#•—welcome to the oscars!

[bark-anon]

— bark anon here!

I should mention that it was been almost a week since the last entry/nomination for the scaramouche smau oscars so categories will be posted soon! everyone, get ready to vote!

disclaimer: please check the nomination post for any smau you may consider nominating, I've received many duplicates (not calling anyone out) but it gets very annoying having to clear out my inbox. (remember I am a singular person with a life that's not very active in the first place!!)

disclaimer 2: if there are more nominations, the limit of 40 will be increased respectfully — the category list will still be posted as scheduled!

nominations!

categories

voting form (coming soon!)

2024 bark anon

[ayo-edebiri]

Ryan Gosling singing "I'm Just Ken" at the 96th Academy Awards (2024) // Marilyn Monroe singing "Diamonds Are a Girl's Best Friend" In Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1954)

[squarbies]

oscar tully, i was unfamiliar with your game. i will not make the same mistake again.

[zellaspinna]

Landos so focused on how silly Oscar looks on the phone and Oscar just looks so endeared

[sweetestgirlintown111]

As if the McLaren drama wasn't enough NICO ROSBERG was there to watch it and then ask his divorcee what he thought of while most likely both of them were getting flashbacks to the olden days. ALSO LEWIS HAMILTON 200 PODIUM

[mara-xx]

McLaren think that their landoscar PR is enough for us to forget the absolute shit show they’re putting their drivers through…and it’s working, keep it up 💪

[leftneb]

welcome back to episode 481 of "I made too many versions of this and all of them rock"

closeups under the cut as usual :3

[raikk7nen]

happy 17th birthday to kimi winning his first wdc after narrowly missing it twice before and then saying "yeah im happy for them i bet theyre all crying now lol" about his team. NO indication of amy emotion he personally holds about this situation. they could never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever make me hate you kimi matias räikkönen

[nowritingonthewall]

"Be our guest! Be our guest!"

[polarprude]

[warcriminalpastry]

when i say “i want oscar to win the championship” i’m not talking about the driver’s, i’m talking about grill the grid. let the world know how big of a nerd he is.

[wafflesrisa]

DTS storyline predictions

Now that the teaser for season 6 is out, here’s a few cents on what storylines DTS s6 is likely to go for.

(Health warning that I don’t think these teammate or driver dynamics are necessarily true in real life, I am simply saying that if I wanted to make a bucketload of money as a Netflix producer this is how I’d overly dramatise events)

1. The Matador: Carlos Sainz the hunter, in the shadow of his own teammate, unloved, hungry, determined; his own team dragging him down with a net named strategy; the prey (his teammate) biting back; the hunter chases the bull and emerges victorious.

2. It’s lonely at the top : Caesar is all-powerful, but the council has knives; over 10 minutes of screentime will be spent on George and Max (dickhead!); checo’s early challenge for the crown at Jeddah; Max’s all out crushing of his competitors’ efforts; Max as a polarising figure.

3. The prodigal son/the resurrection of Lazarus: Daniel Ricciardo’s fall, rehabilitation, and triumphant return; Christian Horner dragging Zak Brown; returning “home” to Red Bull but it’s like a den of wolves (perform or die); THE BROKEN HAND (pain suffering hospital); brief victory at Mexico (Daniel did well that race).

4. The Young Guns: Oscar’s meteoric season vs Nyck’s crash out of F1; Logan struggling to keep his seat; cutthroat Marko vs supportive dad Vowles (Qatar will be milked to death for dangerous conditions).

5. The Old Hands: Fernando Alonso and Lewis Hamilton, old rivals, still desperate and hungry like a pair of lions still battling for the top; the inverse fates of Aston Martin falling vs Mercedes rising as the season progresses

6. The Older Sibling and the Prodigy: McLaren’s rollercoaster of a season; Lando’s run of P2 but no wins; Oscar’s sprint race win; jealousy, rivalry, hunger, bitterness.

7. The Civil War: the infighting at Alpine, childhood friends turned rivals turned bitter enemies; Esteban’s no good very bad penalty day; Esteban’s Monaco podium; Pierre’s Zandvoort podium; their no holds barred infighting on radio; team orders; management chaos (Otmar leaving)

8. Man overboard: Mark my words DTS will spend a whole episode on Guenther ending in his abrupt departure from Haas and he will be sent off with 300% more respect than four time world champion Sebastian Vettel.

[turbomnstr]

KEEP SHARING MY MUSIC WITH YOUR FRIENDS IF YOU WANT MORE NEW MUSIC, VIDEOS, MERCH & MORE. SPREAD THE WORD !!!

[poscariastri]

surfing? more like. serving

[boycritter]

[its-all-papaya]

Can I hear more about your clingy landoscar idea pls 🧡

Yes!! Bonus snippet!! RICHES!! (I couldn’t decide which to write so I picked both). this is like... not necessarily the same tone as the first thing at all... but... they fit on the same continuum if you imagine some progression in the middle, idk. like i said. the word doc is calling to me.

read the first part

After Monaco, after Oscar’s moved to Monaco, Lando finally convinces him to come out for a night. Oscar has drinks, of course, but he stays on the conservative side of sloppy. Mostly because the way Lando’s handling him is not something he wants to risk forgetting even a second of. 

Oscar knew Lando was tactile, but it’s ratcheted up a notch when he’s drunk. It’s much different, much more overwhelming, when Lando is everywhere, demanding every one of Oscar’s senses, instead of confined to only a voice and only sometimes a face on a phone screen. He starts out with a hand on Oscar’s back to keep him near in the flow of the crowd, but that evolves into an arm around Oscar’s waist after the first round of shots. Soon it’s fingers around Oscar’s hips while Lando waits behind him at the bar, then a leg tossed over Oscar’s when they’re squished into a booth with Charles and Max. After midnight, it’s Lando’s head tipped back on Oscar’s shoulder, throat exposed obscenely so Oscar’s got no choice but to watch his adam’s apple bob as he drains the last of whatever Charles had ordered for the table. Not long after, it’s Lando in Oscar’s lap (“just making room, not a problem, right, Osc?”) and Lando’s arm hooked around his neck, curls tickling Oscar’s chin, fingers brushing back and forth where his sleeve meets his bicep. Oscar can’t tell if Lando’s doing it on purpose, or just sensory seeking in his half-dazed, half-coherent drunk state. He can’t tell if any of it’s on purpose, truthfully, even when Lando’s mouth is against his ear, asking “d’you ever dance? would you wanna? with me?” and his teeth catch a little on the lobe on the last few words.

Oscar doesn’t dance, but what he does do is almost anything Lando asks him to, so it’s in the middle of a crush of sweaty bodies where he first notices something a little different in the direction of Lando’s touch. He’d been dragged by the wrist to the center of the mess, and he’s still planning to stay mostly sober, but he wishes he’d saved one of his drinks for now to help dull the itch of discomfort in his brain and his limbs. Lando’s plastered to his front, his own fresh drink in one hand, the back of Oscar’s shirt scrunched up in the other. Oscar’s seen Lando on the dance floor before, has seen Lando on the dance floor with men before (if some of it was through shitty watermarked fan videos on twitter, that was for him alone to feel any kind of way about), so he can tell the tension in Lando’s back isn’t an all-the-time thing. His grip on Oscar is just north of casual, even when he releases the shirt and goes back to Oscar’s hip, pinky dipping under the hem to rest warm against Oscar’s side.

“Dancing,” he says, like Oscar might have forgotten why they’re here.

Oscar hedges. “Think I’m too sober for that, mate.”

Lando grimaces briefly, but then he’s lifting his own drink up between their chests and backing up just enough to leave space for it there, an offering. When Oscar moves to take it, though, Lando shakes his head and draws him back in, knocking the rim of the glass against Oscar’s chin. He’s smirking like it’s a joke, but Oscar’s missing the punchline as Lando nudges the glass closer again, straw bumping up under Oscar’s cheekbone.

“What,” Oscar says.

“Drink,” Lando says. Like it’s obvious. His pinky dips lower, tracing the top of Oscar’s jeans.

Every part of Oscar feels too warm, sticky with sweat. There’s a reason he doesn’t do clubs. But there’s a reason he’d said yes tonight, and it comes back to him when Lando abandons pretenses and sneaks his whole hand under Oscar’s shirt. It’s too hot, Oscar’s blinking sweat out of his eyes every other time his eyes close.

The ice clinks impossibly loudly against the sides of the glass when Oscar’s fingers close around Lando’s wrist. Condensation is dripping steadily, sliding down the meat of Lando’s hand and pooling where Oscar’s fingers meet his skin. Their eyes stay locked as Oscar guides Lando’s hand back up. They stay locked even as his lips close around the straw and Lando’s part around nothing. His cheeks hollow as he drinks. Lando’s pupils are blown wide, and Oscar spares a second to consider whether Lando’s been out of his sight long enough to have taken anything without him noticing.

“Thanks,” he says when he’s had his fill. The glass is mostly empty and the liquor burns pleasantly all the way down, adding to the fire already smoldering in his stomach.

“Whatever helps.” Lando’s tone is different than Oscar’s ever heard it, but he doesn’t have time to figure that out, because then Lando’s turning around, pressing his back to Oscar’s front, and reaching back to catch Oscar’s hand in his free one - the one that had been on the bare skin of his side a second ago. Everything is still hot and close and overwhelming, but the space under his ribs feels cool with the memory of Lando’s palm.

It’s a blur for awhile. Half of Lando’s drink isn’t really enough to move the needle for Oscar, but he feels drunk instead on the feel of Lando’s abdomen under his palm, the subtle shift of muscle as Lando moves. His head spins with the press of Lando’s hips back into his own, thoughts nebulous in the blue-green light. He catches the eye of a girl across the floor at one point, and her smile sharpens when she sees him looking. He’s not even, really; it’s neither here nor there to him when she starts moving across the floor. Lando’s been like an extension of Oscar’s own body for a bit already, tuned half out for his own sanity, but everything barrels back into focus when Lando’s head tips back again. Oscar recalls his adam’s apple, Charles’ neon shots. A lifetime ago.

“Having fun?” Lando mumbles. His mouth brushes Oscar’s skin. Oscar’s half-convinced it’s an accident, but when he tips his head down to read the words off Lando’s lips, they press more firmly to his jaw. They’re wet and cooler than the ambient air, like he’s just drained the ice from the bottom of his glass. Oscar’s eyes flick back up to clock the woman’s progress, but she’s paused steps away. Oscar feels caught out and guilty even though he hasn’t done anything at all.

“Always, with you,” is what he says. It must be the correct answer, because Lando’s head turns in even further and his lips brush Oscar’s neck in little closed-mouth passes.

When Lando speaks again, Oscar can feel the words spelled out against his skin, drawing goosebumps: “Wanna get out of here?”

Oscar does. Has since the minute he walked in, really. His arm around Lando tightens, drawing him in closer for a final moment, bidding farewell for now to this version of them on the dance floor.

Lando turns back around in his arms, then, not a centimeter further away than he’d started.

“Walk me home?” he asks into Oscar’s cheek.

And Oscar does.