To Be Seen Without Performing. To Be Heard Without Screaming. To Be Missed Without Disappearing. To Be

I'M SO SRY FOR WRITING YUKI CRASHING AND NOW THIS HAPPENS I WILL NOW WRITE HAPPY YUKIERRE FLUFF (unrelated to the main story)

-icantwritelol

OK GOOD I WILL BE WAITING 👀❤️

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

the way my brain politely steps out for coffee every time i need it to proofread.

my ability to read what ive typed out 20 times before hitting post and still not notice a typo is remarkable

phone, I love you so much, you connect me to so many things that i would never see otherwise, thank you phone

its amazing how if you decide not to do something day after day it never gets done. not how i would have things

you can literally say i love you to anyone anywhere anytime ever

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."

i dont. he might need to win in '25 for me to refresh my memory

hey guys remember when charles won the monaco grand prix

i gotta remember this

btw. to everyone who's suffering because of sports right now: remember that you can't be so back if it isn't first so over. never forget