"Aurelia Knife Verstappen-Leclerc" I Giggled So Bad That Whole Fic

if lando norris was 3 and charles leclerc was an apple then how many centimeters is the milk that i need to burn on the antarctic refrigerator to gain 3/10ths down the straight at the rainbow road grand prix circuit?

first of all, thank you for this question. It has changed my life. second of all, the answer is clearly blueberry.

you see, if Lando is 3 (which checks out), and sharl leclair is an apple (organic ofc), then the milk (specifically emotionally unstable almond milk) needs to be cryogenically yeeted onto the antarctic refrigerator, which, as we all know, is guarded by two penguins named Lewis and Seb.

once you bypass the ice circuit boss battle (featuring rookie Fernando Alonso on skates), u pour exactly π centimetres of combusted dairy essence into the carburettor of your Mario Kart and scream "FOR MONZAAAA" while drifting at preciselyy 42° angle into rainbow road.

congratulations! you now have 3/10ths and also irreversible lactose trauma. charles is still an apple. lando has evolved into 4 somehow.

science. ✨

love when stories inflict unspeakable horrors onto a person for no real reason. its not karma. its not payback. its not a lesson. its not your fault. no ones even out to get you in particular. youre not the chosen one or special or anything. it just sorta happened and you were there. sorry man

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.

this moves me.

hes so embarrassing put the football down

twenty years across the sea

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

Music is wild like howd U make that lol

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

wrote a duck fic. No Ducks Given.

read it. vibe with it. become one with it. i wrote it when I was supposed to study for my finals which happens in (checks the microwave) six hours lmao ded.

just read abt anatidaephobia and now I have an irrational fear. and also a plot to a crackfic that I don't know what to do with.

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