from sprinting onto the track to rescue you.

“She’s fine, mate,” Lando teased after a few laps.

“I know she’s fine,” Oscar muttered, eyes never leaving you, “but if she bins it, you’re the one explaining it to her mum.”

By the end of the session, you were flushed, sweaty, and buzzing from adrenaline. Both boys patted your back and fussed over you like you’d just finished your first Grand Prix.

And then, because they couldn’t help themselves, they made you a deal.

“If you can beat—” Lando checked his phone “—forty-eight-point-five, we’ll see if we can get you into one of our cars on an off weekend,” he promised.

Oscar nodded. “Full setup walk-through. Every dial, every button.”

Your eyes went wide. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious,” Oscar said, smiling. “You’ve earned it.”

Later that night, Oscar posted a photo on Instagram:

All three of you standing in your fire suits at the kart track, helmets tucked under your arms, grins wide.

oscarpiastri: Birthday laps for the birthday girl 🏎️🧡 Keep this up and she’ll be beating us soon!

It didn’t take long for the comments to start flooding in—none louder than his mum’s:

nicolepiastri: Officially terrified I’m getting my first grandchild in a car or kart far too soon for my comfort 😅 Oscar Jack Piastri you better keep her safe!

You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink when you saw it.

By the time you climbed into bed that night—sore in the best way, still smelling faintly of fuel and rubber—you felt more than celebrated. You felt seen.

Not just as Oscar’s girlfriend, but as someone they truly believed belonged in the paddock right alongside them.

And maybe, just maybe, someone who could give that forty-eight-point-five a run for its money.

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