#improved formula calculation

[galemilker]

how much fun am i having with LaDs? I just spend 4+ hours making Excel spreadsheets to track event rewards , card ascention resource calculations and about to spend some more to make a filterable table for the cards i have and planner for card upgrades

[helvegen-s]

a calculated risk

an Oscar Piastri one-shot

Summary: Oscar Piastri's disciplined world spins off-axis when he meets Elena Sainz. The catch? She's Carlos Sainz's sister. Their intense connection sparks a forbidden romance, pushing them into a reckless game of secrecy and desire. When the truth explodes, will their love survive the fallout?

Word count: 12k (i tried, i really tried to make it shorter...)

Warnings: explicit sexual content, strong language, alcohol

A/N: what. the fuck. was. today's race. do not talk to me about it, do not mention it. this year's season starts the 23rd of march in china. australia never happened.

masterlist

Oscar Piastri had learned to tune out the noise.

The Formula 1 paddock was controlled chaos, a symphony of roaring engines, overlapping conversations, and orders shouted through radios. But none of it fazed him. He moved through the garages and meetings with the same methodical calm he carried into every corner on track. His world was simple: improve, win, move forward.

And then she arrived.

Elena Sainz stepped into the paddock at the start of the 2024 season as if she had always belonged there—walking with quiet confidence, wearing a look he knew all too well. Because it was the same one Carlos gave him just before a race. He had seen her before, of course. There were photos of her on Sainz’s social media, Instagram stories of them cycling, on a yacht, at the family estate. But until that moment, he had never really paid attention.

The problem was, now he couldn’t stop.

The first time he saw her in her new role was at the pre-season press conference in Bahrain. She stood beside Carlos, wearing a striking red Ferrari dress, arms crossed, expression neutral as she listened to reporters fire off their questions. She didn’t force a smile, didn’t try to seem approachable. She was just there—assessing, calculating. Watching them all. Watching him.

Oscar kept his composure, as always. But when their eyes met, a sharp jolt of electricity ran down his spine.

Later, he made the comment without thinking too much about it.

"Since when do you have a personal assistant?"

Carlos, scrolling through something on his phone, didn’t even look up.

"She’s not my assistant."

"Oh, right, my bad." Oscar rolled his eyes with exaggerated dramatics. "What’s the correct term now? Trusted advisor?"

"Manager."

The voice wasn’t Carlos’.

Oscar turned just in time to see her approaching at a measured pace. Elena Sainz stopped beside them, offering him a half-smile that was anything but friendly.

"Elena Sainz, by the way." She extended her hand effortlessly. "But if you need to call me something else, I can give you a few suggestions."

It took Oscar a second to react before he shook her hand. Her skin was cold from the water bottle she held in the other, but her grip was firm. Confident. Irritatingly confident.

"How generous."

"They say it’s one of my best qualities." Elena tilted her head slightly, her expression composed but with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "That, and my ability to stay one step ahead."

Carlos clicked his tongue, clearly entertained.

"Give it a month, Piastri. Once you see how she works, you’ll be terrified."

"Oh, I already know." Oscar let go of Elena’s hand with practiced ease, as if he had felt absolutely nothing. As if his brain wasn’t still processing the intensity of her gaze. "I’m just surprised she didn’t put ‘master strategist’ on her business card."

Elena leaned against the table and shrugged.

"I figured ‘Carlos Sainz’s manager’ was enough to make it clear what I’m made of."

Oscar held her gaze a second longer than he should have.

Carlos cleared his throat.

"Alright, children. I’d rather not have my own manager fired on her first day."

Elena let out a quiet laugh before straightening up.

"Don’t worry, Carlos. I can handle it."

She met Oscar’s eyes once more before turning away, walking off with the same confidence she had arrived with.

Oscar exhaled through his nose and looked back at Carlos.

"I don’t like her."

Carlos smirked over the rim of his water bottle.

"Sure you don’t."

Oscar took a slow sip of his own drink, watching Elena’s figure on the other side of the room.

The problem was, he also couldn’t stop looking at her.

Oscar thought it would pass.

That the irritation Elena Sainz stirred in him would fade with time, like the foam on a beer after a toast. That her presence in the paddock would blend into the background, just another familiar face in a sea of them.

He was wrong.

Elena wasn’t like the other newcomers to Formula 1—the ones who arrived tentatively, trying to fit into the finely tuned machinery of a team. No. She was already fitted in. She already belonged.

The worst part was, she knew it.

Oscar saw it in the way she moved through the Ferrari garage, in how effortlessly she spoke to engineers, mechanics, and executives. In how Carlos barely had to glance at her for her to know exactly what he needed.

But most of all, he saw it in the way she looked at him.

It was a game. And he wasn’t sure when, exactly, it had started.

Maybe it was in Jeddah, when they crossed paths in a narrow hallway and she slipped past him with a barely audible whisper:

"Do you always walk that stiffly, or is it just when I’m around?"

Or in Melbourne, when he passed by the hospitality area and saw her leaning against a railing, sipping coffee with infuriating ease. When their eyes met, she raised an eyebrow and mused, just loud enough over the ambient noise:

"You don’t seem like a coffee person. I’d say hot chocolate. With marshmallows, maybe?"

Oscar frowned, not understanding why that threw him off so much.

Or perhaps it was in Japan, at one of those post-race parties where the noise and lights made everything feel a little more unreal. She was on the other side of the room, laughing at something someone had said, and then—without warning—she looked right at him. Champagne glass in hand, wearing that enigmatic half-smile that made him want to cut through the crowd just to see if, up close, she would smile at him the same way.

It was subtle. Insidious.

And Oscar was losing.

Because for every comment she made, he had a response ready on the tip of his tongue. Because every time she looked at him with that glint of mischief, he found himself searching for her in a room, waiting to see how long it would take for her to provoke him again.

Because, no matter how much he denied it, he loved the damn game.

Then came China.

It was no secret that Ferrari and McLaren were locked in a tight battle in the championship. Carlos, Leclerc, and Lando were fighting for points race after race, and Oscar, of course, was right in the middle of it all.

The weekend had been tense. During the press conference, Oscar tossed a casual remark at Carlos as they settled into their seats.

"Careful tomorrow, Sainz. I’d hate to see you in a wall just for the sake of tradition."

Carlos rolled his eyes, but it was the quiet laugh to his right that really caught his attention.

Elena stood with her arms crossed, expression neutral but with that glint in her eyes. As Oscar walked past her after the interviews, she glanced sideways at him.

Elena tilted her head, somewhere between amused and analytical.

"Interesting. I wonder if your confidence is real, or if you’re just used to faking it."

Oscar didn’t blink.

"I wonder the same about you."

Elena smiled, making no effort to deny anything.

"I suppose we’ll both find out."

Oscar held her gaze a moment longer before letting out a quiet laugh.

"I hope you won’t be disappointed by mine."

"I hope the same." She shrugged before turning on her heel. "Though, if I am… I’ll be sure to let you know."

And with that, she walked away.

Oscar exhaled, realizing too late that he had been holding his breath.

He was definitely losing.

This year, Miami had a different kind of energy.

Maybe it was the atmosphere—the sticky heat creeping under clothes, the constant mix of music and engines in the air. Maybe it was the tension in the championship, the ever-tightening battle, the sense that every race mattered more than the last.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was her.

Elena had been at every Grand Prix since the season started. But this weekend, for some reason, her presence felt heavier.

And then came Saturday night.

And the elevator.

The entire hotel was asleep.

Miami was a city of excess, of bright lights and incessant noise, but at that moment, inside the luxury skyscraper, everything was calm.

The only signs of life were a couple of employees walking silently down the hallways, and the two of them, waiting for the elevator in the lobby.

Oscar couldn't sleep. He had spent the last hour wandering around the hotel, without any particular destination, hoping that fatigue would hit him suddenly and send him to bed. It didn't work.

Elena, on the other hand, had just closed her laptop after losing track of time at the bar, going over a couple of public relations matters for Carlos. The glass of wine she’d been sipping on was still evident in the slight flush on her cheeks and the languid way she held her purse.

Neither of them said anything when they saw each other.

The tension from the past few weeks still hung in the air, like a storm that never quite broke. Oscar gave her a brief nod, and she did the same, but the silence between them felt heavier than usual.

The elevator was taking too long.

Oscar couldn’t help but glance sideways at Elena, noticing the subtle movement of her fingers on the strap of her purse. Impatient.

“Working late?” he finally asked, his voice low, just to fill the void.

She turned her head slightly, sizing him up before responding.

“Not everyone has the luxury of walking around the hotel when they can’t sleep.”

Oscar gave a wry smile.

“Yeah, well. Not everyone has the need to manage their brother’s public image every weekend.”

Elena squinted at him.

“It’s an easier job than you think.”

“Of course. Carlos never says anything out of line, never stirs controversy, never gets into trouble.”

“Exactly.”

Oscar let out a brief laugh through his nose, but the sound quickly died when the elevator finally arrived, its doors opening with a soft “ding.”

They stepped inside together.

The doors closed. The elevator shut with a soft click and began to move as normal.

Oscar leaned his back against the padded wall and let his head fall back, exhaling slowly. Elena did the same in front of him, though with more grace. She held her purse with both hands in front of her, as if she needed something to hold onto.

The silence was so thick that the faint hum of the elevator’s motor seemed deafening.

Oscar felt the weight of the day accumulating on his shoulders, in his breathing. He wasn’t sure why insomnia was worse tonight, why his body refused to rest. Or rather, he knew why, but he wasn’t in the mood to admit it. Not when the reason was standing right in front of him.

Suddenly, the elevator stopped abruptly.

There was no jolt, no harsh shake, just a sharp stop, accompanied by a momentary blackout in the control buttons.

 Elena straightened immediately.

“What the hell...?”

Oscar looked at the panel, hoping the light for the floor they were heading to would turn back on. It didn’t.

He didn’t feel the elevator moving again either.

Elena pressed a button. Then another. Then several, more insistently.

Nothing.

She turned her head toward Oscar, and he could see the exact moment she realized the situation.

“No.” She shook her head, almost as if she could reverse it. “No way.”

Oscar blinked slowly.

“I think we’re stuck.”

Elena closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose.

“No shit, Sherlock. How did you deduce that?”

He smiled because it came naturally, because there was something almost amusing about seeing her flustered.

“Calm down. It won’t be for long.”

Elena didn’t respond. She just pressed her lips together in a tense line and went back to pressing the buttons, as if the elevator would give in to her persistence.

The panel didn’t even beep.

She sighed and pressed the emergency button.

The speaker crackled with static before a sleepy voice responded:

“Yes?”

Elena leaned toward the microphone urgently.

“We’re stuck in the elevator.”

There was a pause. Then, a yawn.

“Oh. Okay.”

Elena frowned.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t worry. It’s probably a temporary glitch. These things happen when the system resets in the early hours.”

Oscar and Elena exchanged a look.

“How long until it works again?” Oscar asked.

“Mmm… a few minutes. Half an hour at most.”

Elena threw her head back and closed her eyes, as if she needed all the patience in the world not to explode.

“Great.”

The intercom voice came through again.

“If it still doesn’t respond in a while, we’ll call maintenance. Don’t worry.”

There was a click, and then, just silence.

Oscar watched Elena cautiously, waiting for her reaction.

She looked back at him.

Then, she exhaled a long sigh before slowly sliding down the wall of the elevator until she was sitting on the floor, her legs crossed and her head resting against the padded panel.

Oscar raised an eyebrow.

“Giving up that easily?”

“No. I’m just adapting.”

Oscar watched her for a second longer, then shrugged and did the same.

It didn’t make sense to stay standing, after all.

The elevator was dim, lit only by the faint emergency light. It was late. Almost no one was awake in the hotel. There was no sound beyond the static hum of the machinery and their own breathing. The air was thick, charged with something neither of them knew how to handle.

Elena pulled out her phone, checking it out of habit, though she didn’t expect to find anything.

"No signal." Her voice was low, almost as if she didn’t want to break the silence between them.

"Perfect. Now you have no excuse to be watching nonsense on TikTok."

Elena narrowed her eyes, smiling faintly, but the mockery in his tone didn’t go unnoticed.

"And what are you going to do? Philosophize about life in the dark?"

Oscar looked at her, clearly amused. The sarcasm in her voice had vanished, replaced by something... closer. Something more intense.

"Maybe." He replied, still holding onto his attitude. But that spark of playfulness was there, a touch of complicity that was growing stronger, more palpable.

Elena didn’t say anything else. She remained silent for a few seconds, fiddling with her phone in her hands while the elevator stayed still.

Oscar watched how the soft light reflected on her face. Every small movement she made was a reminder of how close she was to him, of how their bodies seemed to be drawing closer without either of them planning it. It was hard not to notice how the proximity between them was increasing, how the electricity between their skins seemed to grow more intense with every passing second.

Finally, she broke the silence.

"You’ve never been very subtle, have you, Piastri?"

He smiled, but the smile wasn’t mocking. It was different, like he was recognizing her in some way.

"I don’t like wasting time."

Elena looked at him with something more than amusement in her eyes, as though she was evaluating every word, every reaction. Her legs shifted slowly, and without thinking, she let her knee brush against his. A soft touch, almost imperceptible, but close enough for both of them to feel it.

Oscar swallowed, his chest tightening with that rapid heartbeat he couldn’t ignore. The tension between them was almost tangible, a weight neither of them could shake off.

She leaned slightly towards him, not breaking eye contact, and their voices softened further, becoming more intimate, more personal.

"You know," she said quietly. "I wonder how much longer you’re going to keep denying it."

Oscar didn’t answer.

Because he knew exactly what she was talking about.

Because he couldn’t pretend he didn’t feel the raw energy between them, that insistent attraction that grew with every held glance, every accidental touch, every provocation disguised as indifference.

Because he knew she knew it too.

Elena raised an eyebrow, waiting. Challenging.

Oscar closed his eyes for a second.

He took a deep breath.

But when he opened them again, Elena was even closer.

He could see every detail of her face. He could count the centimeters between them. Every freckle that adorned her tan skin. He could hear her breath, feel her warm breath grazing his skin, the hint of wine lingering from the glass she must’ve had earlier at the hotel bar.

It was a trap. And he knew it.

But he didn’t move.

Because, damn it, he didn’t want to move.

Elena’s fingers grazed his forearm, just a touch, an experiment.

Oscar felt his skin light up instantly.

"This is a fucking terrible idea," he muttered.

"Yeah?" Elena tilted her head slightly, letting the tension pull them together like an invisible thread. "Then tell me you don’t want it."

Oscar didn’t answer.

Because he did want it.

He wanted it with an absurd intensity, with an urgency that had been consuming him from the moment he saw her in the paddock at the start of the season.

But he shouldn’t.

The elevator beeped and came to life with a jolt.

Oscar reacted immediately, like a spring releasing. He stood up quickly, not thinking. The muscles in his legs tensed, and his torso straightened abruptly. A rushed, almost desperate movement, as if escaping the situation was the only way out.

Elena stayed on the floor of the elevator, watching him with that half-mocking, half-challenging smile, not moving. The position she was in, her knees bent, her eyes fixed on him, gave her a sense of power and control that bordered on indecent. Every inch of her body seemed to dare him to give in.

Oscar tried to look away, but his eyes inevitably returned to her. He knew he should leave, that he shouldn’t give in to what he wanted, to what his body was asking for, but... Elena was there, so close, so willing, and he was about to lose it all.

With a sharp movement, he tried to step towards the exit, distancing himself from her, avoiding any contact. He shouldn’t look at her anymore, shouldn’t think about it anymore.

But the damage was done. His mind was filled with images of her, from the most innocent to the most lewd thing he could have ever imagined.

Oscar quickly turned, as if the mere act of looking at her one more second would lead him to ruin. He walked towards the elevator’s exit, his pace quickening, and once he crossed the threshold, he breathed deeply, as if trying to expel all the accumulated tension from his body.

Elena didn’t say anything. She made no move. She stayed there, on the floor of the elevator, watching him walk away with a barely visible smile on her lips.

Oscar took a few steps, stopping at the end of the hallway before turning back, looking at her again, feeling the magnetism drawing him toward her. His body was begging to return, begging for more. But he stood firm.

In the end, he didn’t turn back.

But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time.

By the time Oscar reached his room, he felt like he was about to throw up everything he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours. What had just happened? Had he just dreamed all that?

He collapsed onto the bed, his mind spinning while the darkness of the room enveloped him. Tomorrow he had a race, but in that moment, all he could think about was Elena. That damn kiss. What had just happened, and what he still didn’t understand.

The clock read three in the morning. His eyes were heavy, but he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in the bed, uncomfortable. The heat was still there, weighing on his chest, and the memory of her lewd smile wouldn’t leave him alone.

Suddenly, the sound of a knock on the door made him jump. Oscar frowned. Who the hell was knocking at this hour?

He sprang up and approached the door still drowsy, scratching his head, and opened it almost without thinking.

And there she was.

Elena.

Her slender, defined figure stood in the doorway, the hallway light partially illuminating her face, which held a serious expression but with that playful spark in her eyes.

"Am I interrupting?" she said, her tone both cheeky and innocent at the same time.

Oscar stood frozen for a moment, speechless. He couldn’t believe it.

"What are you doing here? How the hell do you know what room I’m in?" he asked, the exhaustion in his voice mixed with a clear sense of bewilderment.

"I speak five languages and I have charisma," she replied, leaning against the door.

Oscar should make a sarcastic comment, something sharp to break the tension, but he can't. Not when he still feels the ghost of her breath trapped between them in that elevator, the images he has tried to push deep into his mind now resurfacing at the worst possible moment.

Elena doesn't say anything. She just looks at him.

Oscar feels the weight of her gaze on every nerve ending.

"Tell me this isn't a bad idea," she whispers, though her tone says she already knows the answer.

Oscar could say many things.

He could remind her who she is. He could tell her that they hate each other, that they don't get along, that they're incompatible. He could remind her who her brother is.

But she steps closer.

And Oscar feels like he's drowning.

It's slow. It's unbearably slow. The ground seems to tilt beneath him as Elena moves a little closer, with the same determination she uses to negotiate contracts and manipulate press conferences. And Oscar, for the first time, has nothing to say.

Because he wants this.

He wants it so much it hurts.

"Tell me to stop," she whispers, but they're already too close, and the air between them is suffocating, electric, sharp like a summer storm.

Oscar says nothing.

And then, finally, he kisses her.

It's soft at first, as if they're still testing the boundaries of something too big to contain. But Elena responds with the same repressed intensity, her nails sliding down his neck, a small gasp smothered against his lips, and then everything crashes, like a snowball tumbling down a cliff.

No more doubts.

No more lines.

Just them.

The room is too small for everything they're feeling.

Oscar pulls her against him with more force than he should. It's not sweet. It's not gentle. It's nothing like it should be. But Elena doesn't want that either. Her hands search for him with the same silent desperation, the same urgency of someone who's been holding back for too long.

Her jacket falls to the floor in one swift motion.

Oscar's hands trace her back, outline the curve of her waist, and when their lips part for just a second, just enough to take a breath, they look at each other like they've just jumped into the void.

No one says anything.

Because there's nothing to say.

Elena grabs his shirt tightly, as if holding onto something. As if she can pretend this isn't tearing everything apart.

And Oscar... Oscar feels like he can finally breathe.

Because this isn't a mistake.

It can't be. It can’t feel this good.

When he kisses her again, Elena moans against his mouth and he feels something inside him break.

And there's no going back.

Clothes disappear somewhere between their broken kisses and the clumsy steps toward the bed. There are no pauses, no space for thought. Only the sound of their ragged breaths and the weight of the inevitable.

Elena is fire in his hands, in his mouth, in the way she touches him like she's discovering something that's always been there, something she's denied for too long. And Oscar... Oscar surrenders.

There's no rivalry, no fear, no one else in the world but her.

When their bodies finally meet, it's a perfect mess. A mix of need and awkwardness, muffled moans and nails marking skin. There are no doubts, no barriers. Just them, consuming each other in the darkness of a hotel room in Miami, not thinking about tomorrow.

Because right now, nothing else matters.

Dawn finds them tangled in the sheets, breaths still ragged, skin warm from what they've just done. Neither of them speaks. There is no room for words in the aftermath they've just unleashed.

Oscar feels the weight of the silence between them, but it's not uncomfortable. Not yet. Elena lies next to him, her face turned toward the ceiling, her hair messy on the pillow. She seems lost in her thoughts, but when Oscar moves his hand, barely grazing her arm, she doesn't pull away.

They shouldn't be here.

They shouldn't have crossed that line.

But they have. And the worst part is that instead of regretting it, Oscar only thinks about doing it again.

"Let's not talk about this, okay?" Elena says, finally breaking the silence.

Her voice is soft, measured, as if she’s testing the waters.

Oscar glances at her out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t want to say anything that will shatter this moment, make it more real than it already is.

"I don’t see what there is to say," he replies, because it’s the truth.

Elena lets out a low, almost ironic laugh and turns toward him, resting her head on her hand. Her eyes scan him with that intensity that drives him crazy, the kind that turns him into a damn fool every time he runs into her in the paddock.

"This doesn’t change anything," she says, with a certainty Oscar doesn’t know whether to envy or fear.

And maybe he should agree. Maybe he should nod, pretend that this was just a bad idea, a momentary mistake they can laugh off later.

But when Elena leans in and gently bites his lower lip before pulling away with a smile that’s pure poison, Oscar knows he’s screwed.

Because this changes everything.

The next morning, Oscar wakes up with the feeling that it was all a dream.

But the lingering warmth on his skin and the slight pressure of the mattress beside him tell him otherwise.

He blinks, trying to clear the fog of sleep, and the first thing he sees is Elena’s profile, sitting on the edge of the bed, adjusting the cuff of her blouse. Her hair is still tangled, her neck bearing traces of his mouth, and the sunlight of Miami filters its golden light through the curtains, making her look almost unreal.

She’s fucking beautiful.

And she’s also Carlos Sainz’ sister.

Oscar closes his eyes and curses under his breath.

He feels like he should say something, but his mind is still caught in the image of the night before. How Elena had surrendered to him with the same ferocity with which she looks at him in the paddock. How the tension that had been choking them both for months finally erupted into something neither of them could control.

And now, she’s there. Getting dressed. Preparing to leave.

As if nothing had happened.

As if they hadn’t spent the night devouring each other.

"So, not even a 'good morning' after everything we did last night?" he says, his voice still a little rough from sleep.

Elena doesn't even bother to turn around, though he notices the brief pause in her movements before she slips on her heels.

"Why drag out the inevitable?" she replies, shrugging.

Oscar lets out a low, incredulous laugh.

"The inevitable?"

"That we'll go on with our lives as if this never happened." She finally turns, resting a hand on her hip with that air of superiority that drives him crazy. "I know you can do it, Piastri. If you can keep a poker face after Lando closes you out on track, this shouldn't be a problem."

Oscar watches her closely, looking for any hint of doubt in her expression. He doesn't find any.

"Wow, what an elegant way to say it was a mistake."

Elena gives him a half-smile, as sharp as ever.

"I didn't say it was a mistake. I just said it’s not going to happen again."

Oscar narrows his eyes.

"So this is how we're going to play it?"

"This is how we're going to play it," she replies, with a certainty he knows is just a façade.

Oscar exhales and falls back onto the pillow, running a hand over his face.

"Well, I guess it was a pleasure doing business with you, Sainz."

Elena laughs softly, and that frustrates him more because it sounds genuinely amused, like this is just a simple game she has full control over.

"Take care, Piastri," she says finally, before turning and walking out of the room.

Oscar stares at the ceiling, feeling the echo of her perfume in the air.

Of course. Because this is perfectly normal.

Because he's definitely not about to lose his mind.

And because, evidently, this isn't over. Not by a long shot.

Oscar should have known that "it’s not going to happen again" was the biggest lie of the century.

Because it happens again.

And again.

And again.

In hidden rooms in the paddock, in hotels around the world, in deserted elevators and offices with the door slightly ajar. In any corner where there’s enough shadow for no one to see them, and just enough risk to make their hearts pound in their chests.

The first time he breaks his supposed resolution is at the next Grand Prix, in Ferrari’s hospitality entrance.

Elena is standing with her arms crossed, arguing with Carlos about something related to his race strategy. She’s wearing a fitted black dress with a blazer on top, and Oscar is trying to concentrate on his coffee when she gives him a fleeting glance, barely a second of eye contact that shouldn’t mean anything.

But his spine stiffens instantly.

And when she disappears down the back hall, he knows he’s going to follow her before he even thinks about it.

"I don’t even know why I bother pretending to be strong with you," he murmurs, closing the door behind him just a second before Elena pushes him against the wall and kisses him with a ferocity that leaves him breathless.

"Because you’re proud, Piastri." Her smile is lethal against his lips.

"And you’re a liar," he replies, sliding his hands under her blazer and pressing her against him.

"Yeah?"

"'It’s not going to happen again,'" he mocks, exaggerating her tone.

Elena laughs against his skin, right on the line of his jaw, before whispering in his ear:

"Well, sometimes I say things I don’t mean."

And Oscar, of course, is completely screwed.

After that, things escalate as fast as a Formula 1 car on a straight.

The hotel elevator in Monaco, where they barely manage to pull apart in time when the door opens into the lobby.

The engineers’ room in Canada, where he almost kisses her right next to the menu mural, and she laughs in his face when he stops at the last second.

The back corridor of the paddock in Spain, where he slides his hand across her backside when no one’s looking, and she spends the rest of the day with her skin burning.

"This is a really bad idea," Oscar says that same afternoon, just before he pushes her against the wall of his hotel room and kisses her like his life depends on it.

"A horrible idea," Elena agrees, between gasps.

"We can’t keep doing this."

"Never again."

"Last time."

"Last time," she repeats, her fingers tangled in his hair.

Obviously, they’re doomed.

The problem with saying "last time" is that they never follow through.

Oscar should be worried. Not just because this is getting out of control, but because it’s becoming more reckless with each time. At least in the beginning, they tried to keep it professional during the day and only let themselves go in the privacy of a hotel room at midnight. But now...

Now Elena holds his gaze a little too long in meetings. Now they cross paths in the paddock, and she brushes her fingers against his arm as she passes. Now he sees her sitting next to Carlos in Ferrari’s hospitality, and all he can think about is the way she moaned his name the night before.

It’s a miracle no one has discovered them.

"You’re playing with fire," Lando tells him in Silverstone, after catching Oscar looking toward Elena for the fifth time in half an hour.

Oscar feigns ignorance.

"Sorry?"

"I don’t know what’s going on there, but whatever it is, Carlos is going to kill you."

Oscar scoffs, but something inside him tightens.

Because that’s the other thing: the risk. Not just for his career, not just because if anyone at McLaren finds out, it could be a scandal, but because Carlos Sainz still sees him as a rival, and if he finds out that Oscar is tangled up with his sister, he’ll probably strangle him with his bare hands.

But it’s hard to care about that when she keeps sneaking into his hotel room at midnight.

When she keeps leaving marks on his skin that he has to hide before he puts on his racing suit.

When she smiles at him from across the paddock with that damn expression of "I know exactly what you’re thinking," and Oscar has to bite his tongue to keep from dragging her somewhere private.

It’s not just attraction. It’s something worse.

And the bomb finally explodes in Hungary.

The Hungarian GP should be the best day of his life.

He should be celebrating his first Formula 1 victory, savoring the champagne on the podium, feeling the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.

But it’s all overshadowed by the controversy, by McLaren’s terrible strategy.

Oscar shouldn’t feel guilty for winning, but he does.

People are hugging him, patting him on the back, congratulating him like nothing happened. Lando is professional in front of the cameras, but in the garage, his expression is tense. He wanted that win. He deserved it. But the strategy benefited Oscar, and now it’s impossible to enjoy it.

He hasn’t seen Elena since he stepped off the podium.

Maybe he should be glad about that. After all, this is what they had agreed on: a game with no feelings, no strings attached, no complications.

When he arrives at the hotel, his room is completely dark.

Oscar closes the door behind him and stands in the middle of the room, not turning on the light, not moving.

He doesn't know what to do with himself.

He should be happy. Euphoric. Victorious. But all that’s in his chest is an indescribable weight, something that suffocates him, that tangles his thoughts until he doesn't know what to feel.

He clenches his fists. The adrenaline of the day still pulses in his veins, mixed with exhaustion and frustration. He shouldn't feel this way. Not after winning.

The door opens again.

He doesn’t even need to turn around to know it’s her.

Elena enters silently, not turning on the light, saying nothing. She just closes the door and walks over to the bed, sitting on the edge with the same ease with which she’s been invading his life from the start.

Oscar exhales a trembling sigh.

He doesn’t know what pushes him to move, but suddenly his legs give away and he falls to his knees in front of her, his head bowed, his arms powerless at his sides.

And then, he’s resting his forehead on her lap.

Elena doesn’t say anything.

She just runs a hand through his hair with a softness that disarms him.

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut. And he doesn’t know why, but he's crying.

Tears fall without permission, without control, without him being able to stop them.

He doesn’t sob, he doesn’t shake, he doesn’t make any noise. He just feels the heat on his cheeks, the pressure in his chest, his breath ragged.

Elena’s fingers continue in his hair, tracing slow lines, calming him without haste.

“You deserve this,” she whispers, so quietly it almost feels like a secret. “Don’t doubt for a second that this victory is yours. And no one else’s.”

Oscar closes his eyes.

He clings to those words.

To her.

Elena leans over him, her hand tangling in his hair with the same delicacy someone would use to pet a wounded animal.

Oscar feels her breath above his head, warm and steady.

“Look at me,” she says, but he can’t.

Not yet.

He stays there, with his forehead resting on her lap, his hands clenched on her pants, trying to contain something he doesn’t even understand.

“Oscar,” Elena repeats, softer this time, and runs her fingers down his neck. “You deserve this. No matter what anyone else says. No matter what anyone else thinks.”

Oscar squeezes his eyes shut tightly.

“They handed it to me,” he murmurs, his voice broken. “It’s not a real victory.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she cuts him off without hesitation, but her tone remains sweet, still Elena. “Of course it’s real. You were faster than everyone out there. You didn’t stop fighting. You didn’t stop proving you deserve every second of that podium.”

Oscar swallows hard.

“But Lando…”

“But Lando nothing,” she interrupts him. “You don’t owe anyone an apology. You don’t have to feel guilty for winning.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Oscar,” she insists, and this time she takes his face in her hands, forcing him to lift his head.

Their eyes meet in the dim light of the room.

“Don’t let anyone make you doubt what you are,” she says, and her voice is an anchor, it’s fire, it’s a reminder that she’s here, with him, holding him when he feels like everything else is falling apart. “Today, you won. And you did it.”

Oscar looks at her.

Something inside him breaks, but not in the way he’s felt broken all day.

It’s something else.

Something deeper. Something that scares him.

Because until now, it had been easy to convince himself that what he had with Elena was just physical. A game. Something neither of them would take too seriously.

But here she is, holding him, seeing him, telling him what he needs to hear at the exact moment he needs to hear it.

And Oscar knows he’s fucked.

Elena keeps holding his face, her touch firm and sure, as if with just her contact she could return the stability he feels crumbling inside him.

Oscar wants to speak. He wants to say something that will lighten the weight in his chest. But all he does is inhale, deeply and brokenly, clinging to the feeling of her hands on his skin.

“Breathe,” Elena tells him, with a sweetness that’s almost his undoing.

So, he does.

He forces himself to fill his lungs with air and let it out slowly, as if with every exhale, he could release the knot in his throat, the doubt, the resentment towards himself.

Elena slides her thumbs over his cheeks, with a tenderness that’s almost unfamiliar to him.

“That’s it,” she murmurs. “That’s better.”

Oscar closes his eyes for a second. When he opens them again, she’s still there, watching him with that intensity that always disarms him.

And it’s in that moment when he realizes.

How fucking easy it would be to fall in love with her.

Because if Elena can see him like this, completely undone, and still look at him like he’s the same confident and determined driver everyone thinks he is… what else is she seeing in him that he himself can’t even recognize?

The thought terrifies him. Terrifies him a lot.

So he does the only thing he knows how to do: he straightens up, pulls away, rebuilds the distance he’s been ignoring between them since this started.

Elena lets him do it, but her eyes follow him with a look of understanding that unsettles him.

The silence between them is thick, heavy with something Oscar can no longer ignore. He has pulled away, tried to regain his composure, but it’s useless. He can still feel her touch on his skin, still hear her voice in his head, still see those eyes piercing through him as if they had always known the exact point to strike to bring him down.

"This isn’t just physical, is it?" His own voice sounds foreign, low, and almost trembling. As if, by saying it out loud, he’s admitting to something far greater.

Elena doesn’t seem surprised. She doesn’t lower her gaze, doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t back away. There’s no fear or uncertainty in her expression, only the same certainty that has driven him insane from the very start.

"It never was."

Oscar swallows hard, his chest rising and falling with something he can’t tell if it’s relief or terror. Or both at the same time.

"From the moment I saw you in the paddock," she continues, her voice calm, steady, "I knew I was going to fall for you. It was inevitable. And when you looked at me for the first time, I knew you were going to fall, too."

Oscar blinks, surprised by how easily she says it. As if it’s a simple truth, an undeniable fact. And maybe it was. Maybe this was never in his control.

Somehow, that makes him laugh. He drops his head, a rough, resigned chuckle escaping his lips, because of course Elena knew before he did. Of course she had already figured it out while he was busy pretending it wasn’t happening.

When he looks at her again, it’s with different eyes. With the eyes of someone who knows he’s lost, that there’s no turning back.

"You’re unbearable," he mutters, but there’s a smile on his face.

Elena smiles too. And Oscar knows, with terrifying certainty, that he’s screwed. Completely, irreversibly screwed.

Oscar still stands before her, in the dim light of the room. His hands, still clenched into fists, gradually relax. Elena remains seated at the edge of the bed, her posture at ease but her gaze intense, fixed on him, as if she already knows what he’s going to do before he does.

"So, what do we do now?" he asks, his voice low, as if speaking in a space that belongs only to the two of them.

Elena leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. The soft light of the room traces the curve of her face, her collarbone, the golden sheen of her skin still warm from the Hungarian summer. Oscar swallows.

"We could keep pretending nothing’s happening," she suggests, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Oscar scoffs, glancing down at his own hands before refocusing on her. "Great idea. That’s worked brilliantly so far."

Elena lets out a soft laugh, a low sound that skims over his skin. Then, with the same tranquility as always, she straightens up and rests her hands on the mattress, tilting her head in thought.

"We keep it a secret a little longer," she finally says. "We explore… this."

Oscar frowns, his pulse still erratic from everything they’ve just admitted.

"This?"

"Whatever is happening between us," she explains, her hand making a subtle gesture between them. "No pressure, no expectations. Just… letting it grow."

Oscar feels his breathing deepen slightly, as if his body is trying to absorb the calm in Elena’s voice. He doesn’t know what he expected her to say, but now that he hears it, he realizes this is the only thing that makes sense.

"Improvising?" he asks, his tone lighter, though something still lingers in his chest.

Elena nods slowly. "Improvising."

Oscar sinks back onto his knees, closer this time, his hands resting on the edge of the mattress, just inches from hers. The room seems to shrink, narrowing down to the proximity of their bodies, to the warm, settled tension between them.

He looks at her and, instead of doubt, all he sees in her is certainty. As if she has known from the start that this was the only possible outcome.

"We’re screwed, aren’t we?" he murmurs, almost smiling.

Elena tilts her head, her fingers barely brushing against Oscar’s on the bed. A small, fleeting contact, but one that electrifies the space between them.

"Up to our necks."

Oscar exhales slowly and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling as if he might find some kind of answer there. But there are no answers—only the undeniable reality that, for the first time, they are acknowledging what’s between them without pretending it doesn’t exist.

Elena shifts on the bed and pats the mattress beside her, a silent invitation. There’s no ulterior motive in the gesture, no expectation, and maybe that’s what makes Oscar surrender so easily. He lies down beside her, his head resting on the pillow, leaving a small space between them.

And for the first time since this began, there’s no urgency, no hands exploring skin, no breath-stealing kisses. They’re just there, sharing the same air, seeing each other without the barrier of immediate desire.

They talk.

At first, about absurd things. Silly habits, likes they’ve never admitted to each other. Elena sleeps with socks on, even in the summer, and Oscar looks at her in horror when she says it. He has a specific routine for putting on his gloves before getting in the car, and she laughs because her brother does the same.

Then come childhood stories, dreams they once had and those they still chase. Elena tells him she wanted to be an astronaut as a child but got too dizzy in space simulators. Oscar confesses he’s still not entirely used to fame, that sometimes he misses being anonymous.

As the night stretches on and the conversation slows, words tangling with sleepiness, Oscar turns on his side and watches her.

"Did you know this was going to happen?" he asks quietly.

Elena blinks slowly and smiles, with that air of confidence that undoes him.

"I knew the moment you saw me in the paddock."

Oscar scoffs, half amused, half resigned. "How convenient."

"Not my fault you’re so predictable."

Oscar laughs and covers his face with his hand for a moment before rolling onto his back again.

"I’m going to hate myself for saying this, but… I think I like that about you."

Elena glances at him out of the corner of her eye, her smile needing no words to be understood.

And just like that, without realizing it, they fall asleep.

The break doesn’t last long.

During the Belgian Grand Prix, everything appears to be the same: the same fleeting touches when no one is looking, the same encounters in empty hallways, the same tension whenever they’re too close. But now, there’s something more. Something in the way Oscar looks for her before getting into the car, in the way Elena lingers a second too long when fixing the collar of the shirt she so boldly ripped off his body just ten minutes ago. Something in the way their fingers brush when she hands him a bottle of water right after, in the way they look at each other when they think no one is watching.

And when Oscar crosses the finish line, knowing he’ll be on the podium again, his first instinct isn’t to celebrate—it’s to find her. Standing on the podium, adrenaline still rushing through his body and the trophy in his hand, his eyes scan the crowd until they lock onto Elena’s. And when she smiles at him, he feels like he could live in that moment forever.

That night at the hotel feels different again. Instead of immediately losing themselves in each other, they collapse onto the bed to watch the race replay. And when the camera shows Oscar on the podium, smiling with pure happiness, eyes bright and expression open, Elena can’t hold back. She lets out a laugh so loud it echoes through the room.

Oscar, confused, turns to her with a frown. “What’s so funny?”

Elena, trying to hold back her laughter, points at the screen. “Your lovesick puppy face.”

Oscar follows the direction of her finger, and then he sees it. Sees himself. And he can’t do anything but laugh, because it’s true. The camera caught the exact moment he found Elena in the crowd, and the expression on his face leaves no room for doubt.

“I do not have a lovesick puppy face,” he protests, but his own laughter betrays any attempt at indignation.

Elena turns to him, raising an eyebrow. “Oscar, darling. Let’s just pray no one else notices, because it would be hard to deny the accusations.”

And with that, they laugh until tears stream down their faces, until they’re breathless, until Oscar, with his head resting on Elena’s stomach, feels something dangerously close to the simplest, purest kind of happiness.

Because for the second time, they don’t need to hide in passion, in desire. For the second time, they enjoy each other’s company without sex getting in the way.

Just them.

Elena wakes up to the weight of an arm draped over her waist and the muffled sounds of the city filtering through the hotel window. She blinks, still caught between sleep and wakefulness, acutely aware of the warmth pressed against her back, of the slow, steady breath against her neck.

Oscar.

Recognition comes at the same time as reality—the grayish dawn light in Belgium, the distant hum of traffic, the calendar marking the end of a weekend that has changed everything.

And the certainty that in less than two hours, she’ll be on a plane back to Madrid.

She sighs, shifting slightly under Oscar’s arm. He grumbles in protest, tightening his hold on her, as if his subconscious understands what’s about to happen before he does.

“I have to go,” she whispers, though she doesn’t move.

Oscar doesn’t respond immediately. His breath is heavy against her shoulder, still half-asleep, and when he finally mumbles something, his voice is rough.

“Five more minutes.”

Elena smiles softly, but she knows she can’t give in.

“Carlos is waiting for me downstairs. If I take too long, he’s coming up to get me.”

Oscar sighs and, at last, loosens his arm. When she turns to face him, she finds his face buried in the pillow, brows furrowed, hair a complete mess. He looks like a grumpy little kid refusing to start the day.

“Don’t make that face,” she teases, sitting on the edge of the bed to put on her shoes.

Oscar lifts his head just enough to squint at her.

“What face?”

“That one. The ‘I’m going to be a martyr because the girl I like is leaving me in a hotel’ face.”

He clicks his tongue and flops back onto the pillow with dramatic flair.

“Slander.”

Elena lets out a quiet laugh as she ties her laces. Then, unhurriedly, she leans toward him, pressing a hand into the mattress as her lips brush his cheek.

“I’ll see you soon.”

Oscar doesn’t reply right away. He just looks at her. But there’s something in his expression—in the way he watches her, in how his hand grips the edge of the sheet like he’s about to say something else—that makes her hesitate.

Because for the first time since this started, they realize they’ve never gone this long without seeing each other.

And they don’t know what that will feel like.

Elena should stand up and leave. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she lets her gaze trace over his face, memorizing every detail. Oscar looks back at her just as intently, and then, without thinking too much, she leans in and kisses him.

It’s brief, but not rushed. There’s no desperation, no urgency—just the certainty that she wants him. That even if they go in opposite directions, even if weeks pass without seeing each other, what they have won’t fade with distance.

When they pull apart, Oscar watches her with a mix of surprise and something else—something she doesn’t want to analyze too closely right now.

“That was unfair,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep.

Elena smiles.

“You’ll survive.”

And before he can argue, she gets to her feet, grabs her bag, and walks out the door.

It clicks shut.

And Oscar is alone.

For a few seconds, he just lies there, staring at the ceiling, the warmth of Elena’s kiss still lingering on his lips.

It’s not the first time he’s watched her leave. They’ve had plenty of quiet goodbyes—in hotel hallways, in elevators, in hidden corners of the paddock where no one was looking. But this one feels different. Heavier.

He sighs, running a hand over his face before forcing himself to get up.

The room still smells like her. It’s a ridiculous thing to notice, but he does—when he moves, when he picks up his clothes from the floor, when he starts stuffing them into the open suitcase beside the bed. There’s something mechanical about the act of folding t-shirts and layering them over piles of laundry, of zipping up the suitcase with a sharp click, of mentally checking if he’s forgotten anything.

For some reason, it annoys him.

He’s supposed to be looking forward to the summer break. Four weeks with no races, no flights every other day, no endless motorhome meetings. It’s what he’s been waiting for.

But now that it’s here—now that the door has closed and Elena is gone—it doesn’t feel as good as he thought it would.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Oscar picks it up without thinking, expecting a message from his mother or the team. But no.

Elena: I hope you’ve at least gotten out of bed. Don’t blame me when you realize you’re running late for the airport.

He exhales a small laugh, leaning against the desk. Of course Elena is the first to text. She always seems one step ahead of him.

Oscar: Don’t you have anything better to do than harass me first thing in the morning?

It takes less than ten seconds for a reply.

Elena: I have an hour-long drive ahead of me. Consider this an act of charity.

Oscar shakes his head, barely noticing the way a smile tugs at his lips.

After a moment, his fingers slide over the screen again.

Oscar: Do you miss me already?

This time, the reply takes a little longer. As if Elena is actually thinking about it.

Finally, his screen lights up.

Elena: Keep dreaming.

Oscar sets the phone back down on the nightstand, still smiling faintly, but the feeling in his chest doesn’t fade.

Because, deep down, he already misses her.

He has barely stepped into the terminal when he spots his mother.

She’s standing there, arms crossed, a knowing little smirk on her face—like she knows something he doesn’t. Or worse: like she knows something he thinks he’s hidden well.

And then he sees it.

The phone in her hand. The screen lit up.

And a crystal-clear image of his own face on the Belgian Grand Prix podium, wearing the most obvious, irrefutable, damning expression he’s ever had in his life.

That damn photo.

Oscar stops dead in his tracks, the exhaustion from the flight hitting him all at once, mixed with pure, knee-jerk denial.

“No.”

His mother doesn’t even blink.

“Yes.”

“I don’t make that face.”

“Oh, darling…” she sighs, holding the screen closer to him, as if that was necessary. “You have exactly that face.”

Oscar grimaces, shifting his gaze to anything else—the people walking by, the luggage carts, the absurdly patterned airport carpet.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His mother raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, really?” She swipes across the screen and shows him another image, this time a video capturing the exact moment his face changes when he spots Elena in the crowd. “And what’s this, then?”

Oscar clenches his jaw, cursing internally at the cameraman who managed to capture that moment so precisely.

“I was…” He trails off, desperately searching for an excuse. But there isn’t one. Because he knows exactly why he had that expression. He knows exactly who he was looking at. And he knows that his mother knows, too.

She waits, patient, with that look that has been disarming him since childhood.

Oscar exhales, defeated.

“Can I at least get a coffee before the interrogation?”

His mother smirks, turning toward the exit.

“Oh, of course. But don’t think you’re getting away with this, darling. We have a lot to talk about.”

For Elena, summers at home have always had their own rhythm, a routine shaped by the heat, sports, and family. And she enjoys it. She needs it, even. After months of airports, race tracks, and frantic schedules, there’s something comforting about returning to familiar sounds—the echo of footsteps on stone floors, the rustling leaves stirred by the wind, the laughter of her sisters in the garden.

But this summer is different.

Because, for the first time, there’s something—someone—outside of this world occupying her mind more than it should.

She tells herself it’s absurd, that it’s not like they’re going years without seeing each other. It’s just a month. Four weeks. Thirty days.

And yet, every night, as the rest of the house sleeps, she feels the buzz of her phone under her pillow, and her heart skips a beat.

Oscar.

Oscar: What is Carlos Sainz’s favorite sister doing on a random Tuesday?

Elena: Trying not to get caught texting you. And you?

Oscar: Counting the days until I can see you roll your eyes at me in person again.

Elena bites her lip, hiding a smile in the darkness.

Elena: I’d love to say I don’t miss you at all.

Oscar: But you can’t.

No. She can’t.

And it’s ridiculous because she keeps herself busy. She wakes up early to go hiking with her father and Carlos. She plays football with her cousins in the garden. She joins Carlos and his friends on their cycling routes, challenging each other to climb the mountain passes faster, both acting more like kids than fully grown adults.

And in the middle of it all, she always finds a moment.

A stolen minute under the shade of a secluded tree to call him. A quick text while changing shoes. A picture of Carlos falling off his bike, his foot still clipped to the pedal, captioned: I miss you, but this makes up for it a little.

Oscar’s reply comes instantly.

Oscar: You’re lucky I like you this much.

Elena chuckles softly, leaning her head back against the tree trunk.

She knows this is dangerous. The more they get used to this, the harder it will be to go back to their respective lives, each on opposite ends of the globe.

But right now, she doesn’t care.

It’s the middle of the night, and she’s been asleep for a couple of hours when the vibration of her phone pulls her from sleep.

Elena blinks into the darkness of her room, disoriented, her heart beating slow and heavy in her chest. She reaches blindly toward her nightstand, fumbling until her fingers find the device.

The screen lights up the dim room.

Oscar.

It’s four in the morning in Madrid. Two in the afternoon in Melbourne.

She presses her lips together before swiping to accept the call, bringing the phone to her ear as she sinks into her pillow.

“Do you know what time it is?” Her voice is a hoarse whisper from sleep.

On the other end, Oscar lets out a quiet laugh.

“I knew you were awake.”

Elena closes her eyes and exhales slowly.

“I wasn’t. Until you decided to call me.”

“Well, if you answered, that means you don’t hate me that much,” he teases.

Elena doesn’t respond right away. She turns onto her side, hugging her pillow as she focuses on the sound of his voice.

“How are you?” she finally asks, calmer now.

“Tired,” Oscar admits. “It’s weird being back here.”

She understands. They’ve both returned to the normalcy of their own lives, but nothing feels normal. Miami, Silverstone, Budapest, Spa… all those weekends together feel like a world apart. And now, here they are, separated by thousands of miles, pretending everything is the same.

“What about you?” he asks.

Elena burrows a little deeper under the blankets, a small smile on her lips.

“I did a brutal cycling route with Carlos today. Nearly died by the time we reached the mountain pass, and Carlos laughed at me.”

Oscar chuckles.

“I find that hard to believe.”

"That I almost died or that I made it to the summit?"

"That you almost died," he replies casually. "You're stronger than Carlos, and you know it."

Elena feels the warmth spreading in her chest but ignores it.

"Tell him that. He called me a 'rookie.'"

"That’s just his wounded pride talking."

She smiles, letting herself get carried away by the familiarity of the conversation. They talk about everything and nothing. He tells her about his mother’s cooking and how his dog has decided to ignore him for being away so long. She tells him how her father spent the afternoon teaching Rebecca to drive on dirt roads, with Carlos and her yelling from the back seat.

The conversation flows easily, without awkward pauses. Every time silence threatens to settle in, one of them finds something else to say. But at some point, the conversation shifts. It becomes quieter.

"I miss you," Oscar says suddenly, with a sincerity that disarms her.

Elena doesn’t answer right away. Not because she doesn’t feel the same, but because she feels too much.

"I miss you too," she murmurs at last, her voice barely a whisper in the darkness.

"It’s strange, isn’t it?" he continues. "Not seeing you every day."

Elena exhales.

"Yeah."

Another silence. This time, neither of them fills it.

Until Oscar breaks it with an idea that shouldn’t sound as crazy as it does.

"What if we meet up?"

Elena blinks, suddenly wide awake.

"What?"

"Let’s run away. Just for a few days. Just us."

She stays still, her heart pounding faster.

"That’s insane."

"A little insanity wouldn’t hurt us," he reasons. His voice is calm, but there’s something in his tone that makes her picture him with that lopsided grin, eyes squinting slightly under the Melbourne afternoon sun. "Tell me you don’t want to."

Elena bites her lip. She can’t.

She doesn’t want to.

"I can give you five days. That’s all the time Carlos will let me go without hiring a private investigator," she finally says.

Oscar smiles on the other end of the line.

"Five days."

And the next morning, Elena drops the bomb at the breakfast table. If she wants to get away with it, she has to act naturally—with the confidence of someone who has nothing to hide.

So, as she sets her plate in the sink after breakfast, she announces casually, "I’m leaving for a few days."

She knows she has everyone’s attention in less than a second.

Carlos, sitting across the table, frowns with his mouth full of toast. Their mother, standing by the coffee machine, turns with interest.

"Where to?" Carlos asks, still chewing.

Elena leans against the counter, phone in hand.

"A friend’s house on the coast."

Carlos gives her a skeptical look.

"What friend?"

"Clara."

She’s the first name that comes to mind. Their mother nods, as if that makes it all perfectly logical, but Carlos keeps staring at her with the same doubtful expression.

"Since when are you and Clara such good friends?"

Elena rolls her eyes.

"Carlos, we went to school together for ten years."

"And you haven’t seen her in four."

"Exactly. We caught up recently, and she invited me to stay for a few days."

Carlos doesn’t look convinced.

"And you’re just leaving, out of nowhere."

"Why not? It’s the summer break, I don’t have to stay here the whole time."

Carlos crosses his arms.

"Hmm."

Their mother, on the other hand, just smiles.

"Well, darling, if you want to go, go."

Carlos looks at her like he can’t believe she’s accepting the explanation so easily.

"Doesn’t that sound suspicious to you?"

"Carlos, please," their mother says, shaking her head in amusement. "It’s summer. Can’t your sister go to the beach for a few days without you interrogating her like she’s planning a heist?"

Elena smirks at Carlos before taking a sip of her coffee.

"Exactly. Thanks, Mom."

Carlos huffs but seems to give in.

"When are you leaving?"

"Early tomorrow morning."

"Uh-huh."

Carlos keeps watching her, narrowing his eyes like he’s trying to read between the lines. Elena ignores him, picking up her cup and heading for the door.

Her phone vibrates in her hand.

A message from Oscar.

"Mission accomplished?"

Elena smiles before replying.

"Obviously. Who do you think I am?"

Elena doesn’t know exactly when she realizes that this—whatever it is they’re doing—is a disaster waiting to happen.

Maybe it’s when she opens her eyes that first morning in Croatia and finds Oscar already awake, his head resting in his palm, just watching her.

Or when, after spending the afternoon exploring the town, they step into a small market to buy groceries for dinner and end up arguing—far too seriously—about which kind of pasta is better.

Or maybe it’s when, without thinking too much about it, she tosses a towel at his face after her shower, and instead of complaining, he pulls it away slowly and grins like an idiot. Like this is normal. Like this isn’t something they’ll regret sooner or later.

But they don’t think about that. Or rather, they pretend not to.

The town is perfect. A hidden corner on the Croatian coast, with whitewashed stone houses, cobbled streets, and the sea glistening under the August sun. No one knows them here. No one watches them. Here, they can walk without looking over their shoulders, without worrying about cameras or curious eyes.

And so they do.

They walk along the shore, sandals in hand, letting the foam of the waves soak their ankles. They eat at a small restaurant where the owner treats them like locals. They spend the afternoon at a secluded cove, where Oscar splashes her unexpectedly, and Elena lunges at him without a second thought, sending them both crashing into the water, laughing.

They don’t talk much about what this means.

They don’t say out loud that they’re playing with fire.

They just exist.

For the first time since this all began, they are together without the pressure of the paddock, without the weight of the forbidden. They wake up tangled in white sheets, have slow breakfasts on the terrace, Oscar cooks while Elena sits on the counter, stealing bites of whatever he’s making.

It’s ridiculously domestic.

Ridiculously easy.

And that’s why, somewhere in the back of her mind, Elena knows it can’t last.

It’s their last evening together, and the sun is starting to set over the sea, painting the sky in shades of gold and orange. The heat of the day still lingers on the wooden terrace of the small house they’ve rented, where the sound of waves crashing against the rocks blends with the distant murmur of locals enjoying the evening.

Oscar absentmindedly turns the beer bottle in his hands, his gaze lost in the foam sliding down the glass. Across from him, Elena leans back in her chair, tracing the rim of her wine glass with a fingertip.

The silence between them is comfortable.

But Oscar knows he can’t leave it like this.

“I don’t want this to end when summer does.”

Elena lifts her gaze slowly, as if her thoughts were somewhere else. She blinks a couple of times before speaking.

“What do you mean?”

Oscar lets out a humorless chuckle, dropping his eyes to the table.

“I mean, I don’t want to go back to pretending this isn’t happening.”

Elena doesn’t answer right away. She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table, studying him with those eyes that always seem to know more than they say.

“I don’t know if we have a choice.”

Oscar looks up, holding her gaze.

“There’s always a choice.”

Elena sighs, running a hand through her hair before pushing her glass aside.

“Oscar…”

He shakes his head before she can continue.

“Don’t tell me it won’t work. That it’s complicated. That we have to think about Carlos, the paddock, everything else. Because I know. I’ve thought about it a million times. But what scares me more than what happens if we keep going… is what happens if we stop.”

Elena stays quiet.

For a moment, Oscar fears she won’t respond—that she’ll get up from the table, deflect with a sharp remark like she’s done so many times before.

But then, she speaks.

“If I’m being honest… I’m scared of that too.”

Oscar blinks. He wasn’t expecting her to admit it so easily.

“Yeah?”

Elena nods slowly.

“Since the season started, everything has been so intense. At first, it was just this ridiculous tension, this game. I loved getting under your skin.” She smiles a little, but there’s more nostalgia than teasing in it. “But then it became something else. Something I couldn’t control anymore.”

Oscar leans in slightly, never taking his eyes off her.

“When did you realize?”

Elena holds his gaze, and for the first time in a long time, she hesitates.

“I think… since the beginning.”

Something tightens in Oscar’s chest.

“Then why have we been avoiding it for so long?”

Elena lets out a quiet laugh, like the answer is too obvious.

“Because it was easier that way. If we ignored it, we didn’t have to face what it meant.”

Oscar watches her for a long moment. Then, with a tired smile, he says, 

“Falling for you was too easy.”

Elena drops her gaze for a second before looking up again, her expression knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Falling for you was too easy, too.”

The world seems to stop.

Oscar feels a tingling in his skin, like his body is trying to process what he just heard.

“Elena…”

But she keeps going.

"I didn’t want to accept it," she says quietly. "Because I was scared. Because if this ends, I don’t know how we go back to being the same. I don’t know how I’ll look at you without it hurting."

Oscar takes her hand across the table. Their fingers fit together like they were made for it.

"I don’t want this to end."

Elena tightens her grip, not letting go.

"Me neither."

They stay like that for a moment, in silence, with the sun setting behind them and the sound of the ocean filling the empty spaces.

Until Elena breaks the calm.

"So… what do we do now?"

Oscar exhales slowly.

"We can’t keep hiding forever."

Elena nods.

"Carlos won’t accept it."

"Not right away, no."

"I don’t want him to find out from someone else."

Oscar lets out a dry laugh.

"Well, it’s not like we’ve been very subtle."

Elena rolls her eyes.

"That’s your fault."

Oscar raises an eyebrow.

"Excuse me?"

"You’re the one who looks at me like—" She stops herself, and Oscar grins.

"Like what?"

She meets his gaze, unyielding.

"Like you physically can’t not look at me."

Oscar leans in slightly, closing the space between them. His voice is a murmur.

"Like you matter too much."

Elena narrows her eyes.

"Too much?"

He shakes his head, a smile on his face.

"Meh, not enough."

And then, without thinking, without hesitating for a second longer, he kisses her.

The morning sun bathes the town in that golden warmth that only exists on vacation. The breeze smells of salt and freshly baked bread, and the cobblestones beneath their feet radiate the accumulated heat of previous days. Oscar and Elena walk aimlessly, slipping between market stalls, weaving through café terraces, blending into the crowd of people who live here without knowing that, for them, this is their last day of reprieve.

Tomorrow, everything goes back to normal. Tomorrow, they return to their lives. Tomorrow, the distance.

But today, today is still theirs.

Elena stops in front of a small flower stall, leaning over the tin buckets filled with sunflowers and lavender. The vendor, an elderly man with a white mustache, smiles when he sees her interest.

“For you, take one as a gift.” He plucks a sprig of lavender and offers it to her.

Elena smiles and accepts it with a small nod. Oscar watches her, saying nothing, caught in that quiet awe that sometimes overtakes him when he looks at her for too long.

He still doesn’t understand how he got here—how he ended up in a small Croatian coastal town, watching Elena pick flowers under the sun, holding her hand like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

She turns to him and tucks the lavender behind his ear with a teasing smile.

“There. Now you smell nice.”

Oscar rolls his eyes but doesn’t take it off.

They keep walking, unrushed, savoring the morning. They pass an ice cream shop, and Elena suddenly craves pistachio gelato. Oscar buys one for her, and as always, she offers him the first bite. It’s a simple, silly gesture, but it leaves a warmth in his chest.

They stroll to the town square, where a fountain with crystal-clear water sparkles, and children run around, laughing. They sit on the edge, sharing the ice cream, carrying the easy carelessness of people who believe the day will stretch on forever.

Oscar doesn’t know how long they’ve been there, only that, at some point, Elena rests her head on his shoulder, and he closes his eyes, letting himself drift.

And then, the peace shatters.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

Oscar feels his entire body go rigid.

No.

No.

No way.

But yes.

Carlos Sainz stands at the other end of the square, frozen in place, his jaw slack, his eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets. Beside him, his girlfriend Rebecca has a hand over her mouth, but from the way her shoulders shake, it’s clear she’s holding back laughter.

Oscar doesn’t dare move.

He knows Carlos has already connected the dots.

The pistachio ice cream drips slowly between his fingers, melting.

Elena, still resting her head on his shoulder, exhales deeply before murmuring,

“Well… the odds of this happening were pretty low.”

Oscar swallows hard.

Carlos blinks several times, as if trying to reboot his brain. Then he looks at Oscar. Then at Elena. Then at their intertwined hands. Then back at Oscar.

Oscar sees the exact moment reality slams into him.

Carlos blinks. Takes a deep breath. And explodes.

“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!”

Elena, calm as ever, straightens her posture and stretches as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Carlos.”

“CARLOS?! JUST ‘CARLOS’?! HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?!”

“Don’t shout.”

“I’M NOT SHOUTING!”

“Yes, you are.”

“I AM ABSOLUTELY SHOUTING!”

Oscar is too paralyzed to intervene. He feels like a deer caught in headlights.

Elena gets to her feet with an exasperated sigh, like she’s dealing with a tantrum-throwing child.

“What are you doing here, Carlos?”

“I SHOULD BE ASKING YOU THAT! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE? AND WHY THE HELL ARE YOU WITH HIM?” Carlos gestures wildly toward Oscar, like he’s some inanimate object instead of a person with a name.

Oscar opens his mouth to say something—anything—but no words come out.

“I’m on vacation. Just like you,” Elena replies, completely unfazed.

Carlos looks about ready to combust.

“With him?”

“Yes.”

Oscar wants to disappear.

Carlos points an accusing finger at him.

“YOU!”

Oscar instinctively straightens.

“Me?”

“YES, YOU! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH MY SISTER?!”

Oscar opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“Uh…”

“‘UH’ WHAT?!”

Elena sighs.

“Carlos, seriously, can you drop the dramatics?”

“IT’S NOT DRAMATICS! IT’S A VERY SERIOUS QUESTION!”

Rebecca finally decides to step in, placing a gentle hand on Carlos’s arm.

“Babe, breathe.”

“I DON’T WANT TO BREATHE!”

“Well, you should.”

Carlos lets out an angry huff but at least shuts his mouth.

Elena crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow.

“Are you done?”

Carlos scowls.

“No.”

“Let me know when you are.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?!”

@smoooothoperator @freyathehuntress @gold66loveblog @hadesnumber1daughter

if you want to get added to my permanent taglist, just let me know! likes, comments and reblogs are really appreciated. your support means the world to me and it keeps me motivated! thank you all <3

[cece693]

tony stark x male reader who’s kinda shy and quiet but crazy good at math and science and all those equations. something fluffy and cute thank youuuuuuu

Brilliant (Tony Stark x M! Reader)

Announcement: for those who have been following my Velvet Ring trilogy fic, I've created an AO3 account where I intend to flesh out the story. Here's the link! Also, since I'm not smart myself, I didn't go in-depth about science and calculations, so forgive me :(

Tony Stark was many things: a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist—but being in a committed relationship? That wasn’t exactly the headline he wanted plastered all over the news. Not because he was ashamed—far from it—but because Tony had learned the hard way that the world had a way of ruining what mattered most. And you? You mattered more than anything.

You were everything Tony wasn’t—quiet, thoughtful, reserved. While Tony thrived in the spotlight, you thrived in the solace of your work, diving deep into equations and theories that would leave most people with a headache. You were a prodigy in your own right, a quiet storm of brilliance and ingenuity. The kind of man who didn’t seek recognition, only results. Tony couldn’t help but admire that about you—and, though he’d never admit it out loud, you kept him grounded in a way no one else could.

Tonight, you were sprawled out on the couch in your shared apartment, wearing a faded hoodie and sweatpants you’d stolen from Tony long ago. A notebook rested on your lap, filled with scribbled formulas and diagrams. The room was quiet, save for the occasional scratch of your pen against paper.

The sound of the front door opening broke your focus. Tony stepped inside, tie loosened and suit jacket draped over his arm. He looked tired, but his eyes lit up when they landed on you.

“Hey, handsome,” he greeted, his voice warm as he crossed the room. “What did I say about math after ten?”

You glanced up, rolling your eyes. “You said it’s a house rule. I said it’s not enforceable.”

Tony smirked, plucking the notebook from your hands before dropping it onto the coffee table. Sitting beside you, he wrapped one arm around your shoulders, your head tucked into the crook of his neck. “You were late,” you muttered, resting your head against his shoulder. “Everything okay?”

“Just the usual corporate nonsense,” Tony replied, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You know how it is—saving the world, keeping the board happy. Exhausting, really. I’m practically a saint.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, but instead of responding, your eyes kept flickering toward the discarded notebook on the table. After a moment, you shifted slightly in his hold, trying to reach for it. Tony groaned dramatically, tightening his grip.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, pulling you closer. “I just got home, and you’re trying to ditch me for math? Do you have any idea how lonely I’ve been? I’ve been deprived of your presence all day, and this—” he gestured at the notebook—“is more important?”

You bit back a laugh, managing to wiggle out of his grasp. “I promise it'll be worth it."

Tony crossed his arms, slumping back against the couch like a sulking child. “Fine, but if I die from lack of cuddles and attention it's on you.”

Grabbing the notebook, you turned back to him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “You look fine. And for the record, this 'math' you're referring to is yours."

That caught his attention. His brows furrowed as he sat up straighter, his earlier theatrics forgotten. “Mine?”

You nodded, flipping open the notebook and holding it out to him. “You mentioned the other night that you were having issues with stabilizing the power output on the Iron Man suit. I’ve been working on it.”

Tony’s eyes scanned the pages, his expression softening with each line he read. Your neat handwriting detailed calculations, theories, and possible solutions. You’d even diagrammed potential fixes, complete with annotations on how they’d improve efficiency. “You’ve been working on this?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “For me?”

“Well, yeah,” you said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal. “I know it’s been frustrating you, so I thought I’d try to help.”

For once, Tony Stark was speechless. His eyes flickered between you and the notebook, the weight of your gesture hitting him like a freight train. You’d spent your time—not for your own research or projects, but to solve one of his problems. It wasn’t just the effort or the brilliance of your work—it was the care behind it, the way you always seemed to go out of your way to make his life a little easier.

Tony set the notebook aside, reaching for you instead. His hands cupped your face, his gaze warm and filled with an emotion he rarely let himself feel this deeply. “You’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick with gratitude. “I don’t deserve you.”

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, soft and full of affection. It wasn’t the usual teasing kiss he’d steal when he was being playful—it was deeper, more vulnerable. A silent thank you, a promise that he’d never take you for granted. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and he smiled. “You’re too good to me.”

You laughed softly, your hands resting on his chest. “You’re worth it, Stark. Even if you are a little dramatic sometimes.” Tony chuckled, pulling you into another kiss, his heart full and his mind already spinning with ideas. If this was what it felt like to be loved by you, then he never wanted to let it go.

[ira-scargeear]

How much does your craft cost? And why "cost of supplies X2" formula is absolutely harmful for artists?

A lot of artists & artisans keep asking this question: how much should I charge for my craft?

There is a simple way to calculate the cost of the item: calculate the cost of supplies that went into it, and multiply by 2.

I can't track the origin of this idea, but I keep stumbling upon it in many craft groups - and I can't help, but cringe every time.

Why this formula is used by many? It's no secret for me. Many artsy people are not great with math and finances, so they cling to it because of its simplicity.

Why offering this formula to craft novices is a major disservice that may severely harm their approach?

Because each type of craft has its own financial accounting.

What actually should be calculated:

- The cost of supplies, including shipping to your location,

- The amount of time spent on the item, multiplied by the cost of your single working hour,

- The time spent on making photos of the item,

- The cost of packaging,

- The cost of time you spend on packaging and shipping the item.

These are easier to calculate.

Also there are costs that you spend every now and then, like monthly or even once in a several years, like:

- The time and cost of maintaining site (if any), Etsy, Pinterest, etc., and also social media presence,

- The cost of rent if you rent the space, or the cost of maintenance if you own it,

- The cost of electricity/water/etc. you spend while doing the job,

- The cost of tools used (sewing machine, 3D printer, scissors, hammers, glues, paints, photo gear, whatever), it's called amortization,

- The cost of courses, workshops, etc. you attend to improve your skills, or time&supplies you spend self-learning or experimenting.

I mentioned just the major ones, but it may vary from craft to craft greatly.

I suggest to calculate all that stuff for a single month. If it's some tool like a sewing machine that you know you'll be using for many years, I'd recommend to set its amortization time to 5 years (aka 60 months), so after that term, if the tool is still usable, you kinda use it for free. And you can add 1/60th of the cost of the tool to your monthly accounting.

And, knowing the cost of the monthly expenses and number of hours spent on all of your items during a month, you can calculate the percent of the cost that you should add on top of each item.

As you already know, I do doll stuff. To simplify the process, I count the cost of my working hours only, and then add a certain percent to the cost, that I calculated previously. It still may vary from item to item, but it all evens out in a long run.

As for the "cost of supplies x2" formula, let's see how it absolutely doesn't work for me.

Let's say I do faceups. I charge $150 per faceup. My supplies are:

- high quality Rembrandt pastels, Albrecht Duhrer watercolor pencils, acrylic varnish, ox gall and some brushes that were a noticeable investment, but will serve me not for 5 years, but for like 20 years ahead. Even the initial investment is completely covered within a single faceup.

- MSC. I don't overspray, so a single can lasts for at least 5 faceups. Definitely a spendable, but less than $5 per faceup.

- Cotton discs, cotton swabs, some toothpicks, nail polish remover, electricity, whatever else - definitely less than $5 again.

- 3M respirator mask with cartridges. Lasts for at least 5 years, is used for not only faceups but for many other tasks, its cost is almost non-noticeable.

So how much should I charge???

Obviously, I charge for skills mostly.

What if there is a developed market already, you calculated everything, and you see that people aren't ready to pay the honest price?

Then you should think twice if you want to sell your craft, or to move to other business. Or to admit you do it as a hobby and sell for whatever people are ready to pay you, and don't call it a business. And make sure people whom you sell your stuff are informed about the difference. Because skilled manual labor never should cost as little as mass produced items.

[hellobykittys]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 (𝐈𝐌)𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐍 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓.𝐈𝐈 ✦ 𝐂𝐋¹⁶

SUMMARY: Charles Leclerc, a Formula 1 star, faces the decline of his reputation after breaking up with art curator Alexandra Saint Mleux. Under pressure from his team, he is forced into a fake relationship with one of the most popular influencers of the moment. NOTES: English is not my first language, so there might be some writing mistakes. I apologize for that, and feel free to point out any improvements. WC: 1.9k WARNING: teasing, fake relationship

PREVIOUS PART | MASTERLIST | SMAU VER | NEXT PART

The next morning, Charles was already regretting it. Or maybe just annoyed. Or both. He hadn’t decided yet. The truth was, the plan had started before he was even awake.

“Did you like her photo?” Lorenzo asked, barging into the room without knocking.

“Good morning to you too,” Charles replied, throwing a pillow at his brother.

“Charles, I’m serious. Did you?”

“Which photo? She posts like fifty a day.”

Lorenzo sighed and handed his phone to his brother. On the screen, Y/N’s latest post glowed—a seemingly casual photo but so flawlessly composed it was impossible not to notice the meticulous planning behind it.

“Liked it yet?” Lorenzo pressed, pointing at the heart button.

Charles mumbled something unintelligible but tapped the button anyway.

“There. Done. Now let me sleep.”

But it wasn’t done. The second his like went live, the internet worked its obsessive magic. Gossip accounts picked up on the move almost immediately. “Charles Leclerc likes Y/N’s photo. Coincidence or something more?”

Meanwhile, across the city, Y/N was sitting in a chic café, laughing quietly as her phone blew up with notifications.

“They’re fast, huh?” she commented to her best friend, Clara, who was rolling her eyes as she stirred her cappuccino.

“Are you actually enjoying this?” Clara asked, sounding a little skeptical.

“It’s not about enjoying it. It’s a job.” Y/N shrugged, though the smirk on her lips said otherwise.

Charles was never a fan of hosting dinners at home. He was more of a fine-dining restaurant kind of guy—or, when no one was looking, fast food in his car. But tonight, his apartment had turned into Sofia’s mission control.

He opened the door still in sweatpants, his hair a mess, and looking just a little tired.

“You look like a teenager,” was the first thing Y/N said as she walked in, holding a bag of desserts.

“And you always look ready for a runway,” he shot back, taking in her flawless outfit: skinny jeans, a white cropped tee, and sneakers—casual but calculated.

“Thanks. I practice.”

She waltzed in, ditching her shoes near the door and taking in the space. His apartment was minimalist but not soulless. Trophies were scattered across a shelf, abstract art he clearly didn’t choose hung on the walls, and a big couch dominated the living room, probably the epicenter of his social life.

“Do you actually live here? I expected it to be… messier,” she remarked, flopping onto the couch.

“If it were messier, you’d complain. If it were tidier, you’d say it’s fake. So, please, tell me the exact level of chaos that would make you happy.”

“You’re starting to figure me out,” she said with a laugh.

The dinner, as it turned out, was delivery that took so long to arrive they were already brainstorming the next steps of the plan before eating. Y/N sat cross-legged on the floor, her laptop open and notes scattered across the coffee table.

“Okay, we need something for the first public appearance. Nothing too obvious, but not so subtle that people miss the point.”

Charles, slouched on the couch, watched as she spoke, distracted by the businesslike tone she used.

“Do you talk this seriously all the time, or is it just when you’re in work mode?” he asked, resting his chin on his hand.

“This is serious, Leclerc,” she replied without looking up. “If you want to salvage your reputation, you’re going to have to trust me.”

He sighed, knowing she was right.

“Our first appearance could be next week, just before the Monaco race weekend. We could stroll around the streets in your car or stop at a café,” she suggested. “It’ll look casual, but everyone will notice.”

“What if we just let the rumors do their thing?” he tried.

“Because that would be too easy for you.” Y/N finally looked up. “You need to give people a reason to believe this story. And I’m very convincing.”

At that moment, the delivery arrived. Charles went to grab it while Y/N rearranged the table to make it look casually perfect.

“Let’s start small,” she said, stretching her arm out to snap a photo. He watched as she worked, following her directions like a puppet.

“This will drive people crazy,” she commented, showing him the image before posting it.

The picture showed Charles’s hand holding a wine glass and part of his torso. On the table between them sat two pizzas.

Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re good at this, I’ll admit.”

“Not just good—excellent,” she corrected.

As they ate, the tension between them grew more noticeable. While they discussed details like when she’d start appearing in the paddock, the teasing didn’t stop.

“Do you think people will actually believe I fell for you?” he asked, smirking.

“If I can pretend to find you interesting, people can believe anything,” she shot back, taking a bite of pizza.

He laughed. “Interesting? I thought you were having fun.”

“I’m a great actress,” she said, giving him a playful wink.

“Now we need more pictures,” Y/N said after a while, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Something a bit more… intimate.”

“More?” Charles sighed, clearly exhausted. “Wasn’t that last one enough?”

“Of course not! People need to believe we’re in love. Think of something subtle: holding hands, your hand on my thigh… something like that.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile immediately forming on his lips. “For someone who made the ‘no touching’ rule, you seem pretty eager for this. Trying to relive that night at the club?”

The comment was bold, but Y/N didn’t even blink. She simply stared at him for a moment, her calm almost irritating, before replying, “What night, Leclerc? You must be confusing me with one of your dreams.”

He chuckled, but there was something about the way she brushed off the topic that left him unsettled. After all, she had walked out that night without a word, pretending like nothing had happened. And it still nagged at him.

Unbothered, Y/N stood up and moved to the couch behind them, sitting like someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

“Come here. You need to sit next to me,” she ordered, patting the spot beside her on the couch.

Charles raised an eyebrow but stood up, following her instructions without protest. “What do I need to do now, boss?”

Y/N firmly took his hand and placed it on her thigh. With her other hand, she adjusted her phone’s camera.

“You just need to sit still,” she said, winking at him before snapping the picture. “Look, it turned out so cute!”

She showed him the result, a satisfied smile lighting up her face.

He glanced at the photo, then back at her. “You seem pretty excited about this. I’m starting to think I’m not the only one dreaming here.”

Y/N let out a small laugh, ignoring his comment as she went back to adjusting the photo’s filter. But Charles couldn’t help but notice: as much as she tried to stay in control, there was something in her eyes that hinted she might be enjoying this more than she let on.

Later, as they cleared the empty plates and went over the plan’s timeline, their eyes met. For a moment, silence filled the room. It wasn’t awkward, but it was heavy with something neither of them wanted to acknowledge.

“Well, this was… productive,” Y/N said, breaking the tension as she stood up to grab her bag.

“‘Productive’ is one way to put it,” he replied, following her to the door.

Once she left, Charles collapsed onto the couch and grabbed his phone. The picture she had just posted was already blowing up with comments. He liked it quietly before tossing the phone onto the table.

At the media day press conference, Charles had already memorized the answers Sofia had prepared for him. When someone asked about his personal life, he replied with a cryptic smile:

“I’ve been spending more time at home, enjoying it with people I like.”

Meanwhile, Y/N was doing her part. During an Instagram live, someone asked,

“Do you like Formula 1?”

She smiled, as if she knew exactly what she was doing.

“I didn’t think I did, but lately… I’ve been watching it more.”

tαglıst: @charlesgirl16 @sltwins

[bad268]

MercDuo Pt. 2 (Andrea Kimi Antonelli x Mercedes Strategist! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/Formula 1

Requested: Yes by @f1fan123 (hehe I love this so much) (SURPRISE!)

Warnings: None (some slander against barbeque food)

POV: Second Person (You/your/They/them)

W.C. 1285

Summary: Kimi's maiden win comes in probably the worst place to celebrate it: Texas.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

<-Part 1

~~(^Pinterest)

“Radio check, Kimi.”

“Loud and clear. What is my incentive for winning this race?”

“A paycheck.”

“Maybe if I had a real incentive, I would actually win instead of collecting all these podiums.”

“Maybe if you didn’t need an incentive to win a race, you would be in contention for the championship this year, but no. We’re here arguing about this. Focus on the damn race, and we’ll see if you actually get to sleep in the bed tonight.”

“Now that’s a reason to win!”

“Kimi, just focus on the lights.”

“And here I thought my wife and I argued a lot,” Jenson laughed after the Mercedes radio cut out of the broadcast. “These two just like to be at each other, but Y/n keeps Kimi in line. Their teamwork has found Kimi on 15 podiums in the 18 races so far this season, and as we head into qualifying for the American Grand Prix, everyone is interested to see how they shape up on this circuit.”

“Indeed, everyone knows that this track is notorious for overtakes, and it will be interesting to see how the young Mercedes duo shape up against the rest of the field after topping the practice session, qualifying third, and finishing second in the sprint, ” Danica Patrick said monotonously.

“Yeah, they showed great pace this weekend,” Jenson cheered, taking over as he subtly glared at Danica. She disregarded it before taking the mic again.

“The new upgrades on the car seem to suit Kimi’s driving style more, and Kimi himself is becoming more confident in the car,” She praised, which was rare, causing Jenson to look at her wide-eyed. “He’s getting comfortable, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this weekend he gets his maiden win. In his rookie year, no less. He has shown that he can run with drivers like Charles Leclerc, Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, and Lewis Hamilton. He’s proving that he deserved that seat, and he’s showing that Toto made the right call.”

“It’s a team effort, you know. Y/n is just as much to credit for his performance. They have been putting in the hours to find the best strategy, working out the effects of different tyre compounds on the cars, and ways Kimi could improve his driving style. Y/n is a big part of why he drives that way.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

“With that, let's take it to anyone else. Nico?”

The race itself was probably one of the easiest ones, strategy-wise. It was a straightforward race, and you had been letting Kimi take more control of what he wanted with the pitstops, opting to run quick calculations as the race went on. It seemed to be paying off as you and Kimi climbed up the stairs to celebrate his maiden win.

It wasn’t the way you imagined celebrating his maiden win, but you would take it any day. You glanced to the side and smiled at Kimi as he stood on the top step with George and Lewis on either side of him. It was a Mercedes 1-2, and you stood off to the side, representing the team. As the Italian and German anthem played, you couldn’t help the tears in your eyes as you were so proud of your team and how far you had come. This was cause for celebration.

Well, you may have gotten ahead of yourself because if you were in Europe or something, you would be able to go out partying, but no. Kimi had to win in the United States, where the legal drinking age was 21, which neither you nor Kimi met. You still encouraged the rest of the team to go out, saying you and Kimi would find your own way to celebrate. After glaring at a few team members who were going to comment on your verbiage, you left to find Kimi wrapping up his media duties.

“Ah, just in time. We’re almost done,” Kimi said as he looked back at the interviewer before he chuckled nervously. “Eh, what was the question again?”

“Do you think you would have won with a different strategy?” The interviewer repeated with a bite in his tone. “That strategy was sketchy, to put it lightly. Surely put together by your underprepared race engineer, I bet.”

“Woah, wait a minute here,” You started to defend yourself, but Kimi simply put a hand on your shoulder.

“I made the call, they ran the numbers and said if I was comfortable with it, I could try,” Kimi explained condescendingly. “This badmouthing about it being a bad strategy because they made it is completely false. Y/n has worked very hard to get here, and they deserve their spot. They have proven this time and time again. If you are going to come at her because of a risky strategy I suggested, come at me, and we’ll see who comes out on top.”

“Is that a threat?”

“No, it’s a promise. Don’t talk bad about someone if you don’t have all of the facts. Isn’t that the first rule of journalism?” Kimi replied lowly as he ended with a chuckle, “Isn’t knowing the facts and not spreading lies part of your code of ethics?”

The interviewer shut up after that point and turned around, leaving the pen quickly. You quickly pulled Kimi aside away from prying eyes before you pushed him against the wall and smashed your lips against his.

“Not that I’m complaining about being kissed, but what was that?” He asked breathlessly after you pulled away.

“You’re so hot,” You sighed, pulling him back in for another kiss.

“When I defend you?” Kimi asked again after you got a moment apart.

“Sempre (Always),” You exhaled as you leaned into his body.

“And you’re so hot when you speak Italian,” Kimi smirked, this time pulling you in.

“Really?” You questioned, feigning innocence.

“Sempre,” Kimi finalized, planting one final kiss to your lips.

“Okay, loverboy,” You said as you reluctantly pulled away, patting his chest before grabbing his hand and turning to start heading to the car park. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”

“Late for what?” Kimi asked as he followed behind you.

“Our celebratory date night. Duh.”

The drive to a nearby barbeque restaurant was filled with music and horrible singing. Barbeque was not your typical choice for celebratory dinner, but when in Texas, you have to partake in the local cuisine.

“I don’t know how I feel about this,” Kimi admitted after he took his first bite. “I don’t know if it’s the sauce or the pork, but I don’t think it should be pulled like that.”

“I’m not feeling it either honestly,” You chuckled as you put your ribs back on the plate. “We could always head back to the hotel and get room service. I’d rather be cuddled up against you with a bowl of pasta or gelato while a movie plays in the background.”

“That sounds so much better than this,” He sighed as he called your server over to get the bill paid. Once it was all settled, you wasted no time in driving back to the hotel. It didn’t take long since the restaurant was nearby, and there was a noticeable lack of traffic. You both walked up to the hotel entrance hand-in-hand just as most of the Mercedes engineers were making their way out.

“What are you guys doing back so early? Wasn’t your reservation for 7?” One of the engineers who recommended the place asked as you stopped to greet them. 

“Yeah, but we don’t like barbeque, so we came back for pasta and a movie,” You explained and Kimi nodded along.

“God, you two are so Italian.”

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[cheesycatz]

The Making of: Life-Size Malworm Plush

(Wormton AU)

STATS

16 ft 3 in (495 cm) long

Total time: 150 hours

Material Cost: $124

Theoretical minimum cost (based on seamstress wage): $2,524

(Progress photos and commentary below)

I'll be referring to my life-size wormton plush as "malworm" for convenience sake.

Unlike my Spamton NEO, Caine, and Fake Peppino plushies, I didn't spend a lot of time on concept art. Since I planned to make the malworm plush as close as possible to its 2D design, I didn't have to add much stylization, other than simplifying some details (no way in hell was I going to make 104 separate embroidered stitches for the segments of his toes, sorry). I mainly used the planning stage to calculate how wide the body pieces needed to be, plotting it out in 1/4 in : 3 in scale and using circumference formula to find the values I needed. I planned to make it around 10 feet long, the length of a young adult malworm. A lot of this project was improv, but, I mean, it wasn't my first or second or third time making a spamton centipede.

The head was quite a complicated shape, so I carved a tiny model out of craft foam, covered one half of it in masking tape, then cut the masking tape mask (hah) into flat pieces. I then traced the pieces onto graph paper and manually scaled them up by using the fact that I wanted the nose to be 1 ft long as reference. The rest of the pattern pieces were very simple, as wormton's teeth, body, legs, etc were very easy to translate into 2D shapes. I used old school notes as paper for the body, as I needed a lot of it. It was entertaining cutting exerpts of Moby Dick and English Renaissance biographies into body parts. I ended up making the body significantly longer; I had to spend $100 dollars on fur anyways, so why not make a maximum size one?

Making the pattern pieces took around 8 hours. While waiting for the fur to ship, I started cutting out the teeth, legs, and eyes. By the time the fur arrived, I had already sewn 36 worm teeth. I did an 11hr all-nighter to cut all the fur in one sitting the day it arrived. After a long vacuuming session and an uptake in the amount of polyester fiber in my lungs, I finished cutting the pieces, taking about 18 hours and 40 minutes.

As usual, the head was the first thing I worked on. It was...kind of wonky once I flipped it inside out. I trimmed some of the fur so that I could actually see what was happening. The main issues were the lack of any forehead, the nose being way too wide, and the cheeks being too flat. I did some ladder stitching as well as modifying the thing from the inside, and eventually made the head look much better. The cheeks still don't stick out that much still, but I'm happy with how the head looks now. I think it conquered the sopping wet owl resemblance. I inserted wire into the nose and jaws to help them keep their shape.

When I started this project, I wasn't sure whether to make it based off of Wormton or just a copyright-free malworm; I decided to do both. I went with red for the non-Spamton version, as I think it really fits the cartoony fly/mothman-style cryptid look malworms are supposed to have.

I sewed a square pouch into the throat and put in all those teeth. I used hot glue to wrap blue squares around a wire for the proboscis, because I think I would've gone bonkers cuckoo bananas if I had to hand sew that entire thing. The throat pouch holds the proboscis when it's not extended, as well as anything else I wanted to shove in there. I never measured it, but it's around 4-5 ft long. I finally made the Spamton... eye patches(?) and a pair of eyelids, though I didn't end up using them in the photo shoot. I also made a new pair of nostrils, as the old ones kind of got swallowed up from all the plastic surgery I was giving him

Now that the head was finished, I got to work on the body. I sewed the white belly and segments of the body together. I left most of the tail open, as the fur was too thick for me to flip it out at a certain point. I worked on the legs, next. After living out my cosplay dreams by putting the claws on my fingers like bugles chips, I grouped the claws together and sewed most of each leg and foot together, leaving me with many pairs of charred drumsticks (did not taste good)

I attached an extra long wire structure into each set of claws, then threaded the wire through each respective leg and stuffed them. I ladder stitched the claws to each foot, then stuffed each with some plastic beans in order to give the feet weight. I then finished sewing each foot shut. I now had a pile of disembodied limbs and one very long scarf.

I wound many long pieces of wire together to create an armature for the body. While the plush's body is way too heavy to be properly posable, the wire does still give some structure. I wrapped the extra long ends of the legs' wires to the metal spine, using the body's leg holes for reference. I then pulled the body up the metal armature like a sock.

I pulled the legs through their respective holes and stuffed the body. It was the first time the malworm was huggable! It's sort of like an oversized body pillow, in a way. I had to ladder-stich all the limbs, the head, and the rest of the tail, as it would've been completely impossible to flip inside out. It was quite difficult to do on furry fabric, and my thread frequently broke from the force I had to pull with to keep the stitches tight. Eventually, I got everything attached to some degree.

The last details I worked on were the mane, tail tufts, and scopula pads. The mane and tail tufts were ladder stitched onto the body, but I decided to use glue to attach the pads to the feet. I think the extra blue details make his proboscis fit much better, and who doesn't love spider paw pads? I also glued some velcro to the eye patches so that they stay attached better. They slide under the black eye rings.

My malworm was finally finished! I tried to put a lot of effort into the photo shoot so that people who don't know about the AU can enjoy it. I wanted to make it seem like some weird entity whose only goal is obtaining more Spamton brainrot. Hence it making Spamton on Mario Kart DS under the bed, obsessing over the Spamton Plush, inspecting the Spamton Shrine, and just generally harassing the photographer (me, I guess?). I wanted to capture the silliness, creepiness, and lack of respect for personal space that Spamton is known for. I thought about giving him a bag of doritos under the bed like that one image of the isopods eating them, but went with the DS instead. I thought it would be funny to see this thing playing Super Mario 64 DS (or Super Spamton 64) and here the "buh bye!" sound effect when it closes the DSi XL.

That's all from me, for now. I have other Wormton related matter to attend to.

Don't let the parasitic Spamton larvae bite

[belit0]

can i get a tobirama au where he’s always busy with being a hokage and making up new jutsus/training his students in his free time that he doesn’t notice his neglect of his lover? at least until he’s finally home…… only to spend time in his office again 😞 then reader storms in calling him out over the lack of attention and starts crying when tobirama doesn’t understand. he just sees the situation as of one of his jutsu equations needing to be solved (she’s the hardest equation to him). HAPPY ENDING PLSS! THANK YOU 🙂‍↕️

Tobirama, tobirama... such a silly little boy

Night had fallen over Konoha, dim light from the flickering flames tracing stark lines across stacks of scrolls and unfinished paperwork, highlighting the crease in Tobirama’s brow as he scrawled calculations onto a fresh sheet.

His thoughts were an intricate web of seals and techniques—refinement, improvement, perfection. He did not have time to be distracted.

Even now, after days away from home, he had only returned to bury himself in more work.

A sharp bang against his office door jolted him from his thoughts. Before he could respond, (Y/N) stormed in, eyes burning, jaw set tight with barely restrained frustration.

-Enough.- Her voice cut through the silence like a blade.

Tobirama’s hand stilled over the parchment. He lifted his gaze, taking in the tension in her shoulders, the tremor in her hands, the way her breath came too fast, too unsteady.

-…What’s wrong?- He meant for it to sound calm, but the moment the words left his lips, something in her cracked.

-You’re asking me that?- Her voice wavered. -Tobirama, I haven't seen you properly in weeks. You come home and go straight to your office, and when I try to talk to you, it’s like—like I don’t even exist.-

He blinked, as if processing an unexpected miscalculation. This was a problem. He could recognize that much. But he didn’t yet understand the solution.

-I have responsibilities.- His voice remained steady, measured, as if that alone should be an answer. -The village—

-I’m not the village!- Her breath hitched, her fists clenched at her sides. -Tobirama, I’m your wife. I understand your duty, I knew what I was getting into when I married you—but I refuse to be ignored like I’m nothing more than an afterthought.-

Tobirama stared at her, at the shine in her eyes, the way her breath trembled as if she were holding everything back. And then, without warning, her composure collapsed.

Tears spilled.

-I miss you.- The words came out broken, raw. -I miss my husband.-

Something in him stilled.

He had seen countless things in his lifetime—war, death, chaos—but nothing had ever made his chest feel so tight.

(Y/N) was an equation he had never been able to solve.

She was not like the jutsu formulas he refined, the battle strategies he mastered. There were no patterns, no clear answers. And yet, she was his. His constant. His anchor. And now—now she was crying because of him.

The realization settled deep, unfamiliar but undeniable.

Slowly, without a word, Tobirama rose from his chair.

(Y/N) stiffened, about to turn away, but before she could take a single step, he reached for her.

His arms wrapped around her, firm and warm, pulling her against him. She gasped softly at the sudden closeness, her fingers twitching against his chest as he held her there— as if, for the first time in weeks, he was truly present.

His voice, when it came, was lower. Quieter.

-You are not an afterthought.

She swallowed, trembling slightly against him. -Then… show me.-

A long pause. Then—without hesitation—Tobirama stepped back just enough to lift her into his arms.

(Y/N) let out a startled sound, but he was already striding toward the door. -Tobi?-

-I will not solve this problem by remaining in my office,- he stated simply, and for the first time that night, he looked at her—really looked at her. -We have time to make up for.-

And this time, when she pressed her face against his shoulder, her breath left her in a half-laugh, half-sob.

Because finally—finally—he understood.

Tobirama carried her through the corridors of their home, his grip firm yet reverent, as if grounding himself in the weight of her—the presence he had taken for granted. The tension in (Y/N)'s body slowly unraveled against him, her fingers curling into the fabric of his robe, her breath warm against his neck.

When they reached their room, he set her down with care, lingering a moment as if reluctant to let go. Candlelight flickered in the quiet space, casting soft shadows over the futon, the faint scent of night jasmine weaving through the air.

She looked up at him, searching, waiting.

Tobirama’s hands rose—tentative at first, then surer—as he traced his fingers along her arms, mapping the warmth of her skin. His touch was different now. Purposeful. Present.

He exhaled, leaning down, pressing his forehead to hers. -I am… not always good with words.- A quiet confession, his voice low, almost reluctant. -I can solve a thousand problems, master every jutsu I attempt, but this—us—you… You are the only thing I cannot calculate. And perhaps that is why I—

(Y/N) silenced him with a touch, her hands threading into his hair, gently pulling him closer. -You don’t have to explain.-

But he did.

Because for so long, he had not said enough.

Tobirama shifted, guiding her back onto the futon with the same quiet reverence he reserved for the things he valued most. He hovered above her, his crimson eyes dark with something deep, unspoken, as his lips found her brow first, lingering there.

Then lower.

A kiss to her temple. -You are my peace.-

Another to the corner of her eye. -The one thing I have never mastered, but will never let go of.-

His lips brushed the soft curve of her cheek, the delicate line of her jaw. -I hear your voice even in my silence.-

The words slipped free with each kiss, with every slow, reverent press of his mouth against her skin, as if making up for all the times he had failed to speak them aloud.

(Y/N) sighed softly, her fingers still tangled in his hair, stroking through the silver strands. He melted into her touch, his breath hitching for a fraction of a second when her nails dragged gently against his scalp.

She felt it then—the weight of his restraint, the tension that had ruled his every movement for so long. It was only now, here, with her beneath him, that he allowed himself this vulnerability.

Her lips curled faintly. -For someone who claims not to be good with words, you certainly make them feel like poetry.-

Tobirama huffed against her skin, his mouth trailing lower, pressing against the hollow of her throat where he could feel the pulse of her heartbeat—steady, alive, his.

His hands roamed gently now, exploring the familiar planes of her body, the warmth he had gone too long without. But there was no rush. No desperate fumbling.

Just this.

This quiet moment of reconnection, of rediscovering the rhythm of them.

-(Y/N),- he murmured against her collarbone, voice rough with something unspoken, something he felt but struggled to say.

She pulled him up then, cupping his face in her hands, eyes soft yet unyielding. -Tobi.- Her thumbs brushed over the markings on his cheekbones, grounding him, guiding him back to her.

A pause. A shared breath.

Then, finally, he let himself surrender.

[study-diaries]

How to avoid distractions while studying.

.

Social Media.

I personally know how hard it is to study when constant social media notifications are popping up so i just turn them off. This is obvious and the easiest way. Keep your phone in another room while you're studying.

Youtube

Here's the thing, YouTube is something we can't avoid, especially when it comes to studying because many times, we want to learn from the videos but end up getting distracted and therefore, i maintain 2 accounts. One, a personal account where I watch all my own channels like vlogs and other content videos and another account only for studying. I don't subscribe to any other channels beside the channels that help me with my studies in this account. I've noticed that I get a lot less distracted because your recommendations would only be study related or the content related!

Write them down

When you're studying and you noticed that you're getting a lot of distractions. Take a paper and write down the distractions with the timings and then continue studying.

Distractions - Time

Phone - 20 min (specify time: 8:20-40)

By this, you can analyse what's distracting you more than the others and you can actually calculate your study hours better and help yourself improve it.

Reduce everything by 5 mins

It's okay to get distracted. Everyone gets distracted and the best way to decrease your distractions is to decrease them by 5 mins for some days and then keep decreasing them gradually. It's the best way to work honestly because it helps you remove the distractions over time as a habit.

Complete your chores before sitting down

You might know that whenever you sit down with a firm motivation to study and then you take your notes, books, materia etc and a voice from the kitchen comes saying"You haven't finished the dishes!" So, now you go to do the dishes and then another chore pops up when you sit to study and another and another. So, here's my advice, either you complete all your chores before you study or you complete them after or you could complete them during breaks. But make sure you're not distracted by them.

Turn daydreaming into a weapon

Personally, this is something i really really struggled with, like whenever I sit down to study, I ended up daydreaming about a certain book or plot. It would definitely not help me study so recently, I started assigning fictional characters to subjects and personally, like, gosh my economics was alittle more interesting when I was "teaching" it to Cardan Greenbriar (tfota). It's kinda childish to have like an imaginary friend or such but it certainly helps with boring subjects. Imagine scenarios or do anything with your imagination as long as you're studying the content. It helps you remember important points even though it may be absurd.

Q and A sessions

From time to time, get in the habit of quizzing yourself, I do it after every topic i complete. I'll ask questions which are not in the book, I'll twist the questions just like in the tests. This means that you have to stay focused if you truly want to answer the questions or even form the questions. You can even do it with a friend/study buddies!

Tennis method

This method is really useful and i kinda made it up. You hold your hands up in the air facing towards each other. Now, after you completed a topic, you "throw" your first point from one hand to another and the other hand should "throw" back the second point and so on until you're completely done with it. If you can't "throw" a point back in less than a minute, you need to revise more. Personally, I love doing this because I'm focused on answering and it's actually kinda fun "throwing" points like balls, even though it may look crazy to any outsiders xD (You can use this for maths for formulae, vocabs etc!)

Hope this helps! :D

[magic-shop-stories]

You are amazing, I just love your writing so much, especially BTS Dad scenarios. I am addicted! So I wanted to ask if you could write some headcanons or short imagine of the BTS members having a child, their gender is up to you, that wants to race. Like they love F1 and racing in general and want to do it as well. I cannot get this out of my head and would die to read something like this. Preferably with Yoongi of Jungkook, but I leave that up to you. I hope that's not to weird, if so just ignore me but thanks in advance.

💌 Reply:

OH MY GOD THIS REQUEST MADE ME SQUEAL LIKE A 10-YEAR-OLD AT THEIR FIRST F1 RACE!!!! 🏎️ (Which, fun fact, was me. I had a Vettel poster on my wall and everything...) THANK YOU FOR THIS MASTERPIECE OF A PROMPT!!! I loved writing these headcanons and may have fallen into a 3-hour rabbit hole about Asian F4 teams? ADHD isn't a joke xD If you want a full imagine, my DMs are WIDE OPEN. 🏁 I hope it's what you wanted, if not - let me know. – c – 💜 ohh and THANK YOU P.S. tumblr decided to crumble every time I tried to add pics, and my migraine is currently killing me, so please forgive me for the missing pics...

BTS as Racing Dads Headcanons

Pairings:  OT7 x Child!Reader (Parent/Child Dynamics) Rating: PG (K+) Genre: family fluff, sports drama, hurt/comfort Warnings: none

KIM NAMJOON (RM)

CHILD

Name: Soo-Yeon (she/her)

Team: Prema Racing (F4 → F3 → F2), Possible Future: Red Bull Junior Team (Engineering-Focused Development Route)

[note: she’ll probably be the only driver who sends Prema engineers correction emails with footnotes]

Personality: 

cerebral introvert

quiet obsession for motorsport engineering

not drawn to the glamour of racing but to the physics of it

= fluid dynamics, tire compounds, energy recovery systems

bedroom walls plastered with diagrams of F1 aerodynamics

scribbles differential equations on her homework

HOW IT BEGINS

at age 12

she stumbles upon a documentary about Adrian Newey

becomes fixated

builds miniature wind tunnels out of cardboard and obsessively testing toy car designs

Namjoon finds her at 2 a.m.

= adjusting the angle of a paper rear wing with surgical precision

First Conversation

“Appa, did you know downforce is just controlled air resistance? It’s… math in motion.”

he blinks

coffee forgotten

“You… built this?” 

kneels beside her

studying her makeshift lab

“Explain it to me. Slowly.”

NAMJOON’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“She’s a genius. A literal genius.”

Worry

“Racing is dangerous. What if she gets hurt? What if the world exploits her mind?”

Guilt

“Did I push her into overthinking? Is this my fault?”

What He Says

Day 1:

“Let’s start with the basics. What’s your favorite part? The engineering or the speed?”

Week 2:

“I found a junior karting team with a good engineer. Interested?”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

education first

enrolls her in STEM camps

tho lets her skip lectures to shadow a Hyundai N mechanic

“Experience is the best teacher.”

karting phase

buys a used kart

insists she designs the modifications herself

“You want to race? Build it first.” 

they spend nights in the garage

her hands greasy, his glasses smudged

safety obsession

researches FIA safety protocols

gifts her a custom HANS device for her 15th birthday (Head and Neck Support device)

“Your brain is your greatest asset. Protect it.”

CONFLICTS

First Crash

she flips her kart during a test run

he sprints to the track

panic clawing his throat

finds her already out, scribbling notes on a clipboard

“The roll cage held! My calculations were right!”

His Response

Outward Calm

“Good. Now let’s improve the chassis.”

Inward Meltdown

calls Yoongi at 3 a.m

“Hyung, what if I’m failing her, what if she gets hurt?”

LEAP TO F4

at 15/16

recruited by a Formula 4 team

he negotiates her contract

adding clauses for academic continuity

“You’ll finish school. And change the game.”

Proudest Moment

watching her explain energy recovery systems to engineers twice her age

“That’s my kid...”

Quote to Her

“You’re not just a driver. You’re a visionary. Make them see it too.”

KIM SEOKJIN (JIN)

CHILD

Name: Ha-Eun (she/her)

Team: Kart Republic → Iron Dames (F4/F3), Possible Future: Ferrari Driver Academy (if she pushes herself hard)

Personality

bubbly, competitive extrovert

lives for the thrill of the race and the cheers of the crowd

she’s less about the mechanics

more about the drama

customizing her kart with glitter sticker

naming it “Pink Lightning”

trash-talking Jin (and the rest of Bangtan) during backyard races

her dream?

= be the first (female) F1 driver with a themed victory dance

HOW IT BEGINS

during a family outing at an amusement park

she drags Jin to the go-kart track

overtakes him on the final lap

“BYE, APPA!”

staff hands her a plastic trophy

“I’m gonna be a racing queen.”

First Conversation

Ha-Eun: “Appa, I’m faster than your dad jokes!” Jin: “Yah! That’s Worldwide Handsome’s kart you’re insulting!” 

fake-pouts, then grins

“But fine. Let’s see if you can handle real competition.”

JIN’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“She’s a star. A sparkly, chaotic star.”

Panic

“What if she flips the kart? What if someone breathes on her wrong?”

Excitement

“Finally, a worthy rival for my Singin’ in the Rain karaoke crown.”

What He Says

Day 1:

“Okay, champ. Rule #1: Always let your Appa win. Rule #2: Never follow Rule #1.”

Week 2:

“I booked us matching racing suits. Yours has glitter. Mine has my face.”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

themed training

turns practice into “Jin/ Ha-Eun Grand Prix” events

cones become “dinosaur obstacles”

pit stops involve juice boxes and dad-joke riddles

“What’s a race car’s favorite snack? Vroom-sticks!”

safety first (but make it fashion)

buys her a neon pink helmet with “PRINCESS OF SPEED” on the side

“Safety’s boring unless it’s fabulous.” 

secretly researches the safest tracks

social media hype

posts slow-mo videos of her wins set to “I’m the Best” by 2NE1

caption: “Future F1 CEO. (P.S. I taught her everything.)”

CONFLICTS

First Loss

she loses a local race by 0.5 seconds

throws her gloves

yelling

“I HATE KARTING!”

Jin’s Response

outward calm

“Okay, let’s hate together. Dramatic sigh I hate… broccoli. And slow Wi-Fi.”

inward angst

texts Yoongi

“How do I fix a broken heart? Asking for a tiny dictator.”

solution

hosts a “Losers’ Party” with pizza, disco lights, and a dance-off

“Win the next race, and we’ll crash a real F1 party. Deal?”

LEAP TO COMPETITIVE KARTING

at 11

she joins a regional league

he becomes her hype man

waving a custom banners

“HA-EUN: FASTEST & PRETTIEST.”

Proudest Moment

watching her podium speech

“Thanks to my Appa, who’s almost as cool as my kart.” 

he fake-sobs into the mic

“She’s lying! I’m cooler!”

Quote to Her

“Remember: If you’re not first, you’re… still my favorite. But always try to be first.”

note: definiteley plays EA F1 with her, or the sim but NEVER wins

MIN YOONGI (SUGA)

CHILD

Name: Yumi (she/her)

Team: Hitech GP or ART Grand Prix, Possible Future: Alpine Academy (quiet prodigy path)

[note: pit engineers start whispering, “She sees lines we don’t” after analyzing her onboard footage]

Personality

fierce, stubborn introvert with a gasoline-and-metal soul

she’s tactical

calculating lap times in her head during dinner

thrives under pressure

her idea of small talk? 

“Appa, do you think Verstappen’s tire strategy in Singapore ’23 was reckless?”

HOW IT BEGINS

at 10 (after years of building Carrera tracks, and decorating her walls with team posters)

she discovers an old racing sim in Yoongi’s studio

he’d bought it years ago (probably for a one time try)

she sneaks in

cracks the top 10 global leaderboard under the username “SHADOWSPEED”

Yoongi finds her asleep at the rig

hands still gripping the controller

First Conversation

“…You did this?”

gestures to the screen where her lap record glows

Yumi: “It’s not hard. Just physics.” Yoongi: “Wear these. The engine sounds are better.”

silently hands her his noise-canceling headphones

YOONGI’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“She’s a goddamn prodigy.”

Terror

flashbacks of his own accident

= rain-slick roads, injured shoulder, the smell of burnt rubber

“What if she…?”

Resolve

“If she’s gonna do this, I’ll make sure she’s safe. Even if it kills me.”

What He Says

Day 1:

“You want to race? Fine. But you learn to fix the engine first.”

Week 2

slaps a fireproof racing suit on the kitchen table

“Try it on. Before you argue.”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

karting phase

buys a secondhand kart

spends months reinforcing the chassis himself (with her)

“Safety isn’t optional. Ever.”

F4 debut

pulls all strings to get her a spot on a team

insists on meeting every engineer

“The car’s data system is shit. Upgrade it or I walk.”

rainy day ritual

texts her a single emoji before wet races: 🌧️

code for “Don’t be a hero. Just come home.”

CONFLICTS

Crash

she spins out during a monsoon-like F3 qualifier

Yoongi watches from the pit wall

jaw clenched so tight he almost cracks a molar

when she limps back, he barks

“You’re done.”

Her Rebellion

Yumi: “You don’t get it! This is my life!” Yoongi: “I do get it. I’ve..” 

slams his fist on the table

voice shaking

rolls up his sleeve

shows the surgery scar on hie shoulder

“This is what ‘life’ looks like when it goes wrong.”

Resolution

they don’t speak for days

Yoongi appears at her door with a helmet

modified with extra impact padding

“Race smart. Or I’ll sell the sim.”

SUZUKA GIFT

her 14th birthday

he tosses her an envelope

inside, two VIP passes to the Japanese Grand Prix

“Pack your bags. And… bring a notebook. Take notes on the real pros.”

At Suzuka

she vibrates with excitement

scribbling notes on tire temps and apex speeds

Yoongi is silent

grips her hand during the start

“If you ever…”

he stops

clears his throat

“Just watch, yeah?”

that night, he admits it over ramen

“I hate this. But I'd hate seeing you not do it more.”

ONGOING SUPPORT

custom safety gear

commissions a fireproof suit

her name stitched inside

“For luck. Don’t tell the team.”

post-race ritual

plays her a lullaby-like piano track he composed

“Checkered Flag Lullaby”

it calms her adrenaline

legacy

secretly funds a junior racing scholarship in her name

“So the next kid doesn’t need a scared shitless dad to make it.”

JUNG HOSEOK (J-HOPE)

CHILD

Name: Min-Jae (he/him)

Team: Williams Racing Young Design Talent → Karting Support Team Livery Artist → Mercedes Junior Creative Division, Possible Future: Lead Livery Director for Mercedes or independent design phenom running his own F1 visual branding agency

Personality

bubbly, hyper-creative whirlwind with a neon imagination

hands are perpetually stained with marker ink

tarted sketching liveries at 5

he talks a mile a minute about "making cars dance with colors!"

he names his designs things like “Rainbow Rocket” and “Glitter Shark”

HOW IT BEGINS

at 5

Min-Jae scribbles a chaotic, crayon masterpiece on the living room wall

= a race car with rainbow flames and polka-dot wheels

J-Hope, mid-dance practice, freezes

“Yah! Is that… a car?” 

he beams

“Appa, it’s faster than your moves!”

First Conversation

“Explain this. Now.” 

trying to sound stern but failing miserably

Min-Jae: “The polka dots are speed bubbles! And the rainbow is for when it flies!” J-Hope: “…You’re a genius. But never draw on walls again. Here, use this.” 

hands him a F1 sketchbook

J-HOPE’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“My kid’s a creative monster! Look at those colors!”

Panic

“How do I nurture this without our house turning into a graffiti warzone?”

Excitement

“We’re gonna collab. Father-son design duo. Let’s go!”

What He Says

Day 1:

“Min-Jae-ya, let’s make a rule: Paper only. Unless it’s Appa’s dance shoes... those need glitter.”

Week 2: 

“... gonna teach you about balance. No, not math... color balance! It’s like choreography for your eyes!”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

art studio overhaul

converts the guest room into “Min-Jae’s Mad Lab”

= walls covered in whiteboard paint

shelves stocked with every art supply known to humankind

J-Hope hangs a sign: “Caution: Genius at Work.”

field trips

takes him to the Seoul Auto Show

letting him interrogate designers

“Why is that car boring? It needs fangs!” 

J-Hope translates

“He’s asking about… aerodynamic expression!”

matching kits

designs father-son overalls with “Team Hope-Jae” logos

Min-Jae adds doodles to J-Hope’s pair

= a tiny ARMY bomb with wings

CONFLICTS

Meltdown

Min-Jae throws a marker at a failed design

“It’s ugly! I hate it!” 

J-Hope swoops in

spinning him in a chair

His Response

tough love

“Yah! Markers are for art, not tantrums.”

encouragement

“Remember when Appa fell during ‘Dope’? I ate the stage! You gotta own the mess!”

collaboration

they “trash” the design together

splattering paint everywhere

the result?

livery titled “Chaos Victory”

LEAP TO KARTING

at 9/10

local karting team asks Min-Jae to design their livery

J-Hope films the entire process for VLOG content

crying behind the camera

“That’s my son! Look at him glow!”

Proudest Moment

watching Min-Jae present his design

= a tiger-striped kart with holographic accents

team owner whispers

“He’s… ten?” 

J-Hope grins

“Nine next week. Discount rate.”

Quote to Him

“You’re not just an artist. You’re joy on wheels. Make the world dance with you!”

PARK JIMIN

CHILD/TWINS

Names: Min-Jae (son) & Hae-Won (daughter)

Personalities

Min-Jae

Team: Red Bull Racing - Young Driver Programme, Possible Future: Red Bull Racing (F1) or AlphaTauri as his launchpad

[note: already has a penalty record in karting]

hot-headed

bold

fiercely competitive

drives for Red Bull Racing - Young Driver Programme

idolizes Max Verstappen’s aggression

wore his racing gloves during dinner when he was younger

Hae-Won

Team: McLaren - Young Driver Programme, Possible Future: McLaren F1 Team or Aston Martin (Talent-Precision Hybrid Route)

analytical

ice-cool under pressure

races for McLaren - Young Driver Programme

worships Lando Norris

keeps a race logbook titled “Emotion is Drag."

Dynamic

sibling rivalry on steroids

they debate tire strategies over breakfast

bet allowance money on lap times

refuse to carpool to the track

HOW IT BEGINS

at 4

they’re given toy karts for Christmas (Jungkooks gift)

Jimin films them racing around the living room

giggling as they crash into the couch

by 12, they’re dominating local karting leagues

Min-Jae wins by sheer grit

Hae-Won by calculating apex speeds

First Rivalry Flashpoint

during a regional final

Hae-Won blocks Min-Jae on the last lap

he retaliates, spinning her out

Jimin, watching in horror, sprints to the track

Jimin’s Reaction

outward:

forces them to shake hands

“You’re teammates first. Always.”

inward:

cries in the bathroom

texting Namjoon

“Hyung, what if I’m ruining them?”

JIMIN’S DAD MODE

Support System

dual team gear

wears a Red Bull cap and McLaren jacket to races

“I’m Switzerland. Neutral but fabulous.”

pre-race rituals

braids Hae-Won’s hair

for “aerodynamics”

tightens Min-Jae’s helmet strap

“Breathe. Think. Don’t murder each other.”

slips handwritten notes into their cars

“Proud of you. Love, Appa.”

Conflict Mediator

post-race debriefs

hosts “Family Meetings” with a whiteboard

“Min-Jae, stop dive-bombing. Hae-Won,stop smirking when he does.”

therapy sessions

drags them to family counseling

therapist quits after three sessions

“They’re… ´too passionate.” 

JIMIN’S FEARS

safety

stares at crash compilations at 3 a.m. 

“What if I lose them both in one day?”

sibling estrangement

finds Hae-Won crying after Min-Jae calls her a “robot”

Jimin tucks her into his side

“He doesn’t mean it. He’s just… bad at feelings.”

burnout

cancels a tour date to attend their first F3/2 race

“They’ll only be kids once. Priorities.”

BREAKTHROUGH

Monaco F2 Incident

Min-Jae and Hae-Won qualify P2 and P3

on lap 15, they battle through the hairpin

tires screeching, inches apart

Jimin clutches one of the members arms so hard he leaves bruises (they all came to watch)

Post-Race

they podium together

Hae-Won 1st, Min-Jae 3rd

instead of fighting, Min-Jae hugs her

“Don’t get used to it...” 

Jimin sobs into a custom Red Bull-McLaren flag

Jimin’s Proudest Moment

overhearing Hae-Won defend Min-Jae to a reporter

“He’s the only driver I’d trust to race wheel-to-wheel with.”

KIM TAEHYUNG (V)

CHILD

Name: Min-Jae (he/him)

nicknamed "MJ" by the press

"Jae-Jae" by Taehyung

Team: Ferrari Driver Academy (F4 → F3 → F2)

Personality

firecracker with a Senna poster taped to his bedroom ceiling

brash, fearless

allergic to caution

MJ thrives on the edge

overtakes on the inside

revs engines like they’re percussion instruments

wears a permanent smirk under his helmet

media dubs him “The Little Phoenix” after he flips his kart in qualifiers only to podium the next day

Obsessions

Ayrton Senna’s 1988 Monaco GP

“He drove like it was jazz!”

customizing his gloves with paint splatters

“For luck. And style.”

collecting vintage racing helmets/suits

Tae turned his bedroom into a “museum” with display cases

HOW IT BEGINS

at 10

MJ finds Tae’s old Rush DVD

watches it 17 times in a week

then drags Tae to a go-kart track

he watches MJ lap seasoned adults while humming “Boy With Luv.”

First Conversation

MJ: “Appa, I wanna fly like Senna.” Taehyung: “…In a car? Or literally?” 

TAEHYUNG’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Awe

“He’s a painting in motion. A… Pollock with a steering wheel.”

Terror

“He’s going to die. I’m going to watch my child die.”

Pride

texts the group chat

“MY SON’S A GOD. SUCK IT, KOOK.” (ofc banter)

What He Says

Day 1:

“You’re not allowed to die. Ever. It’s in the dad contract.”

Week 2:

“Let’s make your kart art. Pink flames? Gold tires? Yes.”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

aesthetic overhaul

designs MJ’s kart livery

= neon splatter paint inspired by Basquiat

“If you’re gonna be fast, be iconic.”

mental health checks

hires a therapist who races

“Dr. Nara does donuts and CBT. Multitasking queen.”

Senna pilgrimage

takes MJ to São Paulo (his favourite track)

films him crying at Senna’s grave

posts it with “Legends recognize legends” 

MJ threatens to leak his unfinishes tracks

CONFLICTS

MJ attempts a Senna-style “no-look overtake” in the rain

kart hydroplanes into a barrier

Tae, mid-photoshoot in Milan, flies home on a private jet

still wearing Gucci loafers in the ICU

His Response

outward: 

“You’re grounded. To… the kart track. After you heal.”

inward:

paints a mural titled “Phoenix Rising” on MJ’s cast

“Scars are just proof you outran death.”

LEAP TO F4

at 14/15

MJ joins Formula 4

Tae negotiates a sponsorship deal

the car?

= a rolling canvas

abstract designs that shift under UV lights

Proudest Moment

MJ wins his first race

dedicates it to “Appa, who taught me crashes are just plot twists.”

Quote to Him

“You’re not just a driver. You’re a performance artist. The track’s your stage... burn it down.”

JEON JUNGKOOK

CHILD

Name: Haneul (Sky) (she/her)

Team: ART (Asia Racing Team) (F4 → F3 → F2)

Personality

spitfire with a lead foot and a chip on her shoulder

Haneul inherited Jungkook’s competitive strea

battles a storm of self-doubt in a male-dominated sport

she’s all grit behind the wheel

= aggressive overtakes, daring late brakes

off-track, she folds her race suits meticulously

as if perfection could armor her against the world’s whispers

“They don’t see a driver. They see a girl driver.”

HOW IT BEGINS

at 6

Haneul begs to ride shotgun in a Porsche GT3 during a track day

he lets her “steer” on a straightaway

her tiny hands gripping the wheel like it’s a lifeline

“Faster! Faster!” 

she shrieks, and Jungkook grins

First Race

he buys her a junior kart for her 8th birthday

they paint it purple and gold

“Team Jeon colors”

he kneels in the gravel

teaching her heel-toe braking

“Smooth, Haneul-ah. Like dancing.”

JUNGKOOK’S REACTION

Initial Thoughts

Pride

“She’s a natural. Look at her lines...cleaner than mine at her age.”

Fear

“What if she gets hurt? What if they break her spirit?”

Protective Fury

“I’ll crash anyone who touches her.”

What He Says

After Her First Win (Age 10)

“You’re a monster out there. Proud of you, champ.”

When She Asks for F4 (Age 15)

“You sure? It’s not just speed. It’s war.”

SUPPORT & SACRIFICES

training regimen

wakes her at 5 a.m. for endurance runs

then cooks galbi at midnight after sim sessions

“Champions don’t sleep. Naps.”

public persona

uses his fame to shield her

brings her on live, arm around her shoulders

“Meet my co-pilot. She’s better than me.”

tattoo

after her F4 debut

he inks her car number (#07) and chassis outline on his ribs

shows her post-race

“Now you’re always with me.”

CONFLICTS

First Slur

rival team owner mutters “Go back to makeup tutorials” during qualifying

Haneul pretends not to hear

Jungkook slams his fist into a garage locker

denting the metal

His Response

outward

storms into the stewards’ office

demands the man’s ban

“Apologize to my daughter. Or I’ll park my car in your pit lane.”

inward: 

cries alone

“I should’ve protected her better.”

Haneul’s Breaking Point

she quits mid-season after online trolls photoshop her into a doll

Jungkook finds her dismantling her helmet in the garage

Dialogue

Haneul: “I’m not strong like you. I can’t just… ignore it.” Jungkook: “You think I don’t see the comments? ‘Washed-up idol. Failed racer.’”

COMEBACK

Training Redemption

Jungkook hires a female ex-F1 test driver as her coach (Jessica Hawkins) 

“Learn from the best. Better than me.”

Proudest Moment

Haneul podium’s in F4

dedicating the win to “the Appa who taught me to never lift.” 

Jungkook, wearing her #07 cap, sobs into his headset

Quote to Her

“You’re not ‘Jungkook’s kid.’ I’m Haneul’s dad. Remember that.”

[thissying]

Max Verstappen has been in the Red Bull factory regularly in recent weeks to find a solution to the problems with his RB20. How can a driver help his team in the factory? Former Formula 1 test driver Ho-Pin Tung explains.

Red Bull and the 26-year-old Verstappen have been trying to solve the problems with the car for months. The Dutchman has not won a race since the Spanish Grand Prix and has now gone six races without a win. That happened to him for the lat time in 2020, when he failed to win eleven races in a row.

Verstappen said in Monza that he had been in the Red Bull factory in Milton Keynes to help his team. He would also visit the English city for the race in Baku. "I read that Verstappen spent hours in the simulator," Ho-Pin Tung told NU.nl. "To find a solution for the balance problems in his car, I think."

The former test driver explains that Formula 1 teams basically work with two different simulators. "One of them is the so-called driver in the loop, which the teams also abbreviate to DIL. In that simulator, a driver sits in a monocoque that is identical to the race car. With that, the driver drives around a virtual circuit."

"That is what Verstappen is referring to when he talks about 'the sim'. You can make adjustments to the setup there, just like you would in a normal race car."

"The other simulator is only software," says Tung. "A certain setup is entered into it and it calculates a certain lap time. However, that simulator does not take into account how easy a car is to drive for a driver. A lap time is produced, purely on static data."

"In that simulation, the car can be very fast, but for a driver, a car with that setup may not be drivable at all in reality. Which is why the difference between the results from the simulator and what actually happens on the asphalt can sometimes be very big."

That is probably why Verstappen has spent so much time in the factory in recent weeks. "In principle, the correlation between the DIL and what actually happens on the asphalt is very good. But in this case, Verstappen will have driven in the DIL with the same set-up as at Monza to see if the feeling was the same as in reality. This is to check the correlation and improve it where necessary."

If the correlation is OK, the findings in the simulator are the same as those on the asphalt. Then the teams can start working on a set-up for the car. Tung: "They also do this with their own simulator drivers. They can imitate Verstappen's driving style to a certain extent, but it is not completely identical. In Formula 1, it sometimes comes down to hundredths or thousandths of a second per lap, those subtleties are important."

"How a car reacts or feels is different for every driver," Tung explains. "A solution that works well for one simulator driver does not necessarily feel good for Verstappen in the car. In addition, certain balance problems in the car can be solved in several ways."

"For example, if you experience understeer halfway through a corner, you can solve that by lowering the ride height at the front. The lower the car is, the less understeer and the more grip you have. You can also choose to make the front a bit softer with the suspension or by setting the differential differently. A combination of all of these is also possible."

"That's the tricky part. Of course, everything works together. And which solution works best without causing the most side effects and creating new problems? The trick is to solve that."

Verstappen can only partially solve these problems during a Grand Prix weekend, because time is limited. "Not only because you have to deal with the time of a session, you are also limited by the number of tyres you are allowed to use," says Tung. "In a simulator, Verstappen can work with multiple constants."

Incidentally, other test drivers of the team also drive in the simulator in the factory during a race weekend. It is not the case that Red Bull is panicking and that is why Verstappen himself does a lot of simulator work.

Tung: "Something like that always happens in preparation for races. It just struck me that Verstappen has been emphasizing in recent weeks that he is very busy with this. He has invested more time in it this time than usual, it seems. Red Bull hopes that this will give him a better idea of ​​the solution in the setup for Verstappen."

[honeydippedfiction]

The Burden of Greatness

Prologue of Revved Up To Fight

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Summary: The prologue introduces Y/N Griffin, the heir to a legendary motorsport dynasty, raised in a world where racing is not just a passion but an expectation. As she grows, she grapples with the immense weight of her family’s legacy, ultimately questioning whether she races for herself or simply to fulfill the world’s expectations, setting the stage for a journey of self-discovery.

WC: 9.4k (she's looong lol I got carried away sorry)

Warnings: themes of family pressure, high expectations, self-doubt, and identity struggles, a racing accident, injury, emotional weight of legacy, burnout, and self-discovery

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• you DO NOT have my permission to copy my work, upload as your own, translate, or repost on any other website •

The Griffin family was more than a name—it was a dynasty. To the world outside, they were motorsport royalty, icons whose achievements were woven into the very fabric of racing history. But to Y/N, they were simply family. Her grandfather’s records in Formula 1 still stood as monuments of speed and strategy, his name etched in the sport’s annals as one of the greatest to ever race. Her father had turned MotoGP into a stage for breathtaking audacity, riding like a man possessed, rethinking the very essence of what it meant to push the limits of human endurance and mechanical precision. And her mother—her mother was a legend in her own right, a woman whose dominance in IndyCar was less about brute force and more about an almost spiritual connection to the track, a quiet master of strategy, timing, and grace under pressure.

The Griffins didn’t just race; they defined racing. Their triumphs had become part of motorsport folklore, told and retold at every track, in every garage, on every pit wall. They were pioneers—risk-takers who had turned the sport into an art form. They had shaped it. Molded it. Redefined it. 

From the day Y/N was born, the world had made up its mind. There would be no “if” about it; the question was always when. She wasn’t just another racer, another aspiring champion. She was the heir apparent to a legacy so great, it was almost impossible to imagine anything but the highest of expectations. Destiny, as far as the world was concerned, had already been written in the stars. 

But for Y/N, the weight of that legacy was something far more intimate. It wasn’t about living up to the stories told about her family’s triumphs. It wasn’t about proving anything to anyone. It was about something simpler, more profound: living up to the quiet, unspoken legacy that had been passed down to her in ways she had never truly understood until much later. 

Sunday nights at the Griffin house were never typical. There were no lazy meals or casual chats. There was always a blueprint spread across the table, a car engine in various stages of disassembly, and race footage flickering across the television screen, paused mid-turn as her father’s voice—deep and steady—talked through tire pressure and aerodynamics. “The car,” he would often say, “it’s not just a machine. It’s an extension of you.” 

Her mother’s words were quieter, precise, her voice a soft, calculated hum that cut through the air like the hum of an engine coming to life. “Perfection,” she’d whisper, “is in the details. Watch the line. Every millisecond matters.” There was no room for error. The world they inhabited was one of constant improvement, of never settling, of always pushing towards that elusive thing called perfection. 

To Y/N, these weren’t just lessons; they were a way of life. Her parents were more than just her mentors—they were the architects of her world. From the time she could walk, she was never handed toy cars or dolls. Instead, they put wrenches in her hands and showed her how to use them. They taught her how to take apart and rebuild an engine before she had even learned to properly tie her shoes. 

The house wasn’t filled with the usual memorabilia of childhood. There were no stuffed animals, no posters of pop stars or superheroes. Instead, the walls of the Griffin household were adorned with photographs of races long past, faded trophies gleaming in the corners of rooms that smelled faintly of gasoline and leather. Y/N’s childhood was a laboratory of sorts—a place where racing was the answer to every question, and family was the force that held it all together.

Her earliest memories weren’t of parks or playgrounds, but of race tracks. Of the smell of fuel in the air, the roar of engines, the metallic hum of pit crews in their choreography of precision. She was there, in the pit lane, wide-eyed and breathless, as her parents worked their magic, tweaking settings and adjusting valves with the kind of calm intensity only those born into racing understood. For others, the sound of a revving engine might have been deafening. For Y/N, it was a symphony. 

Her grandfather, sitting next to her with his weathered hands resting on the back of the pit wall, would often point out to the track. “Monaco,” he’d say, his voice gravelly but steady, “it’s about control. It’s about patience.” He’d recount the glory of his victory, detailing every twist and turn of the track as if it were etched into his bones. And Y/N, sitting on his knee, absorbed it all—each word, each piece of wisdom. 

Her father, always the adventurer, would take her up to the podium after his victories, lifting her high into the air as though the triumph was hers, too. And in a way, it was. He’d tell her, with a proud grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, “You’re next. You’ll be up here someday. But remember, it’s about more than winning. It’s about making every second count.” 

And then there was her mother. Quiet, reserved, always with a plan. Before her first karting session, her mother had knelt before her, adjusted her helmet, and whispered the words that would stay with her forever. “You’re a Griffin, Y/N. You don’t just race—you set the standard.” 

The Griffin family wasn’t just supportive; they were all in. Their belief in Y/N was not a passive thing—it was active, deliberate, and persistent. Her father wasn’t just content to let her watch from the sidelines; he became her first teacher, guiding her hands as she turned the wrenches, his voice always calm but firm, explaining the physics of a turn or the importance of throttle control. Her mother, ever the strategist, was always the one to help her perfect her technique, breaking down complex moves into bite-sized, understandable bits. She could see the potential in Y/N long before Y/N saw it in herself.

When Y/N first raced, it wasn’t with an overwhelming sense of competition. It was with a deep-rooted sense of connection—connection to the car, to the track, to the generations of Griffins who had come before her. Her father, meticulously adjusting her kart’s bolts, would look her in the eye and say, “You’ve got this, kid. Just remember what I taught you: Feel the car. Don’t fight it.” Her mother, always composed, would be there at the starting line, helmet in hand, leaning in with the softest words of advice. “Breathe. Focus. Own the track.” 

The pressure of carrying the Griffin name, however, was something Y/N felt acutely. It was never spoken directly—it didn’t need to be. Every time she won, every time she stood atop the podium, the expectations of the world seemed to double. Every small mistake, every failure, felt magnified. Yet, in those moments of solitude, after the race had ended and the cheers had faded, her family was always there to remind her that the journey wasn’t about comparison. It wasn’t about matching the past—it was about creating her own future.

As Y/N grew older, the whispers started. Fans spoke her name with an air of inevitability, as if she were simply waiting for her time to emerge. Journalists speculated—often with more fervor than accuracy—about her future. T-shirts bearing her name began to pop up alongside those with her family’s, emblazoned with slogans like “The Next Griffin Legend.” Her family, it seemed, had become a measuring stick for all who came after.

Yet, despite the weight of these expectations, Y/N carried herself with a quiet, unshakable confidence. She didn’t feel the need to chase her family’s history, to prove she was worthy of the name she bore. No. She wanted something more—something deeper. She wanted to honor their legacy, to carry the torch forward, but she also wanted to carve out her own story, a story that was uniquely hers, even if it was still intertwined with the threads of her family’s past.

The world might have been watching, but Y/N wasn’t looking over her shoulder. Instead, she looked forward, her gaze set firmly on the track ahead. It was a daunting path, filled with expectations and pressure, but Y/N wasn’t afraid. After all, she was a Griffin. And Griffins didn’t just race—they set the standard.

Y/N's first race was a quiet affair—nothing more than a local karting competition in a forgotten corner of the world, tucked away in a dusty lot surrounded by bleachers that had seen better days. For most young racers, it would have been a humble start, a first taste of the sport that might not have amounted to much more than a handful of local bragging rights. But for Y/N, this was the beginning of something far grander, an opening chapter in the story of her destiny.

At just eight years old, she slipped into a custom-fitted racing suit, its fabric snug against her small frame. Her name—Y/N Griffin—was embroidered neatly on the back, a quiet echo of a legacy she hadn’t yet begun to fulfill. As she pulled the helmet over her head, the weight of her family’s history felt distant, almost irrelevant. Here, in the stillness of that moment, there was no roaring crowd, no cameras flashing, no family legacy pushing her forward. There was only the track, and only her.

Her father crouched beside her, adjusting the straps of her helmet with his usual precision. His hands were steady, but his eyes, focused and intense, betrayed the pride he was trying to hide. “The race isn’t won in the first corner,” he said, his voice calm yet knowing. “But that’s where you can lose it. Stay sharp. Trust yourself.”

When the flag dropped, everything around her faded. The world became a blur of asphalt, rubber, and the growl of a kart that vibrated beneath her, its engine alive with power. She gripped the steering wheel, her small hands steady as the nerves that had threatened to rise seemed to disappear entirely. There was no Griffin name, no family pressure—only the race.

She didn’t win that day. Her kart crossed the finish line a few places behind the leader, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was how she raced. Her control on the track, her ability to read the turns, and her cool-headedness in the midst of chaos stood out. She wasn’t just a kid trying to race—she was learning, adapting, and above all, she was growing. 

Her family saw it immediately. Her father’s sharp gaze never left the track, watching as his daughter took each corner with uncanny precision. Her mother, standing near the pit lane, gave a small, approving nod. Y/N wasn’t just racing. She was beginning her journey in the same way her family had—on her terms.

From that first race, Y/N was hooked. The world of karting was her crucible, the place where she began to refine her skills, her technique, and her understanding of the sport. It wasn’t just the adrenaline that fueled her; it was the pulse of the competition, the thrill of the chase, the dizzying rush of passing a rival by mere inches, and the split-second decisions that made the difference between victory and defeat. 

Karting, with its tight corners and rapid acceleration, taught her the value of patience and precision. Each race was an opportunity to perfect her craft, to peel away at the layers of her own abilities and uncover the racer hidden beneath. 

Weekends became a blur of travel and racing, the familiar hum of the kart's engine a constant companion. When the races were over, the work didn’t stop. Y/N spent her weekdays tinkering with her kart, adjusting carburetors, studying engine specs, and constantly pushing the boundaries of what she could do with the machines. And when she wasn’t hands-on with her kart, she was at home, watching race footage—her parents’ wins, her mistakes, the greats of motorsport who had come before her. Every turn, every maneuver, every hesitation—she dissected it all, her young mind hungry for improvement.

Her parents, always in her corner, took on their roles with dedication. Her father, the motivator, pushed her harder than anyone could. “You need to brake later, Y/N. Feel the track. Push it.” Her mother, the strategist, taught her how to outthink her opponents. “It’s not just about who’s fastest. It’s about how you race.” Their teachings were complementary, a perfect balance of instinct and intellect, the very foundation of her rise to prominence.

Y/N wasn’t just racing to win. She was racing to dominate. And it was clear to everyone—especially her family—that she wasn’t just a prodigy. She was a force.

By the time Y/N turned 12, it was evident that karting was no longer enough. Her talents had outgrown the circuit, and the world of motorsports beckoned with a myriad of opportunities. But Y/N wasn’t content to simply conquer one discipline—she wanted to prove herself across the board.

It was time to branch out.

Her first foray into rallycross was a revelation. The sport, with its wild slides and gravel-churning corners, required an entirely new set of skills. But Y/N adapted seamlessly, her karting precision translating effortlessly to the unpredictable terrain. The art of control, of mastering the slide, became a natural extension of the technique she had spent years honing.

Next came dirt bikes. This was where Y/N learned fearlessness. She took to the dirt with the same tenacity she had shown on the tarmac, launching herself over jumps with an ease that belied her age. The rough trails, the high-speed descents, the sense of weightlessness as she soared above the ground—it was all part of the thrill. And it was here that Y/N discovered a different kind of rhythm, one that didn’t rely solely on smooth lines and perfect corners but on the thrill of the unknown, the unpredictability of nature.

Her experiments with single-seaters—low-tier cars that mimicked the high-speed elegance of Formula 1—further proved her versatility. Y/N was no longer confined to one style or one genre of racing. She was a racer in every sense of the word, adaptable and able to excel in a variety of disciplines. By the time she was 14, her trophy shelf was full, each medal a testament to her adaptability and raw talent. In every category she entered, Y/N didn’t just participate—she dominated.

At 16, Y/N’s career hit a new high. She had moved beyond local competitions and into the national circuits, competing with racers who were often several years older and much more experienced. Her name—once whispered in garage corners and paddocks—was now shouted in headlines and echoed in sponsorship meetings. The media took notice. Sponsors flocked to her, eager to align themselves with the rising star who was not only talented but magnetic.

Her victories were no longer just about skill—they were about her style. Fans adored her aggressive but calculated approach. She wasn’t reckless; she was fearless. Her ability to balance strategy with speed, to attack the track with an unrelenting drive, earned her the respect of competitors who knew exactly what it took to win. Y/N wasn’t just winning races; she was setting new standards. 

The wins kept coming—one after another, each more impressive than the last. But it wasn’t just her on-track performance that drew attention. Y/N had an authenticity that resonated off the track as well. Her smile, her energy, her genuine love for the sport were evident in everything she did. Media outlets heralded her as “the future of motorsports.” Commentators couldn’t get enough of her. 

But Y/N knew that the path she was carving was about more than just collecting trophies. She wasn’t just carrying the Griffin name into the future—she was redefining it.

With the victories came the weight of expectation. The world was watching, and the whispers of her family legacy were always in the background. Yet, Y/N wasn’t interested in just being a successor to the legends who had come before her. She wasn’t racing for the recognition or the fame; she was racing because it was her passion, her dream. 

As she entered her late teens, Y/N’s name was becoming one of the most talked-about in the world of motorsports. Her legacy was only just beginning to take shape, and yet, beneath the accolades and the applause, a new question began to take root: Was she racing because she loved it? Or was she racing because she felt she had no other choice?

It was a question that would shape the trajectory of her career. Because the answer, she realized, would determine not just her future in racing, but the very way she would define herself in a world that had already decided who she was. The next chapter of her life, her career, and her legacy depended on it.

As Y/N’s career soared, so too did the mounting weight of expectation. What had begun as a promising start, a young prodigy following in the tire tracks of legends, had evolved into something much bigger. The Griffin name, a symbol of dominance and innovation in motorsports, now came with a new layer of pressure. With every victory, every podium finish, the comparisons grew louder. 

“Is she the next Derrius?”  

“Can she surpass her grandfather’s records?”  

“Will she become the greatest Griffin to ever race?”

These questions were as constant as the roar of engines. They were present at every press conference, whispered among fans, and often, she could hear them echoing in her own mind long after the crowds had gone home. To the world, it was thrilling, a new chapter in an ongoing saga that had captured the imagination of motorsport fans everywhere. But for Y/N, it became suffocating. 

The weight of her family’s legacy, once a proud foundation, now felt like an unshakable burden. The pressure to meet expectations—both her own and others’—became a constant companion. Every race was no longer just about the thrill of competition or the joy of racing. It was a test of her worth. 

If she won, it was expected. Her grandfather’s records, her father’s titles, her mother’s legacy—every success she achieved felt like a mere continuation of something already set in stone. But when she lost, it was scrutinized, analyzed, and dissected as if each mistake reflected a flaw in the Griffin lineage itself. The media’s gaze was sharp, always searching for cracks, for signs that Y/N wasn’t quite what they had hoped for. Every miss, every off moment, felt like a personal failure.

Her family, supportive as ever, tried to shield her from the relentless noise of the media. Her mother, who had always seen the fine details others missed, reminded her time and time again, “Comparisons are inevitable, darling. But they don’t define you. Not unless you let them.” Her father, ever the rock, urged her to remember why she raced in the first place. “Feel the car, Y/N. The joy of racing isn’t in the records—it’s in the ride. Focus on that.”

But no matter how many times they spoke those words, the voice inside her head never quieted. “Is this what I really want?” she wondered. Racing had been her life for as long as she could remember, but was it her dream? Or had it always been someone else’s?

By the time she reached her late teens, Y/N began to question everything. The trophies, the accolades, the endless lines of sponsors eager to bask in her success—they all felt hollow at times. She loved racing, there was no doubt about that, but was she racing because she truly wanted to? Or was she simply fulfilling a role carved out for her long before she was born? 

Her family’s legacy had been passed down through generations, and she had inherited not just the talent, but the weight of history itself. It was not enough to simply be a good racer; she had to be the racer, the one who carried the Griffin name into the future. But what if that wasn’t what she wanted? What if the very thing that had shaped her life was now suffocating her spirit?

It wasn’t just about winning races anymore; it was about carving out a new identity. She didn’t want to be defined solely by the greatness of those who came before her. Y/N yearned for independence, for a space where she could define her own success—not as another Griffin, but as Y/N, the person who had something unique to offer.

And yet, the road to independence was fraught with uncertainty. How could she step away from a legacy that had already been etched into the annals of motorsport history? How could she abandon a sport that had shaped every fiber of her being? 

In the quiet moments between races, when the rush of adrenaline and the roar of the engines faded, those questions became harder to ignore. Was it time for her to find her own way, to redefine who she was, or was she doomed to live in the shadow of expectations for the rest of her life?

Then, it happened. The moment that would forever alter the course of her career—and her life.

It was supposed to be just another race. She had prepared for it with her usual meticulousness. The track was familiar, the car fine-tuned to perfection. She was in the zone, focused and ready, but in motorsports, as in life, things don’t always go as planned.

The collision was violent, a crash that seemed to unfold in slow motion, yet happened in an instant. Her car slammed into the barriers, metal screeching against metal, and everything around her dissolved into chaos. Her vision blurred, her thoughts scrambled, and then—silence.

When she opened her eyes again, she was in a hospital bed, the sterile scent of antiseptic in the air and the low hum of machines surrounding her. The pain was sharp and undeniable, but it wasn’t just the physical injury that hurt the most. It was the realization that something deep inside her had shifted. Racing had always been her everything—the heart-pounding excitement, the thrill of pushing herself beyond her limits—but now, in the quiet of the hospital room, that spark seemed distant, cold. The joy she once found in the sport felt like a distant memory, something she had once possessed but had now lost.

She spent days in that sterile room, alone with her thoughts. The questions that had plagued her for months now became impossible to ignore. Had she lost her love for racing? Had the weight of the legacy crushed something she could never get back? More importantly, what was the point of pushing forward if the joy had vanished?

It took weeks of recovery, both physical and mental, before Y/N made the most difficult decision of her life: to step away from racing. It wasn’t a resignation. It wasn’t giving up. It was a pause—a chance to reflect, to rediscover who she was outside the confines of the track and the overwhelming expectations placed on her.

When she told her family, she braced herself for disappointment. Her father, ever the stoic pillar, simply hugged her tightly, his words soft and reassuring. “You’ve already done more than enough to make us proud, Y/N. Whatever you choose, we’ll support you.”

Her mother, who had always known how to see the bigger picture, nodded with understanding. “You need to live your dream, not ours. Find your own path, darling. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.”

The motorsport world reacted with shock. Fans speculated endlessly, with many wondering if the pressure had finally broken her. Critics questioned her decision, sponsors scrambled to adjust their strategies, and journalists speculated about what went wrong. 

But for Y/N, the noise of the outside world faded. For the first time in her life, she felt free. Free from expectations. Free from comparisons. Free from the weight of a legacy that had never been hers to begin with.

In that moment, Y/N made a vow to herself. No matter where life took her next, she would no longer race to meet the standards of others. She would race—if she chose to race at all—on her own terms.

—

It wasn’t until I lay there in that hospital bed, staring up at the sterile, white ceiling, that I fully grasped the weight I had been carrying all these years. The pressure, the expectations, the constant need to live up to the legacy that came with my name—it had all built up inside me, layer after layer, until it felt like I was drowning under its suffocating heaviness. Every race was no longer just a test of my skill or my passion for the sport; it had become a test of my worth. Could I live up to the standards set by my parents, my grandfather, by a family whose name was synonymous with greatness?  

I had spent my entire life running toward that goal, toward the idea of becoming the next great Griffin in motorsports. I thought I loved racing, and for a long time, I did. But as I lay there in the stillness of the hospital room, it occurred to me that maybe I hadn’t been racing because I loved it at all. Maybe I was just running away from the truth: I was chasing the shadow of a legacy that wasn’t truly mine.  

For years, the sound of engines roaring, the rush of the track beneath me, had been my heartbeat. But now, in the silence of my mind, a quiet voice asked: What if I want something different? 

That question had never crossed my mind before. My life had been carved out for me, shaped by the stories of my parents' triumphs and my grandfather's legendary records. How could I step away from that? How could I turn my back on a legacy that had been a part of me since birth? The thought was terrifying. But there, in that sterile room, I realized something—something crucial. I didn’t have to become the next great Griffin. I just needed to become me. 

When the doctors finally cleared me to leave the hospital, I went home, unsure of what to do next. But I knew one thing: I had to face my family. I couldn’t keep pretending that I wasn’t questioning everything. That day, as I sat with them in the living room—my parents, both sitting across from me, eyes full of concern—I felt the weight of their expectations. Their love. Their pride. It was in every glance they shared, every word they spoke. I couldn’t carry it any longer. 

And so, with a voice that trembled more than I’d care to admit, I said, “I think I need to step away.”

For a heartbeat, the room was silent. My mother’s eyes softened, her hand reaching out to take mine. My father stayed quiet, his expression unreadable, though I could see the tightness in his jaw. I braced myself for the disappointment I feared would follow. But instead, my mother squeezed my hand and said, “Y/N, you’ve already proven yourself. Now it’s time to figure out who you are beyond the track.”  

And just like that, something inside me broke free. The relief that washed over me was overwhelming. It was the first time in years that I hadn’t been afraid of disappointing them. In that moment, I realized they hadn’t been pushing me toward a legacy for the sake of their own pride. They just wanted me to be happy, to find fulfillment beyond the expectations of the world. Not just to be successful—but to be me. 

Now, as I look ahead, it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. I don’t have a path laid out for me. The road is completely unknown. For the first time in my life, it’s mine to pave. One step at a time, I’ll carve my own way. 

I have no idea where this journey will take me. But there’s one thing I know for sure: I’m ready to find out. 

---

The months that followed my decision to step away from racing were some of the most challenging I’d ever faced. Physical recovery was only part of it—the real battle was internal. Every muscle, every bone, every ligament in my body screamed for relief during therapy. But it wasn’t the pain of healing that haunted me. It was the emptiness. The silence that hung in the air when I wasn’t on the track, wasn’t chasing another goal. I’d spent my life racing toward something. Now, I was racing away from everything I had known. 

I was no longer driven by competition. The one thing that had always defined me—pushing myself past the limit, fighting to be the best—was suddenly gone. There was no finish line anymore. The absence of that goal felt like the most deafening thing I had ever encountered. 

In the midst of this new, quiet life, I sought out small ways to heal. I started journaling, pouring my thoughts and feelings onto the page as a way to understand the chaos swirling inside me. My journals became a mirror, reflecting everything I had tried to ignore. My emotions, my doubts, my fears—everything came to the surface in a way I hadn’t expected. It was difficult. But it was necessary. 

I also returned to the things I had enjoyed before racing had consumed me—painting, hiking, watching movies with my cousins. One afternoon, we decided to binge-watch old wrestling matches, something I hadn’t really thought about since I was a kid. I didn’t expect it to spark anything, but as I sat there, watching the legendary Trish Stratus face off against Lita, something stirred deep within me. I couldn’t put it into words right away, but I felt it—an electric thrill, a rush, an undeniable pull.

---

Wrestling had always been in the background of my life, a casual interest that my family indulged in every year when we tuned into WrestleMania. But that was all it was—entertainment. Something fun to watch, a distraction from the demands of our everyday lives. I never really saw it for what it was—a sport, yes, but also a spectacle. A carefully choreographed story that was told with every slam, every turn, every dramatic punch thrown in the ring. 

For the first time, though, I began to see it through a different lens. As I watched the matches unfold before me, I saw the athleticism—the precision, the discipline, the risk-taking that mirrored what I had once loved about racing. The wrestlers didn’t just compete; they performed. Each match was a narrative, a story of triumph, of rivalry, of overcoming odds. And they did it all with an audience that was captivated, hanging on every word, every move.  

It was the charisma of the wrestlers that truly grabbed me, though. Legends like The Rock could command a crowd with a single line. AJ Lee had the power to defy expectations with her every action, and Becky Lynch? She had the ability to turn every moment into an iconic one. The ability to weave a story, to make people feel something—this was what drew me in. 

Wrestling wasn’t just about the competition. It was about the drama, the performance, the connection with the audience. It was a way to tell your story, to shape your own narrative. And in that moment, I realized something profound—I had a story of my own that I wanted to tell.

I could feel it then, the stirring inside me—the same excitement I once felt when I raced. This was new. It was terrifying. But it was exhilarating, too. The thought of stepping into the ring, of feeling the crowd’s roar, of telling my story on my terms, was a rush unlike anything I had experienced before. 

It was a whole new world. And it was calling me. 

Wrestling wasn’t something I could just try out casually. If I was going to pursue this, it had to be serious. I wasn’t looking for a hobby. I wasn’t looking for a replacement for racing. I wanted something new, something that could build its own legacy—my legacy. And I was ready to chase it. 

I started researching wrestling schools, watching match after match, familiarizing myself with the industry. I didn’t know where to start, but I knew one thing: I was done running. This was my next chapter, and it was time to turn the page.

—

The realization came to Y/N with the sudden force of a freight train, an overwhelming clarity that struck her deep in her chest: she wanted to wrestle. Not as a fleeting hobby or a passing interest, but as her next chapter. It wasn’t just a desire for competition. It was the pull of something far more profound—a chance to reinvent herself completely. Wrestling offered everything she had once loved about racing: the adrenaline, the discipline, the commitment to constant self-improvement. But with wrestling, there was a new element, a new opportunity—reinvention. Here, she could carve out a completely different legacy, one that was hers and hers alone. 

For so long, she had been defined by the legacy of the Griffins. The weight of that name had pushed her forward, but also bound her to a path that wasn’t entirely her own. Every race, every win, every loss had been part of a story that had been written long before she even had a say in it. But now, as she reflected on what she truly wanted from life, it became clear: this was the time for her to write her own story, from scratch. Wrestling was the blank page she had been waiting for. 

It wasn’t a casual decision. Y/N’s approach was always all or nothing—whether it was racing or this new dream she was chasing. Her determination burned hotter than ever before. She threw herself into research, studying wrestling schools, watching hours upon hours of matches, learning about the history and nuances of the sport. She read about the greats, from Stone Cold Steve Austin to The Rock, and the pioneers who had transformed wrestling into the cultural force it was today. The fire she thought had long since extinguished in her was reignited—stronger, fiercer, and brighter than ever.

---

It wasn’t just about the wrestling moves. Y/N understood that now. It wasn’t enough to simply be good in the ring; in fact, that was only part of the equation. What truly made a wrestler unforgettable was their persona—the character they portrayed to the audience, the story they told. And who better to teach her how to build a persona than Nikki and Brie Bella?

When she first reached out to them, Y/N had been nervous. The Bella Twins were icons in the world of wrestling, known not only for their in-ring abilities but also for their savvy business sense. They had successfully transformed themselves into global brands, with legacies that stretched far beyond the squared circle. Y/N wasn’t sure if they’d even respond, let alone agree to mentor her. But much to her surprise, they were more than willing. 

Their first session wasn’t in a gym or a ring. It was in a sleek, high-end studio, with glass walls and whiteboards, and an atmosphere that hummed with professionalism. The Bellas wasted no time, launching straight into the art of crafting a character.

“Wrestling isn’t just about what you do in the ring,” Nikki said, her voice full of conviction. She paced back and forth in front of a whiteboard, her hands moving with purpose as she outlined character traits, stories, and personas. “It’s about who you are. Your entrance, your promos, how you connect with the fans—that’s what makes people remember you.”

Brie, always the grounding presence, nodded in agreement. “But it has to be real,” she added, her eyes locking with Y/N’s. “Fans can tell when you’re faking it. Authenticity is key.”

Under their guidance, Y/N began the painstaking process of building her wrestling persona. Nikki encouraged her to tap into bold, daring aspects of herself, urging her to explore traits that would electrify the audience, leaving them wanting more. At the same time, Brie pushed her to stay true to her roots, to weave in elements of her motorsport legacy—her confidence, her drive, and the fierce independence that came with being a Griffin. 

The work wasn’t easy. Crafting a persona that would resonate with millions required self-exploration, introspection, and, at times, vulnerability. But with the Bellas’ mentorship, Y/N grew more comfortable in her new identity. They worked on her mic skills, running mock promo sessions where Y/N would deliver lines with the same passion and intensity she once reserved for racing. Each time she stood in front of the mirror, microphone in hand, she could feel the transformation taking place. She wasn’t just a racer anymore. She was someone new. Someone powerful. Someone unforgettable. 

---

Once Y/N had a clearer idea of who she wanted to be, the next step was to learn how to bring that persona to life in the ring. And there was no one better to teach her the fundamentals than Cody Rhodes and Seth Rollins, two of the most respected names in professional wrestling.

Cody’s approach was meticulous, almost philosophical. To him, wrestling wasn’t just about physical moves—it was about telling a story. Each match was a performance, a carefully choreographed dance between two athletes, and every move had to have meaning. “Every strike, every suplex, every hold, it has to matter,” he told Y/N during one of their early sessions. “It’s not just about beating your opponent—it’s about making the audience feel something with every move you make.”

His words resonated deeply with Y/N. She had always been a racer, someone who thrived under pressure, someone who could tune out the noise and focus on the task at hand. Now, she had to apply that same mentality to wrestling—only this time, she wasn’t racing against the clock. She was performing for an audience. Every move needed to tell a story. Every moment needed to be intentional.

Seth Rollins, on the other hand, brought a different kind of energy to their training sessions. Known for his incredible stamina and high-flying style, Seth pushed Y/N to her physical limits. He designed grueling drills that tested her agility, her conditioning, and her ability to think on her feet. “You’re going to get tired,” Seth warned her after a particularly brutal training session. “But the crowd doesn’t care. They want to see you perform—you have to make them believe that you can keep going forever, even when you’re running on fumes.”

The physical toll of the training was immense. Y/N’s body ached, her muscles burned with exhaustion, and there were times when she wanted to quit. But she didn’t. She pushed through, just as she had on the racetrack, because she knew that wrestling was no different from racing in one key way: it required every ounce of her heart and soul.

Under Cody and Seth’s combined mentorship, Y/N’s wrestling skills evolved rapidly. She learned the technical basics—lockups, grapples, strikes—and began to understand how to structure a match in a way that captivated the audience from start to finish. Wrestling wasn’t just about being the strongest or the fastest. It was about creating moments, telling a story with each move, and drawing the crowd into that story.

As Y/N’s body grew stronger, her mind grew sharper. The ring became her new track, and each session became another opportunity to push herself further, to break through barriers she didn’t even know existed.

With each passing day, Y/N felt herself stepping deeper into this new life, this new world of wrestling. The persona, the moves, the physicality—it all came together in a way that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. It was a path full of uncertainty, but for the first time in a long while, Y/N wasn’t afraid. She was ready to embrace her new identity, to face the challenge head-on.

And as the final lesson of the day came to an end, she stood in the center of the ring, drenched in sweat, but full of purpose. This was only the beginning. The crowd hadn’t yet seen what she could do, but soon, they would.

—

When I met Becky Lynch, it felt like meeting someone who already understood the depths of my struggle, the weight of my journey. In so many ways, she embodied everything I wanted to become—resilient, unapologetic, and undeniably real. She wasn’t just a legend in the ring, she was a fighter in life, and that was exactly what I needed.

I remember the first time we sat down together. It was over coffee in a small, quiet corner of a local café, far from the chaos of the gym and the constant grind. Becky was leaning back in her chair, sipping her drink like she had all the time in the world, but I could see the fire in her eyes, the sharpness that came from having fought for everything she had. 

"Your story is your strength," Becky told me, her voice calm but powerful. "You’ve been through hell, and you’re still standing. Use that. Let it fuel you."

The words hit me like a lightning bolt. She was right, of course. I had spent so much time running from the weight of my past—my racing career, the pressure, the burnout—but I never stopped to realize that all of it had shaped me into who I was today. The struggles, the failures, the moments when I thought I’d lost myself, they weren’t weaknesses. They were the foundation of my strength. 

Becky helped me see that. She wasn’t interested in the technical side of wrestling in our early conversations. Instead, she gave me something more precious: her perspective on life. The battles I’d fought off the track, the choices I’d made, the moments when I thought about giving up—these weren’t just parts of my past. They were the very thing that could make me stand out in the ring. Wrestling wasn’t about fitting into a mold, it was about breaking it. 

She taught me how to use my own experiences as a weapon. We worked together on promos, diving into the depths of my past. My motorsport background, my struggles with burnout, and the pivotal decision to leave it all behind. I hadn’t just walked away from racing—I’d stepped into the unknown, and that was my story to tell. It wasn’t the story of a champion who followed the script. It was the story of a woman who had fought, fallen, and risen again, carving her own path in the process.

“You can’t hide behind a gimmick,” Becky said one day while we were crafting a promo. “The fans will see through it. You have to be who you are. If you embrace that, they’ll follow you anywhere.”

It wasn’t just the moves that I had to master. It was learning to connect with my audience on a personal level, to make them feel what I had felt. The rawness of it all—my decision to walk away from my family’s legacy, the guilt, the fear, the hope for something better—it became my fuel. And every time I stepped in front of a camera, I carried that with me.

—

Learning from the best meant I had to confront not just my technical limitations but my understanding of what wrestling truly was. It wasn’t just physical. Wrestling was performance, psychology, and the kind of storytelling that left people on the edge of their seats. And no one understood that better than Booker T.

Booker was a master of showmanship. When we first started working together, he broke down everything I thought I knew about wrestling. “You don’t just wrestle with your body,” he said during one of our early training sessions. “You wrestle with your mind. Get in your opponent’s head. Get in the crowd’s head. Make them believe in every single thing you do.”

It wasn’t enough to simply execute the moves—I had to sell them. Every punch, every suplex, every slam had to make the crowd feel it. It was about timing, psychology, and, most importantly, presence. 

“You need to make people care,” Booker said as we rehearsed a sequence. "It’s not about the biggest move or the loudest hit. It's about what you make people believe. The moment you step through that curtain, you’re not just a wrestler. You’re a storyteller.”

I’d always been able to perform—racing required the same kind of mental discipline and the ability to create an atmosphere, to build tension and excitement. But wrestling was different. Every action had a consequence, and every moment was charged with meaning. Booker’s words stuck with me, and each time I practiced, I worked on pulling the crowd in, making them part of the story.

While Booker taught me to control the mental aspect of the match, Naomi helped me bring my in-ring style to life. Naomi had this incredible energy, a vibrant, acrobatic flair that lit up the room every time she entered. I was drawn to her dynamic style, how she blended strength with grace. I wanted to capture that same fluidity in my own wrestling. Racing had always been about precision, control, and bursts of speed, and I could apply that same mindset to wrestling. 

Naomi worked with me to choreograph sequences that played to my strengths. Together, we created dynamic moves that combined my athletic background with the rhythm of wrestling—quick, fluid transitions, sudden bursts of power, and sharp, controlled movements. She taught me to not just perform the moves but to feel them. To flow through the ring with intention.

“It’s about rhythm, Y/N,” Naomi said as we practiced a series of flips and transitions. “When you’re in the ring, you’ve got to move like you’re dancing, but the dance is all about who’s watching. If you’re not connecting with them, all the flips and spins in the world won’t matter.”

I could feel the rhythm in my body, the way the moves started to make sense. There was power in every swing of the arm, every twist, every step. I wasn’t just moving through the motions. I was creating something.

—

Working alone in the ring had always been the goal, but as I trained more and more, I realized that there was a whole new dimension to wrestling I hadn’t considered before: tag team dynamics. When I began training with Jey and Jimmy Uso, and their father Rikishi, I quickly understood that tag team wrestling was its own art form.

“Tag wrestling isn’t just about you,” Jey said during our first session together. “It’s about trust. You’re only as good as your partner makes you look.”

At first, the idea of tag team wrestling seemed simple. You and your partner take turns fighting, right? But it was so much more than that. Jey and Jimmy taught me how to communicate nonverbally during a match, how to read the subtle signals from a partner across the ring, how to move as one unit, anticipating each other’s next move. The timing, the synchronization—it had to be perfect. Every moment of the match was a shared experience. 

“And when you’re in that ring, it’s not just two people wrestling,” Jimmy added, grinning. “It’s four people telling one story. The chemistry between you and your partner is everything.”

Working with the Usos changed my whole perspective on wrestling. It wasn’t just about executing moves or telling my own story—it was about creating a narrative that flowed between the four of us. It was teamwork, trust, and understanding the rhythm of a tag team match. The crowd didn’t just see a solo performance—they saw a collaboration, a blend of personalities, and a battle of wills.

Rikishi, ever the wise patriarch, took me aside after one of our training sessions. His lessons went beyond the ring. “Wrestling’s about respect,” he said, his voice low but full of wisdom. “It’s not just about what you do in the ring. It’s about honoring the history of the sport, the legends that paved the way for you.”

His words stuck with me. I started to see wrestling in a new light—not as just a career, but as part of a legacy, a long tradition that I was now a part of. It wasn’t just about my story—it was about respecting the past while building something new. 

As I continued to train and evolve, the lessons I learned from Becky, Booker, Naomi, the Usos, and Rikishi became the foundation of everything I was becoming. I wasn’t just learning how to wrestle—I was learning how to be a storyteller, a performer, and a partner in every sense of the word. It wasn’t just about my next match or my next promo. It was about the journey—the long, hard path that had led me here—and the one that stretched out before me.

—

The first time I met Stephanie McMahon, I was overwhelmed with a mixture of awe and uncertainty. Stephanie wasn’t just a wrestling executive or a promoter; she was a force of nature in the industry—one of the few who had successfully navigated the power dynamics of the business while still maintaining her identity as a McMahon. She was wrestling royalty, and to be in her presence felt like standing in front of a living legend. 

When she extended her hand to greet me, there was no air of superiority. She wasn’t trying to intimidate me, but instead, she carried an unspoken confidence that immediately made me feel like I had a place at the table.

“Y/N,” she said, her voice smooth yet firm, “I’ve been hearing a lot about you. I have to say, I’m impressed with what I’ve seen so far.”

It was one of those moments where everything slows down, where you’re painfully aware of how much is at stake. I was sitting across from someone who had seen it all—the highs, the lows, the twists and turns of the wrestling world. And somehow, I was about to get a peek behind the curtain. 

But Stephanie wasn’t here to talk about my moves or my promos. She wasn’t going to teach me how to deliver a punch or sell a finishing move. She was here to show me how to navigate the most important part of this journey—the business side.

“Wrestling is a platform,” Stephanie said, leaning forward slightly, her eyes locking with mine. “How you use it will define your career. Stay true to yourself, but always think strategically. Protect your brand, and don’t be afraid to speak up for what you believe in.”

Those words stuck with me. In all my years of racing, I had always focused on performance—on being the best, on crossing the finish line first. But this was different. Wrestling wasn’t just about being great in the ring; it was about positioning myself for success in a world that operated on politics, media, and partnerships. I wasn’t just an athlete; I was a brand.

---

Stephanie’s mentorship wasn’t about teaching me how to wrestle—it was about teaching me how to thrive in an industry that didn’t just reward talent; it rewarded visibility, strategy, and timing. As she walked me through the intricacies of the business, I realized how much I had to learn.

“You need to think beyond the ring,” Stephanie continued. “It’s about building relationships with promoters, negotiating contracts, and understanding the market. Your value isn’t just in what you do when the lights are on—it’s in the image you project, the story you tell outside the ring, and how you build your legacy.”

I listened intently, absorbing every word. Stephanie explained how she had built the WWE brand alongside her family and how her role in the company evolved over time. She shared lessons about the importance of timing—how to capitalize on a moment when the crowd’s energy was at its peak, how to create buzz and make people care, not just in the ring but in every aspect of the industry. 

“I didn’t just get here because I was good at my job,” she said with a sharp, knowing look. “I got here because I knew how to position myself. You have to protect your brand, and you need to make sure people understand your worth. Don’t let anyone define your value except for you.”

---

I couldn’t help but think about my own journey—how I had spent years racing to live up to a family legacy, how I had felt the weight of expectations bearing down on me. Now, in this new chapter, I had the chance to create a legacy of my own. But that legacy wasn’t just going to be built on what I could do in the ring. It was about creating a persona that resonated with fans, and more importantly, protecting that persona in an industry where everything could change in an instant.

“Be careful with your image,” Stephanie warned, her voice steady. “One wrong move, one bad decision, and it can follow you. You need to stay true to yourself, but also know when to play the game. There will be times when you have to stand up for what you believe in. Don’t be afraid to speak up.”

Her words felt like a reality check. I had been so focused on my physical training and my promos that I hadn’t fully grasped the scope of what it meant to navigate the wrestling industry with intention. Being in the spotlight wasn’t just about shining in the ring; it was about controlling your narrative, managing your public image, and making sure that the story being told about you was the one you wanted people to hear.

It was a lot to digest, but it was exactly what I needed. My journey was no longer just about racing on tracks or learning wrestling moves—it was about becoming a multifaceted performer, a businesswoman who understood the value of her image, her story, and her voice.

---

I left my meeting with Stephanie feeling like I had just been handed the keys to a new world. Her advice had empowered me to think strategically, to protect my brand, and to own every decision I made. It was a different kind of confidence—the kind that came from understanding that I had control over not just my career but my legacy.

From that point on, I made it my mission to not only improve my wrestling but to learn everything I could about the business. I started studying the careers of some of the most successful wrestlers—how they built their brands, how they managed their public image, how they navigated the politics of the industry. I realized that wrestling wasn’t just a performance—it was a brand-building machine, a world of partnerships, sponsorships, and media opportunities that required a different kind of mindset.

I wasn’t just learning how to wrestle anymore. I was learning how to survive—and thrive—in an industry where the stakes were higher than I could have ever imagined.

Stephanie’s lessons became a touchstone for me as I moved forward. I learned how to position myself, how to use every platform available to me to create my brand. It wasn’t about being a carbon copy of anyone else. I didn’t want to be anyone but myself—authentic, bold, and unapologetic.

There were moments when I doubted myself, when I questioned if I was doing the right thing, but the lessons from Stephanie always rang in my ears: Stay true to yourself. Think strategically. Protect your brand.

I started seeing the industry differently. Wrestling wasn’t just about athleticism and performance; it was about crafting a story that would live long after the final bell rang. And my story was just beginning.

As I continued my journey through the world of wrestling, I kept one thing at the forefront of my mind: I was not just a wrestler—I was a brand, a story, and a force to be reckoned with. 

And with the guidance of people like Stephanie McMahon, I knew I had everything I needed to make my mark. The ring was mine to conquer, but it was the industry that I was truly ready to take on.

F1 Taglist: @tallrock35 @yourbane, @hiireadstuff, @really-fucking-tired, @evie-119, @donteventry-itdude, @spookystitchery, @dhanihamidi, @decafmickey, @cmleitora, @d3kstar, @same1995, @hinamesgigantica, @fadingcloudballoon-blog, @laptime-deleted, @anamiad00msday

Series Taglist: ----

[theweirdwideweb]

I reported my boss to HR for discrimination last week. Please tell me if I'm crazy.

My old boss got promoted so around October I got a new supervisor. We've been coworkers for about 5 years and had a friendly relationship. I'd been to her house, met her kids, we chit chatted a lot. When she started approving my time cards she noticed I was using about 3-5 hours of PTO per week at random times. I explained this was an informal arrangement I had with my previous supervisor due to my disability. I have C-PTSD and ADHD which honestly make it difficult to get through the day pretty much every day. Sometimes I need more breaks and if I'm using my PTO and being honest, who cares right? Well the new supervisor cared. She told me that if I couldn't be a full time employee they couldn't justify our headcount and my job was on the line unless I made this a formal arrangement. I was really hurt but I did it, I got all the doctors notes together and figured--while I'm formalizing it, I actually do need extra therapy so I'm gonna make my FMLA (family medical leave act) time include these sessions.

All this is approved obviously because one thing I'm not is self diagnosed. I've got medical records a mile high. So starting in January this official leave time goes into effect and I can use up to 7 hours of PTO per week. Before all this began my supervisor consistently praised me as a "rockstar" employee, saying I was the only person on the team who truly follows the rules. In general I was thought of as an excellent worker and had received a promotion. The team that I lead smashed our goals for 2023. But, strangely, once I start the FMLA my supervisor begins complaining about my lack of productivity. I kept a spreadsheet as a tool for my ADHD where I tracked how I was spending my time so I volunteered to let her see it so she could figure it out. Instead of sending the spreadsheet tracking my work in 5 minute increments once or twice, this woman has had me sending it every week for the past 7 months. Every Monday we have our 1:1 and she lets me know how poorly I'm doing. She also sends me an email on Mondays where she counts every email I have in my inbox, every claim I have across multiple programs, every minute of meetings I have scheduled and sends me the amount of time she expects it to take and if I don't make it then we have to talk about my "problems".

Now I'm practically never making it. I've appealed to her and to her boss so many times that there is something wrong with this formula they've come up with to calculate my workload--and they both just think I'm lying. Long story short in May I started measuring my time not on the spreadsheet but by the individual tasks in the email and not only am I keeping up, but there's a full 5-6 hours of work every week that she hasn't been counting (including 3 hours talking on the phone---with her!). I bring this up at our 1:1 in late May and say, See there really is something wrong with your measurement. I'm right on track productivity wise with these tasks. She doesn't acknowledge at all the flaw I've found in her formula but DOES say, "I do think there's been an improvement in your productivity and I expect it will continue to improve as you get more therapy." Full on MASK OFF. So my "productivity issues" are improved by therapy, meaning she's been ascribing those issues to my disability. Incredible.

I go to HR the next day to have this interaction on the record. First time I've gone to HR about anything ever. They are so concerned that they are going to launch an investigation and I tearfully plead with them not to because my boss's boss is out on medical leave and I don't want to cause huge problems while she's away and can't moderate. I didn't realize it would automatically cause an investigation to report this. The lady takes pity on me and says they won't investigate for now.

The VERY NEXT DAY my supervisor tells us in a team meeting (other people there to witness) that she's got a funny story about her son. It's some innocent story about how he's grounded and can't go to a party, but she continues on by talking about how she has to be extra strict with him because he has ADHD. If she doesn't enforce consequences, he'll never learn! And he has to learn because when he grows up his boss isn't going to take his ADHD as an excuse. "Policies are policies" she said, "Your boss isn't going to accept an answer like I know I was supposed to do four things but I only got to three because...." She even went further talking about how he's having trouble learning to drive because of his ADHD and just laughing about it. When he has to do something, she says, she has to remind him multiple times and set timers and double check with him otherwise he'll forget.

So I'm fucking flabbergasted at this point, right? This whole time I've been feeling like this time tracking is discriminatory and here she is just spelling it out for me in neon letters: YES, IT ACTUALLY IS. So I'm biding my time until her boss gets back from medical leave. But after 3 weeks of showing her that her method is flawed she tells me I don't have to do the spreadsheet anymore. Her boss is back but cancelled our first meeting, so I figure: If the bullshit stops, for the sake of my career and mental health I'm gonna let this go. My supervisor goes on vacation for 2 weeks. I'm doing my work exactly as I want to without the added pressure and everything is going great.

Once she gets back though we have our 1:1 and she asks me where my emails were on the 2 past Fridays telling her if I got all my work done. Which she never asked me to do, btw. Reader---I mcfreakin lost it. I belligerently asked why this was still necessary, that I felt picked on and bullied, that she isn't doing this to anyone else on the team, and that I'm sick and tired of constantly being demoralized by her leadership. I told her that I was going to talk to her boss directly about this situation. She was pissed. She actually unfriended me on facebook which for middle aged women is like throwing a grenade.

Next day I talk to her boss. I bring my evidence because of course I've been taking notes. The situation is serious. HR has become involved. And just because there are anti-retaliatory rules for reporting protected concerns doesn't actually protect me from getting fired. Suddenly I'm fearful about everything. I'm afraid I'm going to lose my job and my health insurance, bye bye therapy,, bye bye surgery I need. I've been at this job 6 years and the animosity is at an all time high. Christ almighty.

[aspergerasparagus]

Slay The Contestant

Finding Frankie/Slay the Princess AU.

You're inside the Parkour Palace. And at the heart of the Palace is a the final challenge, Hexa Havoc. And within Hexa Havoc is a Contestant. You're here to slay them. If you don't, we will go bankrupt and lose everything.

The Higher Ups warn you that the Contestant will do everything in their power to stop you from slaying them, and that you shouldn't listen to a work they says. The Voice in your head, your conscience, speak to you, a different one each time, sometimes many of them all at once. They are wary, unconvinced, callous or even eager, but always encouraging you to head to the heart (as if you had a choice).

What will you find when you reach the heart of the Palace. What will this Contestant be like when you meet them? Have you met them before? It all feels too familiar but so different at the same time...

As you reach the heart, the bright lights and thumping bass you finally see them, the Contestant, sat upon the floor, awaiting you arrival. How do they look to you this time?

The Contestant:

Stage 1:

The Contestant (Willing): This Contestant is a blank slate yet to experience anything but they are eager to get started. They claim they are a fan of the show, having watched all the previous seasons they could. They even claim to have eaten over 700 boxes of cereal in the hopes of finding the tape! They are welcoming and excitable. The Contestant (Unwilling): This Contestant is a blank slate yet to experience anything but they are apprehensive to get started. They claim to have known about the show and only attempted to get on because they needed the money. They were desperate and had to eat over 700 boxes of the damned cereal in the hopes of finding the tape. They are aloof and miserable.

The Lucky: This Contestant believes they can win the show as luck is on his side, no matter the odds he’ll come out on top. They are eager and resilient.

The Gambler: This Contestant believes there’s a formula to the show, and one he can exploit to the fullest. They are cunning and callus.

The Adrenaline Junkie: This Contestant is only in it for the thrill and danger of the show, the greater the risk the greater the payoff. They are adventurous and unyielding.

The Killer: This Contestant will do anything to win the show, even if it means taking others down to achieve it. They are cruel and cold.

The Forced: This Contestant had no choice about participating in the show. How many times has it been now? They are melancholy and tragic.

Stage 2:

The CEO: This Contestant rose above it all and made the show what it is today. But where they ever a contestant to begin with or is this the only way to reclaim what was once theirs. They are greedy and calculating.

The Toon: This Contestant is no longer a contestant but a staple to the show, a background character trapped inside a monitor ready to entertain the masses. They are haughty and snobbish.

The New Hire: This Contestant could not continue on the show, so improvements had to be made as their flesh was just too weak and broke too easily. They are detached and indifferent.

The Winner: This Contestant did it, against all odds they won the show and now lord over the chat with their well earned prize. But can they do it again? They are egotistical and self-absorbed.

The Chat’s Choice: This Contestant is a slave to the public, they’re a doll on a string ready to dance and become what chat wants. They are confused and fleeting.

The Resentful: This Contestant had no choice but to continue, on and on and on until there was nothing more than piles of bodies around them. And yet they still never got their prize. They are hateful and belligerent.

Stage 3:

The Rabbit: This Contestant has seen it all, playing out over and over again. But each outcome is the same regardless of the choice made, the only option is to follow the rabbit and see how far this hole goes. They are apathetic and passive.

The Replacement: This Contestant has been ripped apart and sewn back together so many times that who he once was is now long forgotten. They can’t recall anything except the sounds of their victims. They are merciless and brutal.

The Palace: This Contestant has lost their sense of self they have been here so long. How many times have they come to this place only to try and escape but always to end up back here only now they don’t know where this place ends and where they begin. They are scared and skittish.

The Showrunner: This Contestant has made it to the top, they took everyone down and chose to stay to see what could be made. They are calling the shots now and they have so many ideas in store for you. They are insane and controlling.

What Could Have Been: This Contestant is no longer a contestant, they have made it out with you by their side. You walk hand in hand out of the palace and gaze upon the stars that light up the sky just for you. They are loving and devoted.

Final form:

The Unlucky Masses: This is the product of your cycles, of your cruelty and your love, your arrogance and your sympathy. This is no longer your Contestant, it is an abomination made in the mockery of their image and it is here to judge you for what you have done. They are a contradiction and malleable. 

Alternative route:

The Unchosen: This Contestant is comprised of what-ifs and what could have beens. They have many masks they can wear but none of them are theirs, but then again maybe they are? They exist outside the show and have no clear ending so await your decision. They are morouse and monotonous.

[copythatblogs]

PIASTRI IS CHAMPIONSHIP MATERIAL

/ WHY LANDO NORRIS ISN’T MCLAREN’S TRUE NUMBER ONE DRIVER

Last year (2024), McLaren clearly had a favourite; Lando Norris.

Media and fans painted Max and Lando’s newfound rivalry as a championship battle. While Norris denied it being a fight for the championship, McLaren certainly boosted this theory with their confidence boost from their leading of the Constructors championship, which they went on to win for the first time in 26 years. 

Theorising sparked when Lando Norris won his first race of his seven year long career in Miami. Though a large gap to Verstappen, fans believed that Norris could finally be running for the championship. Lando has speed and generally consistent performance and has proven he is capable of good results. With a track record of qualifying well and consistently scoring podium finishes, he demonstrates his ability to perform under difficult circumstances considering where McLaren were when he first joined them.

While he does have talent and dedication, can he really take the pressure of a championship? Obviously a pretty automatic human reaction to failure is to beat yourself up about it. Maybe Lando doesn’t give up, but he still lets it get to him and it clearly takes a toll on his self esteem - therefore damaging his performance. Compare this to Max Verstappen for example. Max could get a bad result, complain about it, debrief it and move on with his life. Lando speaks out about how he can sometimes really let things linger in his mind and get to him. This is not a world champion mentality. 

Lando Norris has been treated by his team, fans and media as McLaren’s number one driver for years. This being said, Oscar Piastri has been with the team since 2023 and throughout most of this time has been treated as number two. Performances never living up to the celebration Lando’s got, until now. 

So far this season Oscar has won three out of five races. Successfully surpassing four-time world champion, Max Verstappen, to reach victory. Piastri currently leads the championship for the first time and is 10 points ahead of his teammate, whom he overtook in the standings. Did you know he’s also the first Australian to lead? 

The way Oscar acts and reacts to things is something of how Kimi Räikkönen was. Some fans and even media reporters have nicknamed Oscar ‘the iceman’, just as they did with Kimi, reflecting on his unbothered attitude to racing. 

Piastri has displayed his ability to keep his head up and look forward following bad performance, unlike Lando who dwells. He’s a very calm and calculated driver. He knows what he wants, and he knows exactly how to get it.

You can see that, finally, Oscar is getting the recognition he deserves in his career, and it is coming to light that maybe Norris isn’t the number one at McLaren after all.

Let's compare to Max again. While Verstappen isn’t the most calm and collected driver ever, most of the time he can spot what went wrong and recognise what he can do to improve. Lando can do this too, but most of the time with self-deprecation. Oscar however, doesn’t usually look like he cares all that much about it. This is a man who knows how to move ahead unbothered, it’s about realising that one little mistake or taint in his performance doesn’t define his entire career in Formula One.

None of this is to say that Lando shouldn’t be sharing his struggles with mental health, but rather that maybe by showing the world how racing mistakes are getting to you isn’t proving yourself as championship material. It’s blatantly obvious that Oscar is mentally a lot stronger than Lando. Lando tends to make more mistakes when under pressure, while Oscar keeps calm throughout and maybe makes the odd mistake here and there, but overall performs just as well as normal.

It should have never been said that last year was a title fight between Verstappen and Norris, because this now puts Lando in a position where it looks like he’s now consistently underperforming due to people’s standards being so high.

McLaren has a lineup of two amazing drivers, but Oscar Piastri would better suit the title of world champion.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------Do not copy or translate my work.

[cora626]

Sims 2 Tool

Currently working on the Sim builder Tab as something broke on it before I loaded it to Sims File Share. I am also tweaking the Aspirations using the Formula's from Sophie's sheet with some minor changes to see how that works also I will be looking at how the secondary aspirations are calculated because I didn't like the outcomes for those too much. Improvements already coming.