Roselynthefirst
Fandoms
- Formula 1 RPF (5)
- Formula 2 RPF (2)
- IndyCar RPF (1)
Recent works
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"They were supposed to leave you out of it,” Keke said quietly, before Nico could even speak.
Nico swallowed. “Out of what, exactly?”
A long pause.
“I made choices,” his father said. “A long time ago. In a different world.”
“You worked with them,” Nico said, the words tasting strange. “With the Russian government.”
“I talked,” Keke corrected. “I advised. I believed I could keep things… contained.”
Nico laughed once, sharply. “You don’t contain governments.”
Keke’s gaze lifted then, sharp despite the years. “That is why I kept you away. You were never meant to inherit this.”
But inheritance didn’t ask permission.
By the end of the week, Nico’s name appeared in places it never had before—policy briefings, intelligence summaries, diplomatic chatter disguised as curiosity. He was invited to events he’d never been invited to before, by people who asked questions that skirted just close enough to matter.
He noticed the way certain faces appeared more than once.
The same man at two different receptions.
Always polite.
Always watching.
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I was born on April 6th, 1982, and for most of my life I never thought the world would change much. I grew up on a farm, and out here, things were always the same — the seasons told us when to plant, when to harvest, when to mend fences or shear the sheep. My hands knew the soil better than they knew pen and paper, and I thought that was all life was meant to be. Simple. Predictable.
Then the news came.
At first, it was just another story from far away, something about a strange virus in South Korea. “Corona,” they called it. I remember my father turning down the radio, saying it wasn’t our problem, that things like that came and went in cities, not out here. I believed him. Why wouldn’t I? Viruses didn’t reach the middle of nowhere.
But weeks turned into months, and the world changed. Corona wasn’t just a headline anymore — it was a word whispered at the market, a reason people started standing farther apart, a reason my mother stopped letting us visit town so often. It became the air we breathed, the silence at dinner, the uncertainty in every sunrise.
Life on the farm carried on — the cows still needed milking, the fences still needed fixing — but the world outside our fences was crumbling.
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Tout le monde aime Oscar Piastri, n'est ce pas? by Dystopik (Roselynthefirst), Roselynthefirst
Fandoms: Formula 1 RPF, Formula 2 RPF, IndyCar RPF
03 Mar 2026
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This is nothing but a minor introduction to the Piastri Manor. But with that aside, everything is not as it seems...
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I was born on September 30th, 1997, in Hasselt, Belgium. My father, Jos, had been in Formula 1 himself, and my mother Sophie was no stranger to racing either. You could say it was written into my blood before I could even spell my own name.
From the moment I was old enough to walk, I was drawn to anything with wheels. Toy cars, bikes, anything that moved—I wanted to control it. By the time I was four, that fascination became something more. My father noticed, of course. He noticed everything. He didn’t waste time either. I wasn’t treated like a boy playing around with go-karts; I was treated like a driver in training.
That year he put me in a karting league, on one of the best teams he could get me into. I was tiny, barely tall enough to see properly over the wheel, but it didn’t matter. My dad pushed me harder than anyone else, maybe harder than some people would say was fair for a child. His coaching wasn’t soft or gentle. It was direct, demanding, and sometimes harsh.
But even then—four years old, trying to understand why my father’s voice was so sharp when I missed an apex—I felt something inside me click. I was good at this. Natural, they said. It didn’t feel like a choice; it felt like who I was.
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You'll suffer. That's all I have to to say.