corioliseffect

[corioliseffect]

hi pls reblog with a character in your fandom you changed your mind about (positive or negative)

[corioliseffect]

in the gax bull gay up killing it. and by it i mean. my teammate

[corioliseffect]

cars should not be the dominant mode of transportation but we should keep them around to have sex in

[corioliseffect]

MAX??!?&!&))@!@)

[corioliseffect]

Carcar Timeline

[corioliseffect]

[corioliseffect]

"I'm not perfect, but on my best days, I really am the best"

When your driver decides to go hard and speak facts 🙏🏻

[corioliseffect]

i read through the reblogs of your post (the change of opinion one) and im actually SO curious now as what characterises a persons favourite driver like for me its like 3 or 4 different categories?

charles is the driver i support most on the track? like racecraft and who i want to win wise but like personality wise ummmmmm hes just sort of there

max is my wife coded (no elaboration needed)

and carlos and oscar are my rpf besties (carlos is also loml and that is a different category than wife)

and now that ive written this all out, i see how unhinged that sounds but thats just how my brain works?? idkkkkkkkkkk

I had THE BEST time reading this and it makes total sense to me. omg ok my categories:

-daniel: my dead wife. have never and will never care about a sports person as much as i cared for him, but need to lock my box of mementos up in the attic to pull out on our old anniversary or else ill spend my life in agony. genuinely considering blacklisting because the old stuff gives me pain and the new stuff is duck dynasty

-max: my favorite band and then i went to a concert (tumblr) and discovered a large portion of the fans showed up with the bassist’s blood in a locket and are holding up signs like IMPREGNATE ME and i think maybe it’s better if im not a superfan

-carlos: my estrogen supply consulted my sexual history in my follicular phase and constructed him in create-a-sim

-oscar: if it can’t be max im glad it’s him. someone cut his fucking nails

[corioliseffect]

whee

[corioliseffect]

How do we feel about a Landoscar knight au?

[corioliseffect]

[OSCAR] british grand prix 2025 // drivers parade

[corioliseffect]

Making my blog wholesome again by posting this adorable (albeit confusing) picture of baby Max

Why is a 12 year old driving a car

[corioliseffect]

ship of your choice, they go back to their tent and one of their beds has been stolen... leaving... ONLY ONE BED

carcar: only one cot ⛺️

They could all see it, but only Lando’s dumb friend Carlos said it. Lugubriously, big woebegone eyes: “There is just one.”

There was just one. Four cots had been removed from their five-cot tent. The lone survivor was proudly displayed in the center.

“It’s because we are late,” Charles posited, eyeing Oscar accusatorily.

“Yeah, sorry.” Oscar had lost his raincoat and his bearings on the walk over. The others had initiated a Marco Polo manhunt and found him drunk and sand-spun on the far side of a dune watching the lights of a Ferris wheel twirl in the dark. Carlos had recovered the raincoat, his handsome guilelessness endearing strangers to help. There was sand in the pocket still. Now, Oscar scooped it up and felt it flow through his fingers. 

George said, “I’m going to stay with my girlfriend,” with the alacrity of a man who’d been trying to insert himself into a girls’ trip for days. Charles followed suit. Lando found some friends in a neighboring hotel to crash with. By the time it began to rain, only Oscar and Carlos remained.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend or something?” Oscar suggested. 

Carlos smiled, insouciant and infuriating. “No.”

“Okay.” Oscar started working the cover over the doona, figuring it might give him a claim to the whole cot, but then Carlos got started on the fitted sheet. The pull-stretch-snap of it in his fingers looked obscene. “Can you at least charm someone into sparing some blankets for us?”

Carlos smoothed out the wrinkles in the sheet with two fingers, fucking psycho. “Yes, okay. I will charm. But you cannot take the bed while I am gone. Oscar, you cannot take it. Say you will not take it.”

“Yeah, fine. I won’t take it.”

Oscar obviously took it. 

Between the pelting rain and the ribald revelers, he didn’t actually fall asleep. He heard the zing of the zip and felt Carlos drip water onto his nose.

“Mate, step back a meter. You’re all—”

“You lied!” Carlos sounded genuinely affronted, like he’d lived this long and still expected near strangers to match his morality. “Liar.”

Oscar rubbed his eyes. “You weren’t using it.”

Carlos took the ribbons of Oscar’s campground bracelet into his long, tapered, stupid fingers and pulled them, cinching the band too tight.

Oscar yanked his arm back. “What the hell!” He couldn’t loosen it in the clasp lock. He couldn’t even work a finger under the constriction.

“You lied! That is your punishment for lying to me.”

“Jesus.” Oscar swung his legs off the cot and had to cede it completely to search his bag across the room. He couldn’t find any clippers to remove the fucking death squeeze bracelet.

Carlos settled into the cot. “I get this because you are a liar, Oscar. Thank you for making it warm for me.”

“You’re getting it all wet!” Oscar complained. “Your hair’s soaking the pillow!”

“That will not matter because it is mine now. You cannot get it back.”

Lightning lit the tent a shadowless white. The rain drummed down.

“Mate, the fucking floor’s gonna flood.” Oscar checked the perimeter and brought Carlos’s borrowed bedding next to the cot in the middle.

“You should have thought of that before you chose to betray me.”

“Fuck off.” Oscar fell asleep expecting a cold rush of rainwater any moment.

It was ants, in the end. He woke to firework crackles, unseasonal Christmas hyperpop, and fucking ants crawling under his clothes. He scrambled up with a “Fuck!” and stripped everything off, slapping his skin and scraping them off with squeegee-karate-chop-hands.

Carlos said, “That was unexpected to see.”

“Oh my god, there were fucking ants all ov—are they nocturnal? Are they on my feet still?” Oscar shook his clothes out, cracking them in the air like whips to try to blast out any stragglers before squirming back into them. 

“Did they bite you, Oscar? Or were they just saying hello to you and you destroyed them? They are very small and scared.”

Oscar couldn’t tell if his elegiac ant defense was sincere or jocular. In any case, Oscar didn’t answer since they didn’t actually bite him and it was possible he had overreacted. “Mate, you’ve got to trade me, I’m not going back down there.”

“Okay, okay. I am not going down there either. Okay, Oscar, just climb up to the bed. Here, to the bed. They cannot climb, the frame is too slippery for their ant feet.”

“That seems made up.”

“No, no. It is true. I’m not the liar here, Oscar.” Carlos pushed the doona open and scooted to one side.

Oscar said, “I am not going to fit. It’s too—” He bit down on the word tight and considered googling festival campsite deaths for inspiration.

“Yes you will, just. Okay, here.” Carlos positioned his body so that he was almost certainly partially on the metal frame.

“Okay.” Oscar reluctantly lay down. Everything was warm and damp and ant-free. His skin touched Carlos’s at several points; the fine hair standing on end touched even more. His pulse throbbed hot and swollen around the bracelet. The air crackled with some nascent electricity.

When lightning seared the sky, Oscar felt relief that that was it, that was the expectancy, until Carlos’s hot tongue lashed the seam of his lips.

Oscar tried to say, “Oh fuck,” but it was smothered by Carlos’s propulsive mouth, the crazed rush of it as if he had summoned so much energy just working up to it that he couldn’t stop it now, so Oscar grabbed the back of his neck and caught it, absorbed it, gave it back, let them ride out the inertia together.

Carlos’s wet hair was cold and his belly was hot, shirt rolled up to expose scalding skin. Oscar went for his dick since it was the only escalation at his disposal and Carlos made a high, incredibly embarrassing sound Oscar would have to copy and re-experience when he was alone again.

“Can I please—will you—” Carlos abandoned the request/consent thing he was going for and just slid down the cot, metal frame creaking, to yank down Oscar’s joggers and mouth at his cock.

Oscar gasped, “Fuck, yeah, just—”

Carlos was evidently uninterested in the lightning dicked brain fucked command Oscar’s brain was about to issue because he shoved the doona over his head to swallow Oscar’s dick in privacy like the set of a PG-13 sex scene, leaving Oscar alone in the five-cot/one-cot tent with the world’s most annoying fleshlight. Carlos got him off like winning a fight, pressing a fingernail behind Oscar’s balls after the buzzer in a way that didn’t even fucking feel good—sharp, clench, jerk, ache—then he was yanking off the blankets and rucking up Oscar’s shirt to jerk off over his belly like he was marking territory, shuddering like it hurt, dragging the wet of it between Oscar’s moles in a connect-the-dots, starting and stopping several sentences, and finally scarpering off to shower like he was the one covering in jizz and drool and dead ants.

Oscar told the ⅕ capacity cotted tent, “What the fuck,” and when he rebooted enough to shower himself, he returned to an empty tent, extra set of blankets gone.

In the morning he exchanged his camping bracelet. He took the sand dune path again, watched the weather-beaten Ferris wheel carriages teeter in the daylight.

When Oscar caught up with the group, Carlos wouldn’t meet his eyes. The closest he ever got was watching Oscar play with his bracelet, the way he could slip four fingers beneath the ribbon now. After he left for a drink, he came back with a girl who smelled like spray sunscreen and dry shampoo, an aerosol combo so flammable Oscar wondered if she’d catch fire each time they felt the heat of the stage’s pyrotechnics. When Carlos disappeared with her, Oscar thought of his own morally wounded invective: liar.

[corioliseffect]

the poor guy in question is charles

[corioliseffect]

caps

[corioliseffect]

alex albon start | zandvoort gp 2025

[corioliseffect]

"Oscar was asked to list as many words that started with the letter F as possible, and as a first grader, you apparently just kept going, and going, until you reached the more... adult-oriented words. Do you remember this?"

Yep. Very, very well.  I wrote—not just, like, one or two. I wrote ALL of them that I could think of!