Every Yaoi That I Like Always Includes A Spanish.

what if... a gala/premier night, and then both of them kind of prepared themselves together because they were the actors, and they fell in love🤧🤧🤧

us

sky sports said happy first anniversary to carcar for all who celebrate btw

For the prompt meme, sorry I really want to send you "all of them" for carcar, but containing myself as much as possible: 11, 37, 38, 40 - whichever sparks joy 😌

omg thank you anon, i am going for #11: hiding from pursuers [1.2k; notting hill au] put that guy in a situation prompts

It’s teeming down rain. The perfect kind of weather for curling up with a good book, but not so much for strolling down high street popping in and out of shops, which means Oscar hasn't seen a single customer all afternoon. He doesn’t mind the quiet, but hopes and dreams can’t pay the bills. It would be nice to actually sell a few books before Oscar has to resort to desperate measures, like selling novelty socks or adding whatever’s trending on booktok to his inventory.

Oscar shudders and flips the page in his book.

He’s only read a few pages when the door bangs open, the bell above it jangling as someone stumbles inside, bringing buckets of water with them. It’s to be expected with the weather, but what’s not expected is the way they shake their arms off, flinging water everywhere like a dog running from the bath.

“Do you mind?” Oscar says loudly. “Those aren’t waterproof, you know.”

The man looks up, eyes wide as he takes in his surroundings. “Sorry,” he says, wiping wet hands down his soaking t-shirt, white cotton gone translucent from the rain. He looks back over his shoulder, peering out the window. “I didn’t mean to – do you mind if I wait here for a moment?”

“If you’re planning to wait out the rain, it’ll be a long moment,” Oscar says. Destruction of property aside, the man can stay as long as he likes. His wet shirt clings to his frankly outrageous figure, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, his dark hair hangs over his forehead, dripping down the dramatic slope of his nose. Oscar won’t remember a single word he reads for as long as this man is in his shop.

The man ducks away from the door as a few shadowy figures rush past outside, hurrying closer to the counter. “It’s not the rain,” he says. “It’s, um…”

Oscar closes his book, frowning. “It’s what?” he asks suspiciously. The man’s jeans are as soaked as the rest of him, hanging low on his hips. If he’s stolen anything, it would have to be quite small to fit in any of his pockets. 

The man grimaces, a “what can you do?” sort of expression. “Fans,” he says, brushing his hair off of his face only for it to swing back down a second later. 

Oscar takes another look at him. He’s handsome, but not in a way that’s immediately familiar. “Are you in movies or something?”

“Ah, no.” A little smile appears on his face, too crooked to be a movie star’s. “You don’t follow football at all, do you?”

“More of a cricket man,” Oscar says, unable to keep himself from glancing at the man’s body again. An athlete – with all those abs, he should’ve guessed. “Are you any good, then?”

He ducks his head. “The team are doing well this season,” he says. It’s such a canned answer, as though Oscar’s a reporter at the side of the practice pitch. The man folds his arms over his stomach, pinching the fabric of his t-shirt between his fingers. A small puddle has started growing at his feet.

Oscar slides off the stool, abruptly coming to his senses. There’s a tiny break room in back with a kettle for tea and a spare jumper for days when the shop is particularly drafty. “Let me get you a towel,” he says, almost certain there are no actual towels in his shop. At best there might be a tea towel, but even that is better than nothing. “D’you want some tea?”

The man wrinkles his nose. “No. Thank you,” he tacks on, trailing after Oscar towards the back of the shop.

Oscar was right about the tea towel. “Best I can do, I’m afraid,” he says, offering a faded floral tea towel and a knitted jumper left behind by the previous owner of this shop to the professional footballer dripping rainwater perilously close to the travel guide section. 

He takes the towel first, wiping it over his face and then his hair, leaving it standing up in a dozen dark spikes. The disorder somehow suits him. Still Oscar’s fingers itch to brush the strands back into place, until the guy grasps the bottom of his shirt and whips it over his head with the casual disinterest of a man who knows exactly how good his body looks. 

He holds his empty hand out, and it takes Oscar an embarrassingly long moment to realize he’s waiting for the sweater.

Oscar passes it over and turns away in an attempt to salvage what’s left of his dignity. He doesn’t know what’s come over him. Up until ten minutes ago, Oscar would have said jocks aren’t his type. His ex was smaller than him, lanky and lazy and prone to playing video games ten hours a day. Oscar had been attracted to him, but they’d also toppled over in a laughing heap whenever Lando tried to lift him. This guy could throw Oscar over his shoulder and take off down the street without breaking a sweat.

The man clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says. 

“Not a problem,” Oscar says, turning back around. It’s no surprise that he should look so good in a lumpy sweater of indeterminate color and origin. “Wish I could offer you a pair of glasses, no one would recognize you.”

The crooked smile makes a triumphant return. Oscar considers strangling himself with the tea towel, just to save himself any further embarrassment. “The dry clothes are more than enough,” he says. “I had to leave in a hurry.”

He must be quite famous, Oscar thinks, to be chased through the rain by a mass of fans. “Well,” Oscar says, gesturing at the empty shop. “Feel free to stay as long as you’d like. As you can see, we’re not very busy.” Oscar turns away and hurries towards the front of the shop, keen to hide his face behind his book. “Let me know if I can help you with anything,” he calls over his shoulder, the same as he does with all his customers. Few people ever take him up on it. Customers in a bookshop are mostly content to wander in silence.

“Is this your shop?”

Oscar looks up, surprised to find the man has followed him. “Yes,” Oscar says.

He shifts his jaw, giving Oscar a considering look. “You are Bertram?”

“God, no,” Oscar laughs. Oscar had started off working in Bertram's Books part-time in uni, and when Bertram retired a few years ago, he’d signed the shop over to Oscar. “He was the original owner of this place. I’m Oscar.”

“Oscar,” the man repeats slowly, holding his hand out over the counter. It’s warm when Oscar takes it, a pleasant strength in his grip. “I’m Carlos. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Oscar says, quickly pulling his hand back when he realizes he’s gone on shaking Carlos’s hand for far longer than is normal.

Carlos looks around the shop again, then turns back to Oscar with a smile. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve read anything for fun,” he says. “What would you recommend?”

renault carlos was a twink.

so im sleepy, but somehow, my brain is thinking about this✨️✨️✨️

angst is the best

Your dog ~ carcar, angst

Piñon still bites him when he sees him. He's a distrustful dog, Oscar has learned.

He doesn't like it when Oscar sits on the left side of the couch, pushes his nose against his calf until he's shuffling to the right. He doesn't sit on that side either, though, and curls up under his feet.

He doesn't like it when Oscar looks at the coats hanging nearby the entrance, he doesn't like it when Oscar puts his hand in the biscuits jar, he doesn't like it when Oscar uses the body-wash in the shower and smells of musky pinecones.

He doesn't like a whole lot of things that Oscar does, truthfully, and even though he does try to not show it, sometimes it really hits close to home, where it already hurts the most.

And yet, he still gets up at eight sharp in the morning to take him out for a walk.

They stroll on the sidewalk for ten minutes, already with the easiness of a routine that doesn't feel like it belongs to him fully yet, and Oscar can almost say with certainty that it doesn't feel that gross to grab his poop from the ground.

Every morning they walk past a local bakery, just on the right side of the parallel road, and every single morning Piñon starts barking, perhaps out of familiarity, perhaps just out of curiosity, his vision zeroing on the bright yellow of the signs.

Oscar... he would rather not walk in, honestly. It's not even about avoiding falling into temptation, the smell of fresh baked goods always seeming to make his empty stomach grumble like a full engine.

It's more about the way the people around him seem to advert their gaze for a short second before actually meeting his eyes, it's about the way the woman behind the counter sharpens her grimace into a somewhat welcoming smile, as if all of a sudden she's not angry anymore at Oscar for only knowing how to utter a bunch of words in broken Spanish.

Even worse, though, it's the way they always sit on their calves and pat Piñon's head with a familiarity that Oscar is almost jealous of.

He may not understand a lot of the language, but still it's easy to make out the grand scheme of it all, how they sneak treats under the dog's mouth, how they whisper close to his ear.

"Has he been treating you good? How are you doing? How is him?"

Piñon never answers, and maybe that's exactly the reason why Oscar decided to take care of him.

When it came to deciding what should go to whom, he had almost fought tooth and nails to insist he would be the one getting the dog, in ways that he would probably be immensely embarrassed of if he thought about it now, lucid and the wound of it all less open and fresh.

But when Piñon tilts his head there's always the memory of something that tickles the back of Oscar's head, something that he's not exactly ready to let go of completely.

And when Oscar just needs to talk without the feeling of judgment and guilt clouding over him, Piñon just nudges his nose against his calf and sits at his feet and leaves him the benefit of self criticism that sometimes Oscar forgets he still has.

And other times, even, he looks up at Oscar with big brown eyes that hold a distant sentiment that Oscar can't face just yet.

He has read, somewhere in the middle of a late night binge search on how to get rid of it all as fast possible, that dogs are able to talk to spirits.

Oscar doesn't exactly believe it. Though it is true that Oscar doesn't believe in a lot of things that don't lie in the same Venn's diagram of a throttle and a brake.

He still doesn't know if he should believe in God or if it's God who should believe more in them, give them a bit more credit for all the things some people have to go through without even asking for them.

And Oscar also sincerely hopes Carlos has not gone and become a spirit, because that would imply that even the last shred of hope has to quietly die like a burnt candle.

Because that would mean Oscar would have to live the rest of his life looking for a metaphysical appearance that he knows will never come, that he would have to feel haunted, even.

And it's ridiculous to even think about believing in something like that, and yet at two in the morning on a Thursday night Oscar thinks that there can't be any damage to do if he just lets himself be ridiculous for a little while.

The corridor is bathed in moonlight when he walks through it, but Oscar still finds some difficulty in making his way through the rooms, leaning against the wall with a hand as he feels the quiet thrum of an empty house surrounding him.

He is careful with his steps as he reaches Piñon, sleeping soundly at the entrance where he had dragged his own bed a few days ago.

He thinks about it for a second, then two, watches little puff of air heaving Pinon's chest, his head resting on crossed paws, turned towards the door as if it could open from a second to another. Waiting.

He doesn't think about it more than three seconds, because Oscar has never had the privilege to make decisions in longer than that, so he kneels on the ground, passing a gentle hand through the longer fur on Piñon's back before ducking his head and pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

Piñon doesn't wake up, just scrunches his nose for a second before his breaths even out again, same rhythm as before, as if trying to fall back into a routine that doesn't quite fit right.

The sofa is soft under his legs when he sits on it, careful to not disrupt the untold equilibrium as he presses his feet to the left armrest and leans his chin over his bent knees. He is not going to sleep anytime soon, either way.

"I gave a kiss to your dog." Oscar chuckles, lets himself feel ridiculous for just a second before relaxing against the back of the couch. "I did it when he was asleep. He would've killed him if I had tried to do it when he was awake."

The only answer he gets is the eerily quiet and the muffled sounds of Piñon's breathing.

For the first time since he can remember, Oscar wishes there could be another voice coming from the right side of the couch.

"I think he doesn't like me a lot, you know? Sometimes it's like he wants to blame me and I- I get it, I want to blame myself, too." A knot rises in the middle of his throat, tight and uncomfortable. Oscar still talks past it. "But he is the closest thing to you that I could get, the closest thing that is alive and well. And when he glares at me he- he almost reminds me of you which is ridiculous because I can't even remember the last time you were actually angry at me but I think it's better for me to remember you that way than..."

He rubs a hand under his eyes, pretends like he can't feel the sudden wetness on the sleeves of his hoodie. He doesn't even think it's his own.

He doesn't even remember when the division line started to blur.

"I think that's what you would want me to do, if you could say it."

Lando hadn't been of the same opinion, looking at Oscar warily when he had suggested he would be the one taking Piñon for the first time. Now, he just looks at Oscar with his downturned eyes and tells him he wishes he could do more to help him.

Oscar doesn't think there's more to do, anyway.

"I read somewhere that dogs talk to spirits. I think it's the kind of shit you would yell at Lando for believing in it. You always d- do that." He caresses his own knees, seeking the comfort of a warm touch in his own coldness. "And trust me, I hope you are not a fucking spirit and that you won’t become one anytime soon. But if there is even a small- small possibility, I-" he closes his eyes for a second, lets the knot in his throat dissolve like salt in water, stinging on an open wound, where pulsing blood is still rushing to trail on his skin.

"If there is even a single possibility of it being true I- I gave him a kiss and I hope he can bring it to you. And then he can come back home if- I hope he thinks this is still home, even without-“

The light blue colour of the sleeves has tuned into a darker patch under his eyes, blurry from a lucidity that he can't make himself feel ashamed of.

As if on cue, the silence is broken by the ticking sound of Piñon's paws on the hardened wood floor. When Oscar manages to open his eyes again without wishing to disappear into the dark blue void outside the window, Piñon is looking up at him, curled under his feet with his head close to Oscar's shin.

The dog sighs, a shaky thing that sounds almost like a rumble and Oscar can only answer with a choked sob of his own that doesn't feel like it belongs to him at all, to his vocal cords that always found no use in crying.

Many things can change in the span of a few weeks: Oscar's beliefs and a dog's routine.

"But I- I think," he swallows around nothing, bending down to press a hand to the top of Piñon's head, caressing lightly. "We are not so different, me and Piñon."

The dog sighs again, almost sad. Oscar wonders if he is listening to what he is saying, if he can actually understand it all. Will he bring a kiss from him, then?

"We both miss you the most when the night comes."

—

This little story is heavily inspired by the song “your dog” by Pinguini Tattici Nucleari

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

and sofia cutie jsjss

racing hearts and baby steps making my heart ache so badly. i need to know what will happened after😭😭😭

they do these for the girls, aren't they?

every day I re read carcar fic

WITHOUT COLLISION, IM SUPER PROUD

carcar battle for P2 (without collision) | austrian gp 2024