Beautiful Women Like My Posts Every Day And Yet The Nightmare Goes On

i have an unhealthy obsession with your works. in past days i’ve read almost all of them, some more than once, i keep sending favourite quotes to my bestie, i can’t be contained. crack is very much not my cup of tea but i eat up all of your writing like am starving.

yeah, so anyway, love your work, keep going

mate you have no idea how happy i am to hear that. thank you so so so much for reading❤️❤️❤️❤️

girls say “i like f1” and men appear from the walls like NAME EVERY WORLD CHAMPION BACKWARDS WHILE EATING A PIRELLI TYRE me? i say “i like f1” and the wind answers. a tumbleweed rolls by. a cat coughs. i am alone. quiz me coward. i’m foaming at the mouth. ask me what drs stands for i DARE you.

dont mind me im just bitter that i’ve never had that experience because the f1 fan population in my area is just me, a dying ferrari hat i found in a thrift store, and a confused puppy who once looked at a red bull livery on tv for too long.

👀👀👀

Okay quick fic idea- yall know how max pulled the franz hermann shit? But instead of the media spoiling it- no one knows it’s actually max, other than max and the official ppl involved ofc, and Danny ric- Danny always know. Cue Charles Leclercs unhinged crush on Franz and he’s talking to EVERYONE about it, Danny makes Max make an insta, Charles.loses.it. Ensue typical grid drama of wanting find out who this faceless driver is, the older grid members start a betting pool. The rookies act like it’s fanfic and start doing fanfic npc things once they find out Franz is Max. Charles finds out- has a breakdown- and then they get married in vegas and have a million babies godbless 😩🙏

I love love and am terrified of it just like everyone else

WE NEVER MADE THAT EXCEL SHEET LMAO

very not pog of us

soo wedding fic when

@iluvoscarpiastri HIIIII IM GETTING A SIBLING YESSS

fellas i’ve done it again. i’ve accidentally adopted another child/sibling on tumblr. again. how i manage this is beyond me

lmao wrote a fic:

Nobody saw it coming. Nobody could have seen it coming. Not the fans. Not the FIA. Not even Zak Brown, who, on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday in March 2025, accidentally triggered the apocalypse by handing Oscar Piastri a "small performance bonus" that turned out to be an experimental nuclear engine.

Since Round 1 in Bahrain, Oscar hadn’t just been winning — he had been eradicating. Every race. Every quali. Every sprint. He wasn’t even sweating anymore. Sometimes he didn’t even pit. Sometimes he just stopped halfway, ate a sandwich on the main straight, and still lapped everyone twice.

The paddock was breaking. In every sense of the word.

Max started first. One day he was normal. The next, he was standing in front of the Red Bull motorhome, shirtless, smearing sunscreen on his face like war paint, muttering about "the radio signals" and "how Oscar knows what I’m thinking before I even think it." Christian tried to intervene but Max had already duct-taped six tinfoil hats to his head and was drawing pentagrams in the gravel traps at Imola.

Charles didn’t fare better. He just kind of... stopped. Every time someone said “Oscar wins again,” Charles would just stare into the middle distance and softly hum the Ferrari theme song. Carlos tried to cheer him up by baking a cake, but Charles took one bite, said “this tastes like defeat,” and flung it out the window. He spent most of the Miami GP lying face down on the asphalt during the drivers’ parade while Lando Norris tried to drag him along like a sad little kite.

Speaking of Lando, he was... not well. After losing twelve consecutive pole positions to Oscar by 0.420 seconds exactly every time (because Oscar "thought it would be funny"), Lando was found one night at the McLaren factory trying to launch himself into the sun using the car development simulator. He wrote "GOODBYE BITCHES" in tire rubber across the papaya floor before he was tackled by Andrea Stella, who has since started attending group therapy himself.

Lewis Hamilton — bless him — tried to keep it together. But even he cracked after the Canadian Grand Prix, when Oscar lapped him three times and then had the audacity to wink in his mirrors. Lewis, a man who survived the 2016 Nico Rosberg wars, the 2021 Abu Dhabi massacre, and the 2022 porpoising plague, was last seen setting up booby traps around the Mercedes motorhome (despite not working there now) and whispering "no one’s taking my ankles this time." Toto Wolff had to issue an official press release that simply said: "Lewis is currently fighting in the trenches. Please respect his privacy at this difficult time."

And Carlos? Carlos was not okay. Carlos started seeing demons. Literal, actual demons. He claimed Oscar wasn’t a man anymore but "a creature born from the void between qualifying sessions." At one point, he tried to perform an exorcism on Oscar’s car during parc fermé using holy water he stole from the Ferrari hospitality centre. Ferrari fined him €50,000 for "bringing shame upon our ancestors." He paid in coins he found in the Monza fountains while whispering, "it’s worth it."

Meanwhile, George Russell was convinced someone was jamming his systems. ("They’ve hacked my brain," he said tearfully on the team radio after locking up for the seventh consecutive race start.) Mercedes ran diagnostics. Found nothing. Ran them again. Still nothing. The conclusion? George’s brain had entered permanent "blue screen of death" mode because Oscar kept stealing P1 and smiling politely during cooldown rooms. (George later demanded the FIA test Oscar for "supernatural interference." They said no.)

Nico Hülkenberg was just straight up disqualified from life. He said "fuck this" after Melbourne, went into the garage, punched the telemetry screens, and was never seen again. Rumours say he’s somewhere in the Austrian Alps, living off goats and rage.

And Kimi Antonelli? Kimi Antonelli had a math test on Monday. And frankly, that was the most relatable problem in the entire paddock. As he crammed trigonometry formulas into his head at the back of the Williams garage, he also had to endure Logan Sargeant screaming "YOU CAN DO INTEGRALS, KIMI, YOU CAN'T DO QUALI???" at random intervals. (It didn’t help that Oscar lapped Kimi twice at Monaco on foot.)

Which is to say that even the rookies were suffering. Ollie Bearman made it as far as Round 5 before he just started showing up to races with a Starbucks cup full of Baileys and a look of hollow despair. Gabriel Bortoleto tried to fight Oscar at Silverstone but was gently lifted off the ground by Oscar’s terrifying, eldritch aura of invincibility and set down like a disobedient Sims character. Andrea Kimi challenged Oscar to a karting rematch. Oscar lapped him backwards while waving a McLaren flag and singing the Australian national anthem out of key.

Alex Albon and Lily tried hosting a nice paddock barbecue to boost morale. Oscar showed up uninvited, helped himself to half the ribs, then won the barbecue games too. After the egg toss, Alex sat down in a lawn chair, stared at the stars, and said, "Maybe it’s time to pick up badminton." Lily agreed. They both started shopping for rackets by the end of the night.

F1 Academy wasn’t spared either. Léna Bühler challenged Oscar to a Mario Kart race to "restore honor to motorsport." He three-starred Rainbow Road blindfolded. Abbi Pulling organized a mutiny. It lasted 6 minutes before Oscar politely asked if she needed a napkin, and everyone folded like paper dolls.

Even the MotoGP riders were affected. Pecco Bagnaia and Marc Márquez tried to race Oscar on bikes during the Dutch GP weekend. Oscar ran beside them on foot and still beat them to the finish line. Afterward, Marc simply handed over his helmet and said, "You're the captain now." Oscar now owns Ducati, apparently.

Meanwhile, the FIA was scrambling. First they banned McLaren’s floor. Then the diffuser. Then Oscar’s water bottle. Then Oscar’s left shoe. Nothing worked. He still won.

One time they tried adding 40kg ballast to his car. Oscar just shrugged, smiled a little, and said, "Good cardio." Won by 30 seconds. Did a cartwheel onto the podium. Took Lando’s number for 'flirting purposes' despite already having his number.

By the Belgian GP, the paddock was in full societal collapse. The Red Bull Energy Station was on fire. The Alpine garage was hosting a séance. The Aston Martin hospitality unit had been converted into a low-security psychiatric ward where Lance Stroll was the chief counselor, wearing a "therapist in training" sticker. Fernando Alonso led nightly prayer circles to “whatever gods might be listening.”

And then. The worst thing happened.

Oscar? Oscar started... smiling more. Laughing. Being friendly. Not in the normal, Aussie-bloke way. In the "I know exactly when and how you will perish" way.

At Monza, he hugged Charles after beating him by 50 seconds. Charles simply collapsed into the gravel and started reciting Ferrari’s entire corporate mission statement in broken Italian.

At Suzuka, he patted Max on the back. Max immediately sprinted into the woods and wasn’t seen until three days later, covered in moss and talking about "the birds speaking Dutch."

By Qatar, Lando wasn’t even racing anymore. He was just painting angry murals of Oscar on pit lane walls while sobbing into Oscar’s leftover champagne.

At the Austin GP, Daniel Ricciardo — a beacon of sunshine himself — tried to save the day with an impromptu shoey party. Oscar drank his shoey, took P1, and still somehow managed to organize Daniel’s birthday party mid-race over team radio. (He sang "Happy Birthday" while overtaking Sergio Pérez at 310 kph.)

The world was ending. The fans were rioting. The stewards gave up and started playing Uno during races. Sky Sports commentators gave up and switched to narrating races like they were National Geographic documentaries. (“Here we see the wild Piastri, merciless and efficient, dismantling yet another record with a gentle purr.”)

And Oscar? Oscar just smiled.

He wasn’t a man anymore. He was a concept. He was an idea. He was the Australian Dream gone nuclear.

The 2025 season ended not with a final race, but with a public surrender ceremony at Abu Dhabi. Toto Wolff, Fred Vasseur, Christian Horner, Andrea Stella, and Laurent Rossi knelt before Oscar and presented him with a ceremonial key to Formula 1. Oscar said, "Cheers mate," tucked it into his overalls, and then casually drove off into the sunset at 400 kph with two seagulls drafting him for good measure.

Nobody knows where he is now. Some say he’s somewhere in the outback, racing kangaroos for fun. Others say he’s transcended motorsport entirely and is preparing for his next challenge: the Tour de France... on foot.

One thing is certain: No one. No one... is ever safe again.

max is schizophrenic charles is depressed lando is suicidal lewis has ptsd carlos is fighting demons and rookies nico is disqualified oscar is australian george has someone jamming his systems and kimi has a math test on monday

this is what mclaren domination does they literally brought mercury back into retrograde

WHO DID THIS!?!??!?!?

max: i am at truly a loss for words

george, narrating: despite being at a loss for words, max continued to yell at me for another fifteen minutes

Hiiii its me again.....omg i was so stressed when I couldn't find ur tumblr account lol 😭😭😭

Anyway I just wanted to say that YOUR WRITING IS BLOODY AMAZING AND I LOVE YOU AND EVERY SINGLE FIC YOU HAVE EVER WRITTEN AND I HOPE YOU HAVE THE MOST PERFECT LIFE EVER 😭🛐🤍

HIII BABYYY THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING THIS MEANS THE WORLD TO ME IM GONNA CRY 😭❤️❤️❤️