hellbubu

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🎥 redbullracing

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saw someone say jack doohan’s dog ain’t special bc roscoe is also a dog named after nico rosberg and im not sure I’ll ever be the same.

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i‘ll be better when the music gone

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another brocedes edit ^^ this time a bit more nostalgic with Dorothea by Taylor Swift

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lewis hamilton on sprint pole. nico rosberg seen running through monaco to get to the closest airport

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So San Diego is Italian for pole position

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wrote a little carcar drabble with the tsgc for the prompt 'a helping b wash up (whether it be their hair, body, some blood off their hands, etc). enjoy!

Everything hurts. Oscar should’ve seen this coming, really. You don’t really go flying into the barriers at the speed he did without getting at least some bruises. At least there were no broken bones, or internal bleeding. Actually, back in the hospital, because they made him go to the fucking hospital, he’d felt fine, really. Little beat up, yeah, but fine.

But now, now that he’s alone, back in his hotel room spread out on the large queen sized bed, the adrenaline starts wearing off and the pain starts seeping in.

He should get up and shower, he knows. He still finished most of the race, and while he’s long changed out of his race suit he’s still gross and sticky underneath his McLaren polo. But the bed is soft, so soft, and getting up means moving and moving means more pain and maybe he’d just. He’d just rather not, right now.

Which is obviously exactly when there’s knock on his door. It’s not Mark, because Mark left an hour ago after making Oscar promise he’d try to get a good night’s sleep. He saw Lando in the paddock already, big sad eyes and worried hands skimming over his body, but Lando is Lando so Oscar knows he believed him when he said he was fine and just needed to sleep it off.

It’s not his family, because his family is all the way on the other side of the world. His mum had called, earlier, worry etched into her voice. He tried to reassure her, but he’s never been good at that. She’s always been too good at reading him. But no matter how good she is, she’s not magic, so even she can’t condense a 16 hour plane ride into merely two hours.

Which leaves. No one. Which means Oscar is not really planning on getting up to answer. Except the knocking gets louder. More persistent.

Oscar sighs. Takes a deep breath. Hauls himself off the bed and shuffles his way over to the door. His ribs are the worst, where the siding slammed into them on impact. His arms are pretty bruised too, and his legs. He takes a deep breath, and swings the door open. “What,” he asks, hoping to deter whoever has decided to bother him right now.

“Oscar,” Carlos says. He breaks Oscar’s name up, like always. Os-kar. “You are okay?” He sounds breathy, like maybe he ran here. Which is stupid. Because Carlos is not. They’re not.

“I’m not up for sex, if that’s what you’re asking,” Oscar bites, like he always does when Carlos does something that catches him off guard.

Carlos deflates a little, like Oscar answered the question without answering the question. “I am not here for sex,” he says, and that’s even more baffling because. Because that’s all they’ve been doing, really. That’s. That’s what the thing is. They shop u to each other’s hotel rooms, they fuck, they leave. They don’t do whatever Carlos is doing right now.

“Okay,” Oscar says. “Bye.” He goes to close the door, but Carlos’s foot wedges in between. Oscar briefly considers repeatedly slamming the door close anyway until Carlos gives up and removes his foot, but that would give Carlos the satisfaction of knowing he actually managed to rile Oscar up.

“I need to make sure you are okay,” Carlos says.

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s tired and hurting and gross, and he so does not want to deal with any of this. “I am fine. Didn’t they tell you I was fine? Just some bruising. It’ll heal. Could really use a shower, but that’s it.”

Carlos eyes scan over him, like he can look through Oscar’s drawstring jeans and McLaren polo and actually assess the bruising underneath. “Why didn’t you?” Carlos asks.

“What,” Oscar asks. His head is starting to hurt too. He wonders if he has any body parts left that don’t hurt, at this point.

“Shower,” Carlos says. “You left the track an hour ago.”

“Are you stalking me or what,” Oscar bites, but when Carlos just stares at him, relents with a sigh. “I’m. It hurts, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear? I crashed into the barrier at an ungodly speed and now I hurt. Happy?”

Carlos looks the opposite of happy, mouth pitching down and brows knitting together. “Where?” He asks. The eyes are back, scanning, scanning, scanning. It unsettles Oscar unlike anything else.

“Everywhere,” he says, because he’s tired, and he hopes that if maybe he just admits Carlos will start the process of leaving him alone.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Carlos moves his foot forward and, catching Oscar by surprise, manages to push his way into the hotel room. “Show me.”

“What? I’m not… Jesus, Carlos, I just told you I’m not having sex with you right now,” Oscar says. They’re in his hotel room and yet Oscar feels like he’s playing an away game with how confusing Carlos is being right now.

“Oscar,” Os-kar “Show me.”

Stupid stubborn bull headed Carlos and his stupid inability to just let things go. Oscar sighs, and pulls off his polo, gently, but still making himself wince, before throwing it on the floor. “There, happy?” He says, testily, frowning at Carlos.

Carlos sucks in a breath through his teeth, steps forward. Mutters something like “Ay, cariño” that Oscar doesn’t understand and doesn’t want to understand right now, and then tentatively reaches out to brush at Oscar’s side, where the bruising is the worse. He’s being so gentle about it, so soft, and Oscar shivers, even though the hotel room they’re in isn’t cold at all. “Alright, let’s get you in the shower,” Carlos says, and it’s so clear he isn’t taking no for an answer, and it’s so clear he worries, and Oscar is so incredibly tired.

So he makes his way to the bathroom, lets Carlos help him take off his pants and his socks and his underwear before getting into the shower. Carlos has undressed too, and Oscar can’t help but look when he’s not looking. He’s seen Carlos naked a million times at this point, but it never tires.

The shower is big enough for the both of them, and Oscar breathes a sigh of relief when the hot spray hits his back, washes of the grim and hurt and pain. He hisses when it hits a particularly nasty scab, but overall the water is lovely, soothing, helped by Carlos gently soaping him in, running his big hands over Oscar’s shoulders, his chest, his arms.

“I saw,” Carlos says, breaking the silence that has fallen over them. He’s turned Oscar around, is gently rubbing soap onto his back, so Oscar can’t see the expressions on his face. “I was three cars behind you and I saw-“ Carlos breaks off then, and Oscar feels him pressing his forehead against Oscar’s neck. “I cannot do this anymore, this thing that we have.” He continues, and suddenly Oscar is glad they’re not facing each other, because he is pretty sure the look on his face is embarrassing.

“Oh,” he says, and he tries to sound unbothered, but he is so so so tired, and Carlos showed up and took care of him and he was lulling himself into a false sense of security, a false sense of something, and now the rug is being pulled right from under him. “Okay.”

“I want more, Oscar. I want all of it. And I know you can’t give that to me and that is okay, but I can no longer just be something casual with you when I have all these feelings.”

Oscar feels like the rugs been shoved right back under him again so hard it’s making him trip up over it. “Feelings?” He says. He turns around now, because he needs to see. He needs to know if this is real if this is. If Carlos means what he is saying.

Carlos is looking at him, big sincere brown eyes. “I am in love with you, Oscar,” he says. Os-kar, it’s the most beautiful thing Oscar’s ever heard. “And I cannot be with you if you do not love me back.”

Carlos goes to step away then, which is so incredibly stupidly absurd, that Oscar doesn’t even blame himself for yelling “Wait!” a little too loudly and reaching out to grab Carlos’s wrist. “You don’t get to… What is wrong with you? You get in a shower with a man and confess your love to him and then you leave?”

“Don’t you want me to?” Carlos asks, tilting his head to the side, and god. He’s so infuriating. If he was not so tired, not so beaten down, Oscar would kiss him right now. Tell him he was in love with him too. But that all feels to big and too heavy right now so all he says is, “Stay. Please stay.” And hope Carlos understands.

And Carlos does, because Carlos has always been able to understand Oscar in ways Oscar doesn’t even understand himself. So he steps back under the shower, soaps Oscar’s hair, rinses it off. Wraps him in a giant towel as they get out, bundles him into bed.

Carlos’s arms are warm and soft around him as he settles into the sheets. Me too, he thinks. Me too, I love you too. And hopes Carlos understands.

Carlos’s arms squeezes around him, very gently. Oscar falls asleep with a smile on his face.

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Carcar dynamics no.2

— Oscar, you haven’t even said a word yet

— Mate, you’re waffling on like there’s no tomorrow

—okay? So pin me to a wall with your dagger to my throat and shut me up??....please

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carlos and oscar, come collect your gold star stickers for playing nicely on track in sprint qualifying ⭐⭐

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Oscar “every ships third” Piastri

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Lewis: We just ate. Why are you making pancakes?

Charles: For the dogs.

Lewis: Why are you making pancakes for the dogs?

Charles: They don't know how.

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Rebirth.

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I need to give Zuko credit where credit is due here:

Being able to successfully redirect Ozai's lightning, which is definitely much more powerful than Azula's, is insane. Especially since this was his first attempt at doing it.

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Lewis Hamilton securing his first Ferrari pole in his second ever race with the team and breaks the all time lap record in Shanghai before a jubilant crowd