How Do I Know Ollie Bearman Is Destined For Ferrari? Well You See He Is Extremely Talented, And Pure

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

Music is wild like howd U make that lol

im obsessed w ur fics, im reading the bearnelli ones like is pure gold, keep feeding me please

oh i ABSOLUTELY INTEND TO

you put into words memes.

I literally just binge read your F1 demigod series on ao3 AND MY PJO OBSESSED HEART IS SCREAMING WITH JOY.

I literally couldn't find short one shots to read during class but then I saw a fic with two of my most hyperfixated fandoms till date and I binge read all 7( a symphony of sorrow has made me cry so hard)

Now I'm on my quest to look for PJO and a b99 cross over 🫡

AAAAHHHH IM DYING THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING, BOSS!!

ps. i might need to write a b99Xpjo cross over now that you mentioned it. ahh.

daily affirmations: my whimsy will persevere my whimsy will persevere my whimsy will persevere my whimsy. my whimsy please my whimsy PLEASE NO MY WHIMSY (my whimsy is dragged away by the education system) NOOOOOOO

me, writing a character saying “i’m fine” as they wipe blood off their face and collapse into someone’s arms: yeah this is what storytelling is all about. this is what shakespeare was trying to do. this is what orwell would’ve written if he had a tumblr account and unresolved abandonment issues.

gonna stop writing one shots until im done with parent trap, greek comedies, and red flags.

i will probs last for two days lmao bye.

That was freaking amazing omg

I love you

I literally have no words

Heard that you need to study tho so I'll shut up

Cause girl same

But that really was amazing can't wait for the full piece to drop

Now you go study & I'll do the same

Thank you pookie for posting this and listening to my rambling

-🤖

ok ok ok byeeee LETS ALL LOCK INNN

woke up to 19 comments in my inbox. I'm not gonna read any of them coz i value my peace. i might read it tomorrow. or never. that being said, i believe i have created a monster. sorry, world.

The Kingdom, The Power, The Glory.

a/n: ok so first of all, this is @souvenir116's fault for making that one post. u gave me ideas. so now i gift you trauma. hope u like it. wrote this during my self-imposed study break which lasted 3 hrs. hah.

lemme know if u guys want a full-blown 10k fic on ao3. i might be able to turn this babyboy into a fluff fic. somehow. if i have enough words. and time. and sleep deprivation. 

Tags: angst, lestappen, hurt no comfort, sad ending, canon divergence, unrequited love.

Summary: After a devastating crash with Max Verstappen in the 2021 Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, Charles Leclerc is left to face the aftermath — and Max — in silence, guilt, and unbearable grief.

Charles comes back to consciousness with the taste of carbon and gravel in his mouth and a white-hot spear of pain down his side. His vision is blurred, smudged red at the edges, like someone dipped the whole world in shame.

The first thing he hears is that Lewis has won.

The second is silence.

Max isn't Champion. Not today. Not ever, maybe.

Because of Charles.

Because of that corner.

Because he didn’t lift.

He doesn’t remember the impact. Just the blur. The smoke. The scream. He remembers pressing the brake too late, the car twitching beneath him like a frightened animal. And Max was there. Max was right there. Max was always there.

And now everything is over.

He’s wheeled into the medical bay with one arm strapped to his chest and the sharp ache of a cracked rib every time he breathes too hard. The bandage across his temple itches. His mouth is dry. His fingers are shaking. He’s nauseous with adrenaline, horror, and the metallic taste of guilt he’s swallowed since he was five years old and first learned what it meant to want something you weren’t allowed to touch.

He doesn't ask for the championship standings.

He doesn’t need to.

Max DNF.

Lewis wins his eighth.

And Charles is the reason.

The FIA room is cold. Tiled like a morgue. Smells like antiseptic and judgment. No one speaks to him when they bring him in. They sit him in the corner, like a bad child. His fireproofs are still streaked with blood and smoke. His helmet is gone. He keeps looking at his hands. He doesn’t recognise them.

Charles doesn’t lift his head. Not until he feels him.

The fury.

It walks in before Max does.

It lives in the air. It vibrates in the walls. It hums inside Charles’ lungs, stealing the breath from his chest. The rage is so alive it feels like a third person in the room. And still — Max is silent.

No screaming.

No shouting.

No finger in his face. No snarled accusations.

Max walks into the room limping, jaw locked, and then—he sits down beside him.

Not across. Not far away. Right beside him.

Like this is personal.

Like this was always personal.

Charles keeps staring at the floor, because if he looks at Max’s face, he’ll break open. And he doesn't deserve to break. Not after this. Not after everything he just destroyed.

He took Max’s title.

He took Max’s year.

He took Max’s first World Championship and drove them both into smoke.

And it doesn't matter if he didn’t mean to. It doesn’t matter that he braked late thinking he could hold it. That he thought Max would leave him space. That he thought—

It doesn’t matter.

Intentions don’t count for anything when you steal the thing someone’s spent their whole life chasing.

Max’s hand is clenched into a fist on his knee.

It’s shaking.

Charles whispers, “I’m sorry.”

It’s all he has.

Max doesn’t reply. But the air goes colder.

“I didn’t—I didn’t want that to happen.”

His throat burns. His chest twists like wire.

“I locked up.”

His voice hitches.

“I wasn’t trying to—”

He shakes his head. It’s pointless. Words are pointless. Nothing he says will change it. The moment happened. The damage is done. History has been rewritten in the time it took for two cars to kiss carbon.

“I was trying to keep it clean.”

He swallows. It tastes like bile.

“I thought I left enough space.”

Max still doesn’t say anything.

Charles doesn't know what hurts more — the silence, or the fact that Max is still sitting there.

He keeps going, because if he stops, he’ll start crying, and he doesn’t deserve to cry.

“I should’ve backed out. I know that. I should’ve just let it go.”

Max’s fingers twitch. A flinch in his jaw.

Charles doesn't look at him. He can’t.

“I didn’t want it to end like that.”

It was supposed to be Max’s year.

Charles was supposed to stand in parc fermé, watching the fireworks go off above Max’s head. He was supposed to watch him cry — but the good kind, the kind that tasted like gold and champagne and glory.

He was supposed to wait in the shadows, and maybe, later, when things had calmed down, find him. Pull him aside. Say something like, “You did it. I’m proud of you.” Not “I love you.” Never “I love you.” But something. Anything.

Not this.

Never this.

Max’s shoulder is brushing his.

He’s so still, but Charles can feel it — the thunder in him. The fury just beneath the surface, held back with the kind of restraint that hurts to witness.

“Max,” he says, quietly. “Say something.”

Max’s voice, when it comes, is low and taut, like piano wire pulled too tight.

“What do you want me to say?”

Charles flinches.

Max turns to look at him.

His eyes aren’t red. He isn’t crying. But they’re wrecked. Devastated in a way that can’t be put back together.

“I lost everything,” Max says. “Everything I’ve worked for. Everything I’ve—” He cuts himself off.

His jaw is shaking.

Charles wants to disappear.

“I know,” he whispers.

“No, you don’t.” Max laughs, short and sharp. “You’ll never understand. You’ve always been the favourite. The golden boy. You never had to fight like I did. You never had to claw for it. You had people handing you crowns before you could walk.”

“That’s not true—”

Max stands suddenly, like he can’t take it anymore.

But he doesn’t walk away.

He looks down at Charles. And for one awful second, Charles thinks he might hit him. That Max might finally let it all out.

But he doesn’t.

He just stands there, fists shaking, mouth trembling, the whole sky of him collapsing inward.

And then, quietly, he says, “You should’ve just let me have it.”

Charles nods.

He knows.

Max stares at him, like he’s trying to see something human behind Charles’ eyes and can’t find it.

Then he says, “I don’t hate you.”

It’s worse than if he did.

“But don’t come near me again.”

Charles nods again.

And then Max walks out of the room.

He doesn’t look back.

Charles stays where he is, staring down at his own bloody hands, shaking in silence.

He thinks of the corner. Of the blur. Of the second he thought he had it. The second he thought they’d make it out the other side.

He thinks of every year that brought them here.

Every lap.

Every time he held his tongue and said nothing.

Every time he watched Max walk away.

He thinks of the prayer he whispered into his gloves before the formation lap.

Let the best man win.

And now the best man is gone.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t cry.

He just sits in the wreckage of something holy, and breathes like it’s a punishment.

And wishes the crash had taken him instead.