False Start - 1x1 RP

ᴷᴶ 9 days ago

Loosely Inspired By “Pretty Woman”, thank you for the feature 🫶🏽

PROLOGUE

He was flying

The lights had gone out forty-six laps ago, and his world had narrowed into the sharp breath between corners, tyre on tarmac, muscle on muscle, machine in perfect submission. This was where he was clean. Where he was godlike. Where he didn’t have to feel anything.

Now, champagne sprayed against his race suit like victory itself had kissed him. His team roared from the pit wall, arms lifted like they’d summoned him to heaven. On the top step of the podium, he tilted his face toward the sun, eyes closed, letting the anthem wash over him in a gold-drenched blur. He didn’t smile, not really. But his mouth curved just enough for the headlines. Precision masquerading as joy.

Inside, something cracked. The smallest sound, not pain, not triumph. Something emptier. But for once, he didn’t fight it. He let the win wrap around him like a warm embrace, let the cameras capture the illusion that he felt alive. That maybe this, the points, the title, the glory, could finally silence the ghosts clattering around in his chest like loose change.

He waved to the crowd. He lifted the trophy. He let the moment hold him.

And then it dropped him.

The press room. A question about history? Or was it his tyres? None of it mattered, Phones buzzed. Faces shifted. A ripple of something electric moved through the room, not reverence, not awe. Curiosity edged with bloodlust. His manager stared at his screen too long. His PR team smile froze.

And there it was.

Her voice. That voice, saccharine, practiced, poured into the shape of something that once called itself love.

“I can’t keep pretending...”

The video was timestamped four minutes after the checkered flag. He watched it again. And again. Like maybe it would change. The flutter of her lashes. The glossed lips. The subtle eye-roll when she said his name.

Within the hour, it was everywhere. #-F1uckboy trended before he could take off his race boots.

He was the youngest world champion.

But in the end, the only headline that mattered was this:

He was the guy who got dumped at the finish line.

PLOT

The night Muse B becomes the youngest Formula One world champion of his generation, the world watches him rise, and then fall. Mid-podium, soaked in champagne, his longtime girlfriend ends their relationship on Instagram Live. One clipped sentence. Two hundred million views. Just like that, the golden boy of racing becomes a punchline: cold, unlovable, dumped at the finish line.

Two days later, his friends drag him to Vegas, framing it as a celebration. In truth, it’s a cover. His team is scrambling to save his reputation, and his sponsors are losing patience. But Muse B wants none of it, not the clubs, not the women, not the noise. He leaves the party before midnight, wandering the strip alone.

That’s when he sees her.

A flash of red against the neon blur of Vegas, heels sharp against the concrete, posture too composed to be accidental. She stands beneath the flicker of a hotel awning, one leg crossed over the other, waiting without really waiting. A man approaches her, leans in too close. She doesn’t flinch. Just smiles with the kind of practiced patience that doesn’t reach her eyes.

He’s halfway across the street before he realizes why she looks familiar. Not a stranger. Not quite. Years ago, she used to race him across rooftops and gravel tracks, stopwatch in hand, braids unraveling behind her. She knew his best lap time by heart. Back then, she was messy, sunburned, unfiltered. The girl who never looked away, even when the world did.

Now, she looks through him. She doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t ask how he’s been. Instead, she holds out her hand, elegant, empty, expectant, and waits. A gesture rehearsed for men who don’t deserve answers. Payment first, then conversation. He understands too late.

They end up in a diner two blocks from the strip. The booths are cracked. The coffee bitter. Neither of them touches their food. She keeps her coat on. He keeps glancing at the door. she doesn’t offer a goodbye. Just disappears the way she arrived: careful, composed, unreadable.

They part ways.

Until a photo leaks.

MUSE A

She learned early that nothing came for free, not speed, not love, not even loyalty.

Her father worked on cars that didn’t belong to him, building engines for names stitched onto other people’s race suits. He was a quiet genius with grease-stained hands, the kind of man who found poetry in torque ratios and silence in loss. And the man he worked under, the one with the fame, the titles, the legacy, was Muse B’s father.

She met Muse B behind a pit wall when she was ten. He was already cocky, already polished. She had oil under her fingernails and a half-eaten sandwich in her pocket. They weren’t supposed to be friends, her family fixed the cars, his drove them, but racing made strange equals out of the bored and the restless. She taught him how to climb fences. He taught her how to cheat corners. At night, they timed laps on go-karts until the security lights flickered on. Back then, she thought they were the same kind of hungry.

But the crash shattered that illusion.

When Muse B’s father died on the track, everything changed. Not just for him, but for her. His family retreated into silence and glass, and hers was quietly dismissed, their names blacklisted from garages they used to call home. Sponsors pulled out. Mechanics stopped calling. Her father drank the shame, and her mother worked herself into hospital beds trying to keep the lights on.

Muse B never reached out. Not a call. Not a word. He disappeared into grief and reemerged a prodigy. Crowned. Clean-cut. Untouchable.

And she? She rebuilt herself from the wreckage he walked away from.

She finished school on a scholarship and student debt, studying engineering like her father, but tuition doesn’t wait, and neither does rent. So she started charging for her time. First, men with watch brands and bad intentions. Then, clients with NDAs and private jets. She learned to be useful. Beautiful. Forgettable.

Now she trades in the one currency people never stop paying for: illusion.

She’s not ashamed. She’s efficient. And everything, every glance, every laugh, every hour of her time, comes at a price.

When Muse B reappears in her life, all tailored control and quiet remorse, she doesn’t let herself flinch. He walked away first. He was always going to. And now that he’s famous, now that the world is watching , he needs something from her again.

The difference is, this time, she’ll make sure she gets something back. Even if that meant all of his money.

He wants help?

That costs extra.

MUSE B

He was never taught how to feel, only how to endure.

He was born into a bloodline that ran on asphalt and speed, the son of a man who carved his name into the sport with calloused hands and a jaw clenched through every storm. His father didn’t celebrate wins. he expected them. Praise was rare, and affection came in the form of critique. Second place was failure. Emotion was indulgence. Perfection was duty. By the time he was nine, Muse B knew how to read telemetry sheets better than bedtime stories. By twelve, he had a private coach. By fourteen, his father was drilling into him the art of restraint, in cornering, in media training, in everything. Especially grief.

He grew up on podiums and in hotel lobbies, watching the world through tinted car windows and tinted sunglasses. Every part of his life was measured: lap times, heart rate, image.

But there was one place where none of that mattered.

Muse A.

She was all scraped knees and wild laughter, loud where he was quiet, reckless where he was precise. They met at a junior race weekend, two kids in the margins of adult ambition. Her father worked under his. They were never supposed to be equals, but she treated him like one. She timed his laps like they meant something beyond medals. She didn’t care about winning, only how it felt.

With her, he didn’t have to win. He could just be.

But then came the crash.

The sound of his father’s car splitting against a barrier would live inside him like a second heartbeat. The grief didn’t break him, it swallowed him whole. And when he resurfaced, it was into silence. The sport grieved publicly. The team restructured privately. And families like Muse A’s, people who weren’t protected by legacy, were cut loose like ballast. Muse B saw it happening. Knew it was wrong. But he said nothing. How could he call her, when his silence had already cost her everything? So he didn’t. Not because he didn’t care, but because he did, too much. His guilt became a wall. And behind it, he buried her, and everything they were, and everything they could’ve been.

He became what was expected of him.

A prodigy. An heir. A precision machine wrapped in carbon and protocol. He dated who the PR team paired him with, showed up where they told him, smiled when necessary. He knew the girlfriend was a contract. She knew it too. It didn’t matter. Nothing did, as long as he kept winning. He told himself this was the cost of legacy. He would carry the name, the silence, the pressure, because someone had to.

Until she left him.

On the night of his greatest victory, when the anthem played and champagne hit the back of his throat, the world watched as his carefully controlled life cracked wide open.

Posted to 200 million people. No warning. No conversation. Just gone.

The media didn’t call it heartbreak. They called it karma. They said he was cold. Robotic. Emotionless. But they didn’t see the boy who lost his father in front of the world. They didn’t know that he cried only once, behind a locked bathroom door, on the day they cleared out her father’s locker without even a thank you.

And when he saw Muse A again, years later, in the glow of Vegas neon, heels and red lips and silence sharper than anything he’d ever faced, he felt like the world had finally turned him back into something real. But she didn’t smile. She looked at him like he was a stranger. Because he was.

He didn’t know how to be forgiven. He barely knew how to ask.

So when the opportunity came to bring her into his world, to rewrite the narrative, to give the press a version of him that looked human, he took it. Not just for PR. For her.

To keep her close.

Even if it cost him more than money.

INFO + RULES

Disclaimer: I am not replacing any of my current rp partners 🫶🏽

Please DM me if you are interested in this plot, and introduce yourself, it’s quite underwhelming to get just a “keen to rp?”

read my rules before you DM as well, I am 18+ so I’ll only be comfortable with other 18+ s

For this RP I would prefer Advance Lit - Novella, I tend to write a lot but I do match to my partners length

This will be a long-term rp!!

this is G x B

If you are also a discord rp , this is perfect for you, I would love to move this rp there to be able to work more freely on ooc, and developments

that being said, please do bring ideas about the plot, I love brainstorming plot ideas and plot points with my partners and don’t like it being one sided

most importantly enjoy!

The is in : #-

credits for images

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