#Oscars 45

[da-cti]

May I offer some shitposts in these trying times

[princemick]

OSCAR -- SATURDAY, BEGLIAN GP 2023

[blueberyboy]

Hiii hiii ik its been a while so have some shirtless hot podcast men

[ivystoryweaver]

As if I’m reblogging eye crinkle-less Oscar

[noxexistant]

ai-less whumptober; day twenty-two

@ailesswhumptober 22 — forced to kneel/watch/hurt somebody else, whipped, “Do not look away.” ↳ the refuge, circa 1895 word count; 1.4k

cw; abuse, torture, manipulation

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Morris had thought, when he'd entered Snyder's office, that perhaps the man was in a good mood. He'd smiled pleasantly at Morris, stood to greet him — all the usual hallmarks of a pleasant interaction. A good day. And they do have those, these brief moments that are just theirs, when Oscar is elsewhere and Snyder isn't busy and he can just speak to Morris. Tell him nice things. Be the only person in the world who's ever gentle with him.

But Snyder had asked about Oscar.

As usual nowadays, Morris doesn't know what his brother had done. But Snyder had tried to pry the information from him nonetheless, beginning by being soft. That gentle plying, voice hardly above a whisper. Thumb brushing Morris' cheek. But Morris had had nothing to tell him, as much as he wanted to. Despite every desire to be good.

The good mood hadn't lasted long after that.

For a while, Snyder had stayed with him, getting steadily more irate as he asked his questions over and over. The first hit had come, and Morris had repeated that he doesn't know. The cane had come out then, and despite every lash carved across the backs of his hands, Morris had no more to offer.

"Kneel," Snyder had finally spat, and Morris had. Lowered himself immediately, unhesitatingly, to his knees against the winding shapes of the deep red Oriental rug spanning most of Snyder's office, and he'd waited.

Waited for the guard to go and collect Oscar.

It's instantly clear Oscar thinks it's a betrayal. He must know what he's done, even if Morris doesn't, so he enters the office tense and freezes when he lays eyes on his brother already on the floor. A fire in his eyes that asks, What did you tell him?

As if Morris had anything to tell.

"Oscar," Snyder says, entirely less pleasantly than he'd said Morris' name upon his entry. He says Oscar's like it tastes sour on his tongue, something rotten like the food he serves them. "I had hoped, I must say, to get this part done without you. It always goes a lot faster, you see, without your lies in the way. But apparently you've influenced your little brother."

Oscar's eyes dart to Morris again, and then back to Snyder.

"He's keeping your secrets."

Morris watches his elder brother swallow. He's still stood by the door. Could run.

"Mo doesn't know anythin'," he says, voice quiet. Guarded. The way he always talked to Da. "I didn'…I ain't tell him."

Morris can't see Snyder's face from this angle. But he watches anxiety settle into Oscar's, a sort of realisation as he watches however Snyder's morphs.

Dread, Morris manages to name it.

"Well," Snyder breathes. "Morris will just have to help us in a different way."

He turns the cane over in his hands. It's his favourite — one of the thicker ones that's not too thick to cut, bound at the handle with fine, dark leather to ensure it's a pleasure to wield. It has Snyder's initials at the base.

And hurts like hellfire when it's brought down without warning against Morris' clothed back.

Morris cries out, the breath sucked from his lungs in an instant, and almost loses balance from his knees with how his back arches against the pain. Chin raises to the ceiling, eyes screwing shut, but burning tears still immediately manage to escape. He hears Oscar cry out too, but can't make it out through the blood rushing in his ears.

"—conventional punishment," Snyder is saying, as Morris' hearing slowly fades back in, like he's surfacing from underwater. "Perhaps this might motivate your honesty."

And then the cane is cracking down again. And again, again, in quick succession now, and Morris goes blind with it.

Everything goes white, his hearing crackling again to static, his skin burning all over in a wave that spreads from his back and engulfs him. He feels his fingertips tingle, numbing, thinks he hears himself screaming.

Finally, Snyder pauses. The noise comes back with a crack this time, instantaneous, and Morris feels hyperaware. He can feel every fibre of the rug against his cheek — when did he fall? — and every deep inhale Snyder is taking, the deep breathing of exertion.

He can hear Oscar's breathing shaking.

"This ain't fair," Oscar says, like it isn't the first time he's said it. Today, that is. Morris has heard him say it countless times throughout their unfair lives. "He ain't—he ain't do nothin', you can't punish him for me—"

"For a boy seemingly undeterred by whatever violence I inflict on him," Snyder says, soft, like he's getting in Oscar's face, "What other choice do I have?"

Distantly, Morris hears a cabinet open and close. Recognises the sound. Braces for the next hit, but it isn't enough when it comes.

It's one of the real thin canes now. The ones that recoil like a whip, tear straight through clothes and skin. He can feel the warm blood immediately soaking through his threadbare shirt, winding through the fibres. It's nauseating, he wants it off.

He hears Oscar inhale shaky like a sob. Hears Snyder breathe a laugh.

"Up," Snyder orders. "I told you to kneel. Kneel, and I'll remove your shirt for you."

The ground has never felt so comfortable. Morris could sleep here, if only Snyder left him right now, cheek pressed to coarse…wool? What are rugs made of?

He's dizzy. He forces himself upright, pushing himself up on shaky arms until he gets his knees under him, keeps his legs on either side of him like leverage as he sways.

"Do not look away," Snyder spits, and for a moment Morris thinks he's talking to him again. Doesn't know what he's supposed to be looking at. But then Oscar breathes all shaky again as Morris' shirt is wrenched upwards over his head, and he realises. Oscar's looking at him.

He feels blood run down his back.

"Need I remind you, Oscar," Snyder says, tossing the shirt aside, "That you could put a stop to this at any moment? You need only confess."

The cane comes down again, direct against scarred bare skin this time, and it tears without encumberance. The blood runs with no fabric to soak it up, crawling down Morris' back like sweat. Or maybe that was sweat. Reminds him mostly of the bugs out in the bunk room, the way their little legs feel crawling against his skin. Oscar hates them — most of the boys do — but Morris thinks they're cute. He'd once broken a boy's nose for killing one.

"Please," Oscar sobs. "This ain't fair."

Morris is shaking, he realises suddenly. That all-consuming trembling that comes from punishments like this, all the fear and pain mixing up and making all of him stop working. His hands and feet are numb, his brain feels numb, eyes and ears not really paying attention to what's going on anymore. Trying to shut down until it's over.

It must work, because Morris comes back to himself beside Oscar in their bunk. He's crying, he realises. In so much pain it's blinding, white hot all up his back. He feels carved open, something Biblical, some divine punishment he must've earned the wrath of God to deserve.

He coughs, bile rising in his throat.

Oscar coughs too, but his is more of a sob. He's got a calloused hand, shaking, resting real gently on the base of Morris' back.

"I—I—" he's whispering. He's crying. "I couldn' tell him, Mo, you know I couldn' tell him. He woulda killed me, I—'s'all I could do, to jus—to keep quiet, let you take it. I—I could'na—"

Somewhere, deep in Morris' chest, there's another fire that's burning — the licking flames of rage, righteous fury at Oscar making the call to let Morris be punished. Deciding it's better than Oscar suffering, because Oscar always decides that. Says he's older, has to look after Morris anyway, so he has to watch his own back. Says Morris would be useless on his own.

This ain't fair.

But, as Morris is, words seem a million miles away. Impossible to find, let alone to form. His tongue is dry, throat raw. Morris is exhausted.

Oscar is being gentle. His hand is warm against Morris' bruising skin.

Maybe Morris can be mad another day. Tell Snyder something he does know about Oscar.

He falls back into unconsciousness against the bare mattress.

[mofsblog]

Unironically went "YES.... YESS..!!! YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS !!!" out loud when he said that. Anyways, WOOO first explicitly and canonically non white speaking character let's fucking go 🎉🎉

[lighthouseshepard]

thinking about him (oscar)

[denimbex1986]

'All of Us Strangers may have missed out on awards earlier in the year (no Bafta wins, no Oscar nominations) but it has won the prize that matters: the Guardian’s best film of 2024. It is the second time that director Andrew Haigh has received this accolade – 45 Years, his searing study of a marriage plunged into crisis, was the Guardian’s choice as best film for 2015.

On the face of it, the two films are sharply contrasting expressions of Haigh’s craft. 45 Years is resolutely realist in its portrait of a retired couple living in Norfolk, investing its middle-class milieu with an understated arthouse aesthetic. All of Us Strangers, meanwhile, returns to the gay themes that marked Haigh’s breakthrough Weekend, but in a shift from his past work operates in an unstable, dreamlike atmosphere that ultimately calls into question whether anything we are watching is supposed to be real.

But the two films share a powerful theme in common: the past’s hold over the present and the unnerving realisation that while we can never revisit our past, it has ways of finding us, sometimes shocking us into a new sense of ourselves.

Working in both cases from source material by other writers, Haigh alights on two brilliant conceits to explore this idea in each film.

In 45 Years, adapted from a short story by David Constantine, Geoff (Tom Courtenay) learns that the body of his old girlfriend Katya has been found more than 50 years after she fell into a crevasse in the Alps. This discovery disinters memories and passions that have lain deep inside Geoff, while his wife, Kate (Charlotte Rampling), scrambles to prevent the disintegration of a long and apparently happy marriage.

We never find out if Geoff makes the journey to see Katya, and we never see the body – but it looms large in our minds. As in Greek tragedy, the horrors of death are kept off stage, all the more to set our thoughts racing. In its ice-preserved youthfulness, Katya’s imagined body somehow rebukes the old age into which Geoff and Kate have sunk.

Kate is twice confronted with the image of the young Katya: in a photograph Geoff shows her (there is a resemblance between the two women) and then, in an unforgettable, Hitchcockian scene, through the primitive magic of a slideshow, which reveals Katya was pregnant.

Haigh finds an equally unsettling way to dramatise the collision between the past and the present in All of Us Strangers (which was inspired by a novel by Japanese author Taichi Yamada). Adam (Andrew Scott) has a series of encounters with his parents (Claire Foy and Jamie Bell) as they were when he last knew them, before they died in a car crash when he was 11. They have not aged in appearance and behave as if it is still 1987, yet recognise that Adam has got older – perhaps a little older than they are. They are unchanged artefacts from the past, just like Katya in 45 Years, unattached to the present and yet acting upon it.

Readings of All of Us Strangers vary, but it seems that these eerie meetings in Adam’s old childhood home may be visions from his subconscious as he wrestles with the devastating effects of losing his parents so young – as well, perhaps, as scenes from the script we see him starting. Haigh presents us with two intriguing thought experiments: what if you could meet people from your past and have the conversations you were never able to have? And what if you could talk to your parents now as they were when they were bringing you up, meeting as equals? These scenes are so carefully scripted and impeccably acted that what is inherently unreal feels intensely authentic.

In both films, the intrusion of ghosts from the past is highly disruptive. Kate and Geoff go through with their 45th wedding anniversary party, but we are left wondering if their marriage can survive. For Kate, the revelations about Katya have cast her life with Geoff into a disturbing new light, as if it were all built on a false premise. Kate seems to intuit that Geoff loved Katya more than her, and that this old relationship has shaped their marriage without her being aware of it.

Meanwhile, Adam’s meetings with his parents seem to have been part of a reckoning with long suppressed trauma on multiple fronts. In parallel with his home visits, he has embarked on a doomed relationship with Harry (Paul Mescal), which we come to interpret as another fantasy in which he plays out his apparently unfulfilled desire for a loving relationship with another man.

Both films threaten to bear out Oscar Wilde’s line that “one’s real life is so often the life that one does not lead”. Adam’s story is suffused with the sadness of bereavement and lost opportunities, but it could be regarded as more optimistic than Kate and Geoff’s in 45 Years. Adam seems to have undergone a kind of cathartic process, and – assuming he is still alive at the end of the film (as Scott says he is) – he has found, in the world he has conjured up in his mind, a potential path to happiness in the future. Kate and Geoff have much less time ahead of them to find an authentic way to live, whether together or – as seems more likely – apart.

But whatever future awaits his characters, Haigh seems to be reminding us that the past will always cast its shadow over us, whoever we are. You don’t have to have lost your parents in a car crash to mourn the passing of your childhood world; you don’t have to be haunted by a decades-old tragedy to be troubled by the way your life has turned out. Haigh’s innovative exploration of our vexed relationship with the past gives both these remarkable films their deep melancholy power.'

[cogentranting]

No one told me that Guillermo del Toro is making a Frankenstein adaptation coming out next year, starring Oscar Isaac as Frankenstein and Jacob Elordi as the Creature. I am dubious but intrigued.

[skittylight]

ornj meet up be like

"im technically 45!"

"jaune it's only been 5 years."

"well you see... what."

[leofrith]

oscarino got a new cat tree and he is being so so normal about it (prepared to Kill anyone who touches it)

[f1prompts]

Pairing: any

Prompt: Something building off of the meme that Oscar and Lando twin a lot. Maybe like they were created as assets, weapons, etc but have recently escaped/been rescued and adopted by a rag tag team/family of other drivers on the grid. Maybe they help them get revenge on the people who made them.

DW: Brotherly/Platonic Lando & Oscar, found family, angst with a happy ending

If you’d like to fill this prompt, click here for our Fills FAQ 💖

[strawberry-finches]

LANDO NORRIS ON THE PODIUM LETS GOOOOO

[tkbrokkoli]

he is not what it seems??? that could be fucking anyone

[olokosomolo]

Ticks love the mall

• My Ticks are all my world.

• Even though they suck it hard sontine;.

• they give me life.

• Ticks are ticks because of their habits.

• some ticks are a very clean when they suckit, the others can spill my blood all over.

• Some I'll get attach to.

• Ticks makes my thick peak.

• In time they will gets satiate then they detach. • They would leave me with a scar.

• Some will leave me with a small scar, some would LY-ME a BULLS EYE.

• My Likened to whom it may concern everywhere.

• If you survived feeding one, u will survive them all & the-mall

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

The Gossip Chronicles

Word Count: 835

Pairing: lando Norris x reader

Summary: Lando and Y/n, both lovers of gossip, eagerly dissect the drama after the drivers dinner

________________________________________________________

The low hum of the air conditioning filled the room as Y/n lounged on the plush hotel bed, scrolling through her phone. The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated her eager expression as she refreshed Twitter for the umpteenth time, hoping to catch a glimpse of what went down at the drivers’ dinner. She loved drama, and being with Lando Norris only fueled her insatiable thirst for F1 gossip.

She glanced at the clock. 10:45 PM. He’d been gone long enough.

When the door finally clicked open, Y/n practically leapt off the bed. Lando walked in, pulling the hood of his light blue hoodie down as he set his keycard on the dresser. The hoodie was slightly wrinkled, and the sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, giving him that effortlessly casual vibe that Y/n loved.

“Finally!” Y/n exclaimed, grabbing a pillow and chucking it lightly at him. “What took you so long? You know I’ve been dying to hear everything.”

Lando laughed, dodging the pillow with ease. “Nice to see you too, love.”

“Don’t ‘love’ me,” she said, crossing her arms and pouting. “Spill. Now.”

Lando tugged off his sneakers and flopped onto the bed beside her, the faint scent of cologne lingering as he did. “Alright, alright,” he said, adjusting his hoodie. “Where do I even start?”

“Max and George,” Y/n said immediately, her eyes lighting up. “I saw the clips from the press conference earlier, and you can’t tell me there wasn’t tension. What happened? Did they fight? Was it awkward?”

Lando chuckled, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up slightly under his hood. “Oh, it was so awkward. Max barely looked at George the entire dinner. He was polite enough to everyone else, but you could tell he was still pissed about the whole sprint race thing.”

“I knew it!” Y/n practically squealed, sitting up straighter. “Did George say anything to him?”

“Well,” Lando said, stretching his legs out, “George tried to be civil—like, he even made this joke about the weather or something—but Max just gave him that look. You know the one.”

Y/n nodded eagerly. “The ‘I’m about to crush you on the track’ look?”

“Exactly,” Lando confirmed, smirking. “It was so uncomfortable that even Carlos had to jump in and crack a joke to break the tension.”

“Of course Carlos did,” Y/n said, rolling her eyes fondly. “What about Lewis? Was he Switzerland as usual?”

Lando snorted. “Pretty much. He was sitting between Charles and George, though, so he didn’t really get involved. But I swear, Valtteri was eating it all up. You know how he loves watching chaos unfold without actually being in it?”

“That man is the definition of petty,” Y/n said, laughing. “What about Charles? Was he just… being pretty and clueless as usual?”

Lando burst out laughing. “Pretty much. He was just sitting there, sipping his wine, probably wondering how he got stuck in the middle of all this drama. Carlos kept nudging him like, ‘Just stay quiet.’”

Y/n leaned forward, her eyes wide with excitement. “Tell me more. Who else was doing what? Did Pierre and Yuki cause a scene? Did Oscar say anything?”

Lando laughed, pulling his hood back up for dramatic effect. “Yuki almost spilled his drink trying to get Pierre to stop flirting with the waitress. And Oscar… well, Oscar just looked like he was mentally filing for a restraining order from all of us.”

Y/n laughed so hard she had to clutch her stomach. “Poor Oscar. He didn’t sign up for this chaos.”

“No, but he’s learning quickly,” Lando said, chuckling.

“So,” Y/n said, leaning closer and dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “what’s your personal take on the Max and George drama? Whose side are you on?”

Lando gave her a playful side-eye, tugging on the drawstrings of his hoodie. “You trying to get me in trouble, love?”

“Always,” she said with a grin.

“Well,” Lando said, drawing out the word dramatically, “Max is definitely holding onto a grudge, but George isn’t exactly innocent either. I think they just need to have a proper shouting match and get it over with.”

Y/n nodded sagely. “Agreed. Maybe I should lock them in a room together during the next race weekend.”

“Or we could just sit back and enjoy the show,” Lando said, smirking. “You know there’s bound to be more fireworks soon.”

“True,” Y/n said, settling back against the pillows. “I swear, F1 is better than any reality TV show.”

Lando wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close. “And you’re my favorite co-star.”

Y/n smiled, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “You’re just saying that because I let you gossip as much as I do.”

“Maybe,” Lando admitted, laughing. “But hey, it’s our thing.”