After a year of lurking in the F1 fandom, I feel compelled to speak my truth: Nico Rosberg’s LinkedIn page is the richest text that nobody is talking about.
As the foremost Nico LinkedIn critical scholar* of our times, I’m begging someone, ANYONE, to get on my level with this.
*[amount of time I've spent scrolling his posts redacted, but trust me, whatever you're thinking, it's more]
If you’re not in his target demo of loser, sorry I mean millennial-to-genX grindset startup bro with a hard-on for networking with venture capitalists, then you’re probably not in Nico’s LinkedIn circle and you might not know that he is ACTIVE. He is posting 2-3 times a week, he is responding to comments, this is his primary social media output, and the content isn’t crossposted anywhere else.
For years, his beat has been dreadfully boring stuff like ~optimising your performance for success in business~, and you should know that thematically he's currently mid-villian's journey, pivoting his content from ~here's how Europe can be a leader in sustainable transport~ to ~here's how we can use GenAI for literally fucking everything.~
His comment section is dozens of fintech reply guys engaging earnestly with his productivity tips and totally missing the POINT. The point being:
breadcrumbs about his relationship with his dad (keke rosberg) and also his relationship with his dad (toto wolff), which are both totally normal you guys thanks for asking
a surprising number of performative meditation photos, very important in order to prove why neuroscientists have given him such a good grade in brain activity
the sanitised-to-fit-the-current-brand, darkness-still-lurking-within brocedes of it all, which is usually something like: "during my @ Formula1 days, lewis brought out the most evil, self-loathing version of me on account of how perfect he was, which made me miserable, but thankfully also led me to a deep wealth of venture capitalist wisdom 10-15 years later!!!"
cheery framing of the most fucked-up psychological damage wrought upon man by professional sports and reinforced by the sexy, evil father figures in charge
I also need you to know that Nico is unintentionally HILARIOUS. He isn’t setting out to be funny. He’s earnestly trying to be insightful/inspiring. For him it IS that deep, it’s the most serious thing in the world whether your mindset is primed to extract max performance from your douchey job. But oh my god does he wind up being funny.
Like, ok, how about illustrating a list of really obvious advice about bettersleep4betterresults with this selfie... conveying through eyebrow acting how unsatisfying his previous REM cycle was due to not following his own advice :(
Or a 40th birthday roundup of bland life lessons like 'great teamwork beats talent alone!' that obviously must be illustrated via slurping a vat of celery juice against decorative wallpaper (he likes this photo btw as it shows up in more than one post):
Or my personal favourite: his interpretation of the cliche advice that your business plan should be concise enough to fit on a napkin. Ah yes, I should have a napkin around here somewhere. Not a poor person's paper cocktail napkin, but how about this giant piece of nice fabric, which might actually be a pillowcase or perhaps a tablecloth? Surely it's fine to sharpie all over this and then throw it out? And definitely this exercise is about writing teeny tiny on an A4-sized surface so you can fit in as much as possible? Anyway, let's finish with a <3!
I also love when he experiments with style, like this brief foray into notes-app insights (didn't perform well, never tried again):
The wording of his posts is a dialect of its own, which has invaded my brain. He describes 1-3 things as “super” in every post, and it’s unclear whether he is aware of other adjectives. He overuses exclamation marks and emojis. Most posts contain a simple message illustrated via an extremely tenuous link to an F1 anecdote, and he is tagging the official @ Formula1 LinkedIn page at even the slightest opportunity. Someone once gave him the tip to ask a question to drive engagement, and he’s made that tip his religion.
Once you start narrating your own life as a Nico LinkedIn post, it’s super hard to stop! It’s super fun, like winning a @Formula1 Grand Prix, which Nico did on 23 memorable occasions. 🏆 What’s a vocal tic you’ve adopted from a girldad entrepreneur in his 40s? 🤔 Let me know in the comments!
Despite all this, Nico has kinda won me over? He is cringe and he is free and he’s so himself. There’s some really sweet tidbits in there when you go digging!!!
He posts surprisingly often about both gender equality and karaoke - usually at separate times, but on one memorable occasion, together!
He comes across as really, genuinely loving of his family, invested in quality time with them, and supportive of their interests and successes. Like this - getting his wife to repeat the confidence-building phrases from her own childen's book when she's anxious! I find this very sweet!
And while he expresses it as though his every thought has been fed through a machine that increases corporatespeak and cheuginess by 175%, I have come to believe that he has genuinely self-actualised after retiring from the F1 torture machine, at least to the extent that he is trying to spend his one, wild, and precious life in a way that's authentic and meaningful to him.
I'll leave you with the one post so baffling it haunts me. The text is pretty innocuous and filled with his usual stuff: I love my family! Family time is more important than work! And luckily, family time will make you even better at work!
But ohhhhh my god the picture.
what on EARTH am I looking at here????? This monstrous creature has to be AI. Am I to believe that Nico and his young child have constructed a snow rabbit as tall as a pine tree???? with cartoon features not resembling any household objects one might use for a snowman face, questionable texture and colour gradients, and perfectly shaped (those paws!!) to an unlikely degree. This couldn't possibly be real snow???? And did he think we just wouldn't notice???? I have reverse image searched to compare it to real snow bunnies made by real human people and like... nico.... who are you trying to fool here...
The comments are equally insane work, like SIMPLE CRAFTS??? Are there LinkedIn bots? Surely these are not serious people.
And who I can only imagine to be the few fellow truthers... have been ominously ignored.
So like... has he made the entire story up? Has he 'built' the snowman on ChatGPT with his daughter, entirely undermining his put-down-your-phone thesis? Did he make a snowman but he was so ashamed by it that he felt the need to spruce it up in post? It's just such a bizarre thing to lie about... like... nobody was saying Nico, Nico, we simply must see the quality of the easter bunny snow sculpture you made with your children, without it we couldn't possibly take your word that enjoying simple moments with your family is a critical element of health, happiness, and productivity!
I'm not stupid, so I know there is a chance that every single post is written by GenAI and I have been duped into character analysis that is actually based on drivel written by a water guzzling soulless machine trained on self-help books. (Although I'll say that his style has remained pretty consistent for years, since before this would have been likely.)
He might also have never had the password to his own accounts, and this is the work of a social media girlie who texts him stuff like 'hey boss, when you get a sec could you pose with some green juice for me, and then maybe a second one looking really upset in bed?'
Or........ and maybe I am deluded by the unlikely degree of charming and fun I find him, but I do genuinely think there is just enough weird human decision-making here to indicate that this is the case..... is Nico typing out the earnest inner workings of his heart between networking happy hour and trackside commentary gigs and gruelling sessions with his philosopher-slash-psychotherapist-slash-mindset coach?
Regardless, like Nico I believe in the lifechanging power of gratitude, so uhhhhh. Thanks for posting the funniest content on the whole website, you corny, corny man!!
🇬🇧 04.07.2026 | F1 Grand Prix of Great Britain: Sprint Race
Silverstone, UK. 04th July, 2026. Oscar Piastri (AUS) McLaren F1 Team on the grid. 04.07.2026. Formula 1 World Championship, Rd 9, British Grand Prix, Silverstone, England, Sprint and Qualifying Day. Credit: James Moy/Alamy Live News
rated e + 1.7 words | oscar piastri/charles leclerc + lewis hamilton | what if a 7x world champion watched you make out with your long-time crush? that happened to my good friend oscar piastri once (and a special thank you to my amore @causedascene for the fun idea♥️)
Charles looks beautiful like this, Oscar thinks. Above him, his light eyes are already darkening with arousal, his arms braced on either side of Oscar’s head, their legs tangled awkwardly and uncomfortably together on the driver’s room couch.
Huge emphasis on uncomfortably, by the way, because Oscar is slowly realizing Ferrari’s couches, though wider, aren’t nearly as comfortable as McLaren’s. Or maybe he’s just gotten so used to the papaya ones that the bright red cushions simply aren’t doing it for him.
No, actually, scratch that.
Oscar realizes he doesn’t really care about couches, or comfort, or even how overwhelmingly red everything is, because Charles makes up for all of it. He’s warm, and he smells lovely, and he’s kissing Oscar as if breathing is entirely optional. And, see, Oscar agrees, leans into it, even, pushing himself up just enough to show Charles how badly he wants this too, eagerly licking and nipping at those plump lips, sighing when the older driver returns the gesture with equal enthusiasm.
“Charles,” Oscar babbles into a moan, trembling beneath the firm grip in his hair and the slow drag of their crotches together. He feels a little lightheaded when he realizes Charles is already hard, panting against his skin as he kisses him feverishly—his cheek, his jaw, his chin, then lower, down the side of his neck, as if keeping his mouth busy is easier than letting himself think.
And Oscar gets it, truly. After all, it’s been quite the race for Ferrari, and for Charles especially. That’s why Oscar barely hesitated when the Monegasque invited him over, as anticipation, desire, and nervous excitement tangled together until he could barely remember how he’d made it to his rival’s motorhome in the first place.
Everything happened pretty quickly. Oscar waited until everyone had filtered out before slipping inside, feeling like a secret, which he probably is, though he couldn’t care less.
Charles is still kissing at his neck, breathing him in between soft gasps, when Oscar rolls his hips up into him, silently asking for something more than these teasing, frustratingly shallow touches.
He tries again by whispering, “Can’t you—um—can you…” Oscar mumbles, snaking a hand between their bodies to grab Charles’ cock over his trousers, delighting in the groan that slips from his lips. He must be mad, far too impatient and way too turned on, because Oscar can’t help but murmur, “C’mon, Charles.”
A little chuckle reaches his ears and he shivers. “Impatient, non?” Charles teases before lifting his head again, closing the distance to gently rub their noses together. When Oscar chases another kiss, he giggles again. “I’ll give you what you want.”
Please, he means to say, and only doesn’t because Charles snakes one hand between their bodies as well, grabbing Oscar’s wrist and pulling it up to pin it against the cushion while bracing himself on his other arm. Oscar feels weirdly trapped like this, but not in a bad way; far from it, actually. He knows he’s strong, knows he could move if he wanted to. Oscar doesn’t, though, he doesn’t want to move.
Charles isn’t done, however. He rubs their noses together again and repeats in another whisper, “I’ll give you what you want.” A little smile appears on his lips, and Oscar melts, slumping further into the sofa. “Just let me enjoy this.” He gently pecks Oscar’s lips, forcing his eyelids to flutter shut. When Oscar stays silent, Charles presses, “Yes?”
Yeah, he wants to say, but doesn’t—Oscar is too busy trembling when a leg slips between his own. Oscar hasn’t been able to find words for a while, he realizes; hasn’t found enough strength to do so. The McLaren driver is far too pliant, letting Charles kiss him through the lingering frustration of the race and all of Oscar’s own realizations.
Jesus. Oscar could get used to this, he thinks. To the silence and the feeling of being wanted, even if in secret. He could. Charles isn’t cruel—he just gets what he wants, and right now he wants Oscar, he wants—
“Ah.” A second—wait, third—voice resonates through the room and Oscar freezes. “Right.”
There’s no one else that voice and accent could belong to. He’s watched the interviews, talked to him, heard him countless times since joining the sport.
Lewis.
Oscar’s whole body goes taut, terrified of being caught like this—it could simply ruin everything. People would know, they’d talk, and Lewis… What if Lewis loses any sort of respect for him? What if this is the moment everything fucks up? What if—
No. Something is wrong. Charles hasn’t stopped kissing his skin, hasn’t even stopped grinding their hips together, nor has he let go of Oscar’s wrist. In fact, he lets out a breathy chuckle, pressing his thigh more firmly against Oscar’s crotch. And he’s still hard.
“Um,” Oscar mumbles, finally opening his eyes, avoiding any sort of eye contact. His face is burning, probably so flushed by this point he’s practically Ferrari red. Because, after all, what the fuck.
“What is it?” Charles asks, lifting his head a little before softening as he studies Oscar’s face. “Oh, right.” He sounds like he’s smiling, though Oscar can’t quite tell—he realizes he can’t bring himself to look at the older driver’s face even if he tried. But he can piece things together well enough to know Charles is looking behind him now. “Bit early, LH.” He sounds… annoyed, maybe. Or at least a little.
Before Oscar can think any of it through, Lewis replies, “Don’t mind me.”
And Oscar minds, that’s the thing. He minds a lot.
Charles doesn’t, clearly. He lets go of Oscar’s wrist to cup his jaw, turning him until they’re face-to-face again, then gently nips at his lower lip. His rings bite into Oscar’s skin, and he sighs—mortifyingly, he sighs in pleasure.
Charles’ voice is almost a purr when he whispers, “You could just not mind him.” And Oscar waits for a but. “Or you could give him—what you say—a show, Oscar.”
“It’s true, Oscar,” Lewis says. From the shuffling noises around him, Oscar guesses he’s dragging over a chair and angling it to watch the two of them.
This is, undeniably so, one of the weirdest moments of Oscar’s career. Or, better yet, his life. They keep saying his name over and over, and it’s starting to get overwhelming, and Oscar doesn’t know what to do except give in. He even finds the courage to glance over at Lewis, and Charles lets him, even though he’s still holding Oscar by the jaw. The McLaren driver swallows dryly when Lewis arches an eyebrow and curls his lips into a smile, slumping even farther back in his chair.
Well.
It’s like pouring fuel on the fire, because it’s not like Oscar wants to leave or stop. So he turns back and practically swallows Charles’ lips, grabbing a fistful of his hair and pulling him closer, delighting in the surprised gasp. It’s strangely satisfying to know he can still surprise Charles, too.
Things escalate quickly from there. At some point, after kissing and kissing for what feels like forever, they even change positions, Charles pulling Oscar upright until they’re both sitting, giving Lewis a better view and themselves a little more room. They can’t fuck, much to Oscar’s despair, but they make the most of it anyway.
Charles slips a hand down Oscar’s trousers, and the younger driver immediately resents wearing jeans. They don’t have much time either, so a handy will have to do, though part of him wishes he could drop to his knees and show Charles—and Lewis—what he can do.
“At least pull off his trousers, will you,” Lewis says, and both of them turn to look at him. Oscar feels the blood rush down even faster when he realizes Lewis is subtly palming himself, and the seven-time world champion laughs at their matching expressions of confusion. “Talking to you, Charles.”
Charles does it instantly. Oscar barely has time to blink before helping him tug his jeans and boxers down to his thighs, hissing through his teeth as Charles starts stroking him in slow, steady motions, his thumb brushing over Oscar’s slit. It’s so much, too much, and Oscar has to take a deep breath to stop himself from doing something embarrassing, like moaning out loud—or worse, coming all over himself.
And the McLaren driver tries not to think about the fact that Lewis never asks him to touch Charles, so he doesn’t. Instead, he grips the Monegasque’s thigh while Charles keeps pumping him, twisting his wrist every so often, as Oscar tries not to look too stupid while his tip keeps drooling over Charles’ knuckles, making everything sound wetter and wetter.
Lewis keeps palming himself through his own trousers, and Charles keeps kissing at Oscar’s neck, his hand never slowing, and Lewis—
“Faster,” he says, though his voice comes out slightly strained. Oscar gasps, heat flooding his face as sweat trickles down his temple. “Do it faster, Charles.” And Charles obeys without hesitation, much to Oscar’s despair. He’s right on the edge now, biting down on his lower lip to muffle the endless groans threatening to spill out.
“Um.” Oscar winces at himself. “Guys,” he starts, and Charles seems to understand immediately. “Charles, if you—”
A string of chuckles reaches his ears, and it’s still Lewis, while Charles mouths at Oscar’s jaw and cheek, licking at the sheen of sweat there, breathing softly against his skin as his hand keeps moving—up and down, up and down, twisting, dragging more precome—and it’s too much, far too much—
Oscar slaps a hand over his mouth, muffling the broken sound that tears out of him as he comes all over Charles’ hand. Some of it lands on his thigh, and he feels gross, delirious, still achingly turned on, and he’s just come in front of Lewis, and no one says a word.
Really, no one says anything. The driver’s room is filled with nothing but heavy breathing, and the air smells unmistakably of sex.
But then someone finally says something, and it’s Lewis. Oscar tries not to dwell on it, though. “Great choice.” The world champion lets out a quiet chuckle, his voice still edged with arousal. “Next time, we’ll make sure we have more time, isn’t that right, Charles?”
Charles’ eyes never leave Oscar’s face, even though he’s no longer touching him. He must be hurting, Oscar thinks, his cock still straining against his jeans. Well, but then again, the same probably goes for Lewis.
so imagine you spend 3 years of your racing career in a junior team despite being quite observably better than the guy who has the 2nd seat at your Main Team and the number one guy at the Main Team is winning eeeeevery championship in that car while you're in your shitty little tractor and then one day you get The Call and it's awesome and it's cool but it turns out that the big team you're in sucks now. they're not a Big Team anymore. Although!! You're beating a several-times world champion in equal machinery, so everyone can see you've clearly got some serious talent!! except, world champion guy never wins a title again, and eventually leaves your team for ferrari of all teams.
but this just means it's Your Turn to be the big dog. and maybe now you have the car. but, oh, what's that? a puppy-eyed teenage teammate who is scarily fast and skipped a lower formula and wants it so, so bad? surely he won't- oh, he's quite... he's winning races? breaking records? ahah. well fuck.
also the whole time max verstappen is kind of obessed with you but we don't talk about that
now, question: is this about daniel ricciardo or is this about george russell. answer now.
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