I Literally Just Binge Read Your F1 Demigod Series On Ao3 AND MY PJO OBSESSED HEART IS SCREAMING WITH

beautiful women like my posts every day and yet the nightmare goes on

Use filler words as much as you can babe & anything you write will turn out beautiful

Can I suggest a Max POV?

Of the years they didn't talk to each other during?

If he saw how much Charles had struggled through them? The suicidal tenderness? The reckless driving? & Max has said that when they watched the movie with grid Charles ignored him, maybe expand on that?

I would love to read what was going through Max's mind while he was checking Charles's phone

I'm just throwing ideas around but I'll stop cause I feel like I'm coming a bit too strong and I'm stressing & overwhelming you I'm sorry😭

-🤖

no coz that was literally my plan. like charles' pov wouldn't hit after that whole mind numbing shit I wrote for chap 1. ig I might make max walk thru all the yrs since 2021 with a very zero memory Charles (or improving charles,, who knows anymore). and then I will make max cry. and then I will cry. tears are great moisturisers and all that.

i wrote like very lil already maybe i could post a snippet??? mayhaps??? if u want me to??? do you??? pls say yes???

i’m happy you exist, that you’ve made it so far. it’s not an easy thing. waking up every morning and existing. i hope today you’re safe and that something makes you smile.

to be loved the way i love f1, what a thought, but not like ferrari since 2010, no, that’s like a cursed love letter you keep reading even though it’s giving “toxic ex who keeps texting” vibes. no thank you, i’d rather be loved like red bull in 2023— chaotic, fast, a bit of drama, but at least we’re winning and making everybody mad. and maybe like mclaren after 2024? who knows, still figuring it out, but they’ll get there and so will i, just. let me breathe.

i’m not even sure i want to be loved— i just want speed, and noise, like driving down a street, f1 music blaring while my 1.2L engine pretends it’s a turbocharged beast, but it’s not, it’s just me, pretending i’m at monaco. but somehow it feels real.

so i went and chose engineering, because who wouldn’t want to suffer, like i’m not already doing enough by being born too late to be an f1 driver. like, yeah, i could’ve raced at 18, but here i am, soldering wires and calculating resistance, living the delusion that somehow, someway, toto wolff will see my tweets and hand me a seat so i can drive into the pit of my dreams.

but nah, i’m just here, pretending i’m quicker than i am, just like when i got my license at 18 and blasted f1 tracks as if i was about to win silverstone, while my car barely passed the speed bump at the end of my block. it was freedom, though. it was delusional and it was everything.

maybe i’m not even in love with people, maybe i’m just addicted to the idea of speed— and yeah, the walls i keep hitting don’t help, but hey, if i crash into a barrier, at least it’s a passion crash. i’m in love with the chaos. maybe that’s my problem.

but pls—if you’re gonna love me, don’t love me like ferrari, don't love me like “oh, we were so close but here’s p2,” love me like red bull— always faster, always something up in the air, always winning (in the most chaotic way possible). that’s the vibe i’m after, that’s the dream i’m chasing.

so, here i am—delusional, writing f1 rpf fanfics at 2 a.m. while figuring out why i’m broke and why my heart beats to the rhythm of pit stops, but if you get it, then maybe you get me. or maybe we’re both just chasing something that’s always just out of reach.

(aka: send help, and a car with a turbo unit, pls.)

might have to use 'have a good one tomorrow 👍' next time i've told someone they were wrong on the internet

also ALSO 16 is sulphur (S) and 33 is arsenic (As) so basically 3316 is ASS. which is what the cars have been demonstrating thru out 2025 season. i hope that turns to SAS but i am not hoping too much. the ferrari fans do enough.

where the drivers would be on the periodic table based on their (current) driver numbers

I understand Ferrari because if I had a man that pretty hopelessly devoted to me I would torture him for fun too

im suuuuuper tired. i think ill stay up for another 5-24 hours

still don’t know what “unctuous” means and at this point I fear it.

the problem with reading and writing leading to a strong vocabulary is that you tend to know the vibe of words instead of their meanings.

if I used this word in a sentence, would it make sense? absolutely. if you asked me what it meant, could I tell you? absolutely not.

LePlatypus, Mon Amour.

a phineas and ferb X f1 crackfic? si. i don't have much plot at the moment so I thought I would just post whatever I have.. so this is a snippet. if u wanna write the fic dm me! i have ideas but no ambition.

Maximilian Doofenshmirtz had a problem.

Well, he had several problems. His evil lair's espresso machine was on the fritz again, his latest inator had turned his favorite pair of shoes into sentient beings that now refused to be worn, and his daughter Lanessa was threatening to move out if he didn't stop using her room as a storage space for his "Evil Plans That Didn't Work" memorabilia.

But the most pressing issue at hand was the mysterious human who kept showing up and thwarting his evil schemes.

Max had first noticed the man during his attempt to replace all the city's pigeons with robotic versions that would deliver his manifesto instead of defecating on statues. Just as he was about to activate the Pigeonator 3000, the man had appeared out of nowhere, dismantled the machine with alarming efficiency, and disappeared without a trace.

"Who was that?" Max had wondered aloud, scratching his head. "Just some random human? How rude!"

This pattern continued. Every time Max was on the verge of executing a brilliant plan—be it the Mustache-Inator, designed to give everyone in the Tri-State Area a mustache (regardless of gender), or the Reverse-Vacuum-Inator, intended to suck all the air out of a room to make people appreciate oxygen more—the same man would appear, sabotage his efforts, and vanish.

Max was baffled. He had no idea who this person was. He didn't even have a name for him. He was just... that human.

Then, one day, during an attempt to turn all the city's fountains into chocolate fondue stations (because why not?), the man showed up again.

Max's eyes widened in zero recognition.

"A human?!" he exclaimed.

This time, however, he had put on a red fedora with a sigh.

"Charles the Human?!"

Charles, adjusting his fedora, gave Max a bemused look. "I've always been human, Max."

Max blinked. "No, no, no. You're Charles the Human. I recognise you now because of the hat."

Charles sighed. "We've been through this. I'm always me, hat or no hat."

Max waved him off. "Nonsense. Without the hat, you're just some random human. But with the hat, you're Charles the Human, my nemesis!"

From that day forward, Max was convinced that the red fedora was the key to Charles's identity. Whenever Charles appeared without it, Max would treat him as a stranger, even if they had just spoken the day before.

"Who are you?" Max would ask, squinting suspiciously.

"It's me, Charles," Charles would reply, exasperated.

"Charles who?"

"Charles the Human."

Max would shake his head. "Impossible. Charles the Human wears a red fedora. You're just a regular human."

Charles eventually gave up trying to convince Max otherwise. He started carrying the fedora with him at all times, putting it on whenever he needed Max to recognise him.

Their interactions became increasingly absurd. Max would invite Charles over for tea, only to forget who he was if he took off his hat to scratch his head.

"Stranger danger!" Max would yell, throwing a scone at Charles.

"It's me, Max!" Charles would protest, dodging the pastry.

"Prove it!"

Charles would sigh, put the fedora back on, and Max's face would light up.

"Charles the Human! There you are! I was wondering where you'd gone."

Despite the chaos, their relationship developed a strange rhythm. Max would devise elaborate schemes, Charles would thwart them, and they would share tea afterward—provided Charles kept his hat on.

One evening, as they sat on Max's balcony overlooking the city, Max turned to Charles.

"You know, Charles the Human, you're the best nemesis a villain could ask for."

Charles smiled. "Thanks, Max. You're not so bad yourself."

Max nodded, then frowned. "Wait a minute. Who are you?"

Charles groaned. "Not this again."