THE NEWEST ONE URGGH MY HEART IS ACHING FOR THEM, STOOPIDS

so, the practice is boring. alpine no power, redbulls are hiding, mclaren is a jordan, ferrari okay, williams still there, aston martin in the shadow, sauber kissing the walls, cashapp rb blabla have a good one, haas is haas, and mercedes is surprisingly good after their moments🤷‍♀️

Click for better quality<3 | Request Rules!

-> please like/reblog/give credits if used in any way!

•Carcar burger themed header requested by this anon<3 I tried to keep it as on theme as possible, so I hope you like it😭 gif creds to @princemick and @455s

Thank you to everyone who got me to 500 likes!

i drafted a sebson/webbonso/brocedes au, and the background is the Winter Olympics. seb/fer/nico are figure skaters, while jenson+lewis are ice hockey athlete, and mark is a snowboarder. i haven't finished it yet because writers block mehe🤧

something something about these pics

I think carcar is a rare pair that very recently broke containment. But oh god it's so good. I started shipping them as a joke but I don't think it's a joke anymore....

Att. the same person who asked in the first place

anon i have some terrible news for you

owh... im happy. im not crying while reading this...

I wrote a little bonus epilogue for You'll Just Have to Remind Me :-) (1K, probably doesn’t make sense if you haven’t read the fic.)

...

Carlos wakes up smiling. He was dreaming of something good—something warm, something right. He tries to hold onto the details, but nothing sticks, everything slipping away like water through his fingertips. All he’s left with is the feeling of sunshine spreading through his body. He wants to bask in it.

But as he rolls over to stretch, that sunny feeling swiftly fades into confusion. Something’s off. The curtains are a deep blue instead of his classic red ones. There’s a leatherbound journal on the bedside table where his copy of Cold Mountain usually sits. The covers are tossed back on the other side of the bed, revealing a well-worn dip in the mattress.

This isn’t his bed. This isn’t his room.

Carlos groans, sitting up. He doesn’t do one-night stands—not anymore. That was something he firmly left in his twenties. And he definitely doesn’t do one-night stands he can’t remember at all. He couldn’t have been blackout drunk last night- there’s not even a wisp of a hangover.

He’s got to be missing something. Closing his eyes, Carlos retraces his steps from the day before. 

He had brunch with Charles at the cafe across from their flat— he had the blueberry pancakes while Charles ordered an omelet. 

He went for a run in the park— his pace was better than usual, but had to end his route prematurely because it started raining. 

He stopped by the video store to pick up a rental in advance for roommate movie night. This week, they’ll be watching Alien 3. Impulsively, he also threw in a pack of Mike & Ikes that he ate on the way home.

When he got back to his flat, he found Charles face-down on the couch, moping that he was about to do a load of laundry but realized they were out of dryer sheets. Carlos had promised him that tomorrow he’d pick some up.

Carlos remembers tucking himself into bed, reading a chapter of Cold Mountain, and turning in at around 11:00 p.m. 

And that’s it. No going out, no meeting anyone, no late-night tryst. He’s thirty- his memory can’t be fading like this yet. There’s got to be something he’s missing here. A crucial piece to the puzzle he’s just… overlooking for some reason.

Before he can spiral too hard, he’s jolted from his thoughts by… is that singing? Yes, it’s barely audible at first, but when Carlos focuses, he can clearly hear muffled, off-key singing from the other side of his door. Lovely, his hookup wants to make him breakfast and Carlos can’t even remember his name.

Creeping out of bed, Carlos spots his old grey sweatshirt draped over the dresser. He pulls it on carefully. It’s definitely his, but it feels more worn than it was the last time he put it on. He’s not sure how it got here either. He wasn’t wearing it when he went to bed last night.

He just needs to get out of here. He’ll slip out, call Charles to come pick him up, and then book an appointment to make sure he hasn’t developed some insane sleepwalking disorder. 

He creeps out of the room, tiptoeing through the space and desperately trying to find the door to get out of here. The flat—no, the house—was beautiful, with high ceilings and effortless room design. It felt lived-in, loved-in.

The mantlepiece in the living room was crowded with keepsakes and trinkets. A golden statue, scented candles, and tons of photos in frames. He’s too far away to clearly see, but some of those photos… looked like they could be of-

The terrible singing starts again and Carlos almost jumps out of his skin. His head snaps towards the source. There’s a man in the kitchen, his head buried in a thick cookbook. Carlos can't see his face, but something in his chest tightens anyway. The front door is straight ahead, away from the kitchen. He could leave. He should leave. Instead, he turns back and moves toward the singing.

The guy’s back is turned to Carlos and he’s now hunching over the stove, grumbling to himself as he tries to light the stovetop burner. Carlos’s heart has launched itself into overdrive, he’s sure it’s beating so loud this guy can hear it.

Because the guy turns around, giving him a warm smile and a soft, “Hey, love.” 

That’s Oscar

And the world goes blurry. Carlos’s breathing shallows. He’s never seen this guy before; he's sure would remember a face like that. But all his mind can think is that’s Oscar, over and over again- more and more insistent. Like this is the most important singular fact that Carlos will ever know.

He’s got pancake batter on his nose. Carlos can’t imagine how he managed to do that. But he’s smiling, at him, warm and genuine and beautiful. “Already done reading your…” he trails off, probably noticing that Carlos is barely holding it together. “Carlos?”

Oscar drinks his hot chocolate with an insane number of marshmallows. 

Oscar hates waking up early but gets up before you every day, just in case.

Oscar can name every player on the Australian national cricket team.

Oscar loves you.

“Oscar” is all he can get out. It feels well-worn on his tongue. His own voice surprises him. It’s raspy, filled with more emotions than he can parse out. He’s overwhelmed by so much new information. No, not new information- but information that has laid dormant, bubbling to the surface like freshly popped champagne. 

“Hey,” Oscar is at his side in an instant—close, but Carlos can tell he’s holding himself back from reaching out. “What do you remember, today?” He says it so softly, so patiently. It makes Carlos feel like he’s still wrapped in his duvet.

“I-I don’t…” He desperately tries to remember. Something happened. Obviously. Flashes of visions whip by in his brain like they’re passing in high speed: Lying on his back on wet pavement, harsh red and blue ambulance lights, Charles crying by his bedside. A small, red box on a countertop, singing along to Mariah Carey songs, kisses that taste like strawberries and sea salt. Any attempt to recollect further makes his head pound. 

“It’s okay,” Oscar says gently. Carlos swears Oscar deflates a bit, but covers it quickly with another soft smile. “It’s been a while since you’ve been back to October fifteenth, is all.”

Oscar moves to turn back toward the stovetop. “Pancakes are almost finished, then we can-”

Carlos doesn’t realize he’s hugging Oscar until his face is buried in his neck, breathing him in. Oscar doesn’t miss a beat, just wraps his arms around him like he’s done it a thousand times. He probably has. Oscar’s touch feels like home. Oscar’s touch is home.

As Carlos clings to him, more champagne bubbles float to the top, revealing sweet and simple truths he’s always known.

You watch Oscar’s video he made for you every morning. When he’s away on a shoot, you watch it to fall asleep, too.

You asked Charles to help you go ring shopping next week. Oscar doesn’t know- it’s a secret.

You love Oscar.

The sunshine is back, wrapping around his skin and flowing through his veins. He’s glowing, he’s sure he is. He wonders if Oscar can see it.

He’ll have pancakes today while he watches his video. He’ll read his journal, he’ll call Charles. Maybe he’ll go for a run in the park. But for now, he holds Oscar a little tighter, just a little while longer.

You love Oscar so much.

the carcar fem! arts are so many noww, and i just can't stop thinking that female carlos is blanca and female oscar is hattie😭

brocedes son or carcar daughter?

'i wish you'd talk'

a carcar short au✨️ written hastily😓 (inspired by 'talk talk' by charlie xcx)

“Your Hungarian Grand Prix Winner, Oscar Piastri! Give a big applause and raise your glass for him, everyone!” the DJ from the booth speaks his name, and Oscar just smiles at the crowd who cheered.

The club is crowded, and Lando is gone probably searching for something (or someone). George and Alex are probably talking about Fernando, who was throwing a tantrum because the FIA guessed him as Brad Pitt, while Charles and Pierre are talking about the Olympics (they are curious to swim at the Seine).

And then there is this guy, who looks so good. Wearing his baby blue linen shirt, hair flipped like it came out from the salon, and face sculpted like Greek Gods. Ferrari does have the best-looking driver line-up.

“Enjoying your view, Oscar?” he said and rolled his ‘R’.

Well, of course. “Nope, you covered my view.”

The man chuckled and took a sip from his glass, “Sorry for that,” and he leaned back to the sofa.

“I was just kidding, Carlos. Just sit like you were,” the younger turned to him.

Oscar instantly regretted that he turned to Carlos because now he looked right into Carlos’ eyes. Beautiful eyes.

For the past few months, both of them have been spending some time together. After the Miami Grand Prix (where all collided), it’s either Carlos going to the McLaren accommodation or meeting at a local restaurant where nobody recognized them while eating delicacies and talking. It’s only both of them, and they found some similarities between them (both have the same race engineer at McLaren, little white dogs, used to drive for Arden) and then so many differences (too much, but they agreed on some discussions).

Carlos is not complicated, he thought. But Carlos has so many layers like cakes. And Oscar finds it very comforting because Carlos has nothing to hide other than his burger restaurant in Madrid.

“Okay, campeón,” Carlos moves closer to Oscar. It felt so right.

When the night gets much darker and slowly turns to dawn, Oscar gets drunker and drunker because Pierre has secretly bought so many kinds of alcohol.

“Carlos,” he nudges Carlos’ shoulder.

“Yes, Oscar?”

“Can we go home?” his eyes begged because Oscar was knackered.

Carlos nodded, “Let’s go,” he helped Oscar to get up and held his waist to stabilize the younger.

Charles looks confused at his teammate, and Carlos just looks at him. “Gotta give him a lift, I’m not drunk.”

The man nodded, “Yes, please. We don’t even know where’s Lando or George. I’ll be with Pierre.”

“Okay, I’ll get going,” said Carlos while Oscar was deep in his sleep on Carlos’ neck.

“Be safe, and don’t–

“I’ll be on the speed limit, Charles,” he smiles at his teammate and walks to the exit.

While waiting for the car, Oscar is sniffing Carlos like he is trying to know what is the smell. “Kid, you’re not a dog,” Carlos chuckled.

“You smelled like rich people, Carlos,” he mumbled. Oscar is rich from his Formula 1 paycheck, but he doesn't smell like Carlos.

“Thanks,” the car arrived and Carlos helped Oscar to get into the passenger seat of his red Ferrari, and he even made Oscar wear the seatbelt.

Throughout the journey, Oscar is only mumbling, and Carlos blames it on Pierre and his choice of alcohol.

“Carlos?”

“Yes, Oscar?”

“I wish you’d talk,”

“Talk about what?”

“Talk to me,”

“About what?”

“Wish you’d just talk to me,”

“Oscar, you’re drunk–

“Talk to me in Spanish, talk to me, just talk, Carlos.”

If Carlos doesn’t remember that they’re on the road somewhere, he probably instantly breaks.

“Just talk to me, Carlos,” Oscar keeps mumbling from his sleep, but somehow he finds Carlos’ thigh and rests his hand there.

Carlos is trying to focus on the road, but he replies nervously, “Sí, sí. ¿De qué quieres hablar, mi pequeño koala?”

He only sighed and fell deep in his sleep, looking like a kid.

And yes, Carlos held Oscar's hand that was still on his thigh. Tightly.