bruh

Angela/21/Serbia

[artist173]

final chapter of zero cycle!!! By @evilgustofwind aka the mscr f2 fic ever!!

[chronicallyjules]

zero cycle ending soon zero cycle update!!

[artist173]

some casual doodles (@loquarocoeur)

[corgicrafter]

When two McLaren drivers love each other very much….

[strawberriesinmoominvalley]

@zolica-ao3 :D

[artist173]

chpt2 of zero cycle by @evilgustofwind !spoilers ahead

my other landoscar!streamer art here

[prokrastinartiya]

[prokrastinartiya]

what about… oscar in thigh highs and lando big paws

not my best work but please take it as it is🙏

[prokrastinartiya]

inspired by this photo, full under the cut (mild nsfw!)

[prokrastinartiya]

[prokrastinartiya]

seven minutes in heaven 2023 landoscar edition

[prokrastinartiya]

[prokrastinartiya]

commission

[prokrastinartiya]

[prokrastinartiya]

[prokrastinartiya]

it seems that oscar likes those headphones too🤔

[prokrastinartiya]

idea from here, full under the cut (mild nsfw!)

[gattyswriting]

Any news on if my lifeline (Next chapter of EQDS) will be let out of its cage 🥺

asking myself that too 😭

but… as a little treat, heres the intro to Chapter 10: CLIPPING to ward off the withdrawal

———

“Lando,” Carlos said, accent warm and unmistakable. “About time.”

Lando’s stomach dropped. Not the good kind of recognition—the kind that made his mouth go dry and his palms sweat.

Carlos fucking Sainz. In white linen like he’d wandered out of a yacht brochure, sleeves rolled like he was heading to brunch in Ibiza instead of smashing balls in Richmond. Dark hair swept back, eyes big and brown and fucking ridiculous. Expensive. Effortless.

And shorter than Lando expected—just a little over his height. Which somehow made it worse. How could someone not towering still radiate boss-level confidence?

Daniel pushed off the Aston Martin he’d been leaning against—all coordinated athleisure and designer trainers that screamed I have a personal shopper. He bounced a padel ball lazily against the ground, catching it one-handed. Sunglasses slid halfway down his nose, eyes dragging slow over Lando. Too knowing.

“Look who finally crawled out of the club,” Daniel said, grin wide but edged. “You sober enough for this, mate?”

Heat prickled up Lando’s neck. His vintage Juve jersey suddenly felt cheap. Faded. The SONY logo cracked and peeling. Mesh shorts clinging wrong to his thighs.

“I’m fine.”

“Course you are.” Daniel’s smile sharpened. “Retro chic. Very Hackney flea market.”

Carlos stepped forward, hand out—no, not a stiff handshake, a dap. Smile easy, shoulders relaxed. “Carlos. Good to finally meet you.”

Lando’s brain stalled. He went for it anyway, nearly fumbled the grip with his big hands, but Carlos adjusted quick, smooth, saving the rhythm before it collapsed. Warm. Smaller than he’d expected. Steady enough to make his chest go tight.

“Lewis,” Lando blurted, then winced. “Fuck—sorry. Carlos. Obviously. I know who you are.”

Daniel doubled over laughing. “Oh my god.”

Carlos just grinned wider, eyes crinkling. “I’ll take it. Lewis is not so bad, no? Very fast also. I don’t mind.”

Lando wanted the ground to open up.

“And I know who you are too,” Carlos added, grin tugging sideways. “Oscar plays your music all the time. Very good stuff.”

Lando blinked. “He does?”

Oscar was suddenly at his shoulder—white polo, navy shorts, like he’d stepped straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad. His ears had gone pink.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Oscar muttered, elbow brushing Lando’s arm. Voice steady, almost fond. “He’s still half asleep. Aren’t you?”

The save landed so neatly it almost felt true.

“Yeah. Long night in the studio,” Lando mumbled. Guilt twisted his stomach. Oscar was covering for him. Again. Without being asked.

“Ah.” Carlos nodded, leaning in conspiratorially. “The creative process. Very mysterious.” He dropped his voice. “I wrote one song once. In year six. About… pizza. Didn’t win the talent show.”

Daniel groaned. “Here we go.”

Carlos only shrugged, grin crooked. “What? It had rhyme.” He tapped Lando’s shoulder like they were co-conspirators already. “Better than Juve’s last season anyway.”

“United, actually,” Lando muttered too fast.

Carlos lit up. “United? Even worse. But—respect.” He winked. “Pain builds character.”

Daniel was already laughing again. “You two are gonna get along. Same tragic taste.”

Lando didn’t know whether to feel included or roasted alive. Probably both.

Oscar cleared his throat, eyes flicking between them. “Arsenal’s top of the table and none of you are talking about it,” he said, deadpan. “But we’re not here for footy, so maybe save it for the pub.”

Carlos laughed. “Top of the table, he says.”

Daniel flicked the ball he’d been palming up and caught it again, smirk sharp. “God, you really are boring, mate.”

Oscar only shrugged, mouth twitching. “Still winning, though.”

And Lando—Lando just felt the heat creep higher, because somehow Oscar managed to sound like both a smug Arsenal fan and the grown-up in the room, and that made his chest feel too tight.