#used cars abu dhabi
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carsworldswiss · 1 month ago
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How to Make an Informed Choice When Buying a Used Car: Key Factors to Consider
Used cars are budget-friendly options for intelligent car drivers. When buying a used car, you must consider numerous factors before going ahead with your purchase. These can include the type of car you intend to buy based on your needs and preferences, whether you plan to buy it from a private seller or a car dealership, which car makes, mileage, and pricing levels you are considering, etc. These decisions can be confusing due to the number of factors to be considered. We’ll help you understand what’s important to make an informed choice.
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Factors to consider
1.   Fix the budget
Start your search for a used car by fixing your budget. Fix an upper and lower limit for your budget. This will ensure you have more clarity on your options in the used car market. You may like a certain car but may not be able to afford it. Fixing a budget ensures you do not waste time looking at cars that are beyond your means.
 2.   Vehicle condition
Consider the condition of the vehicle you are interested in. Does it have many miles on it? Has it sustained extensive wear and tear? Is the body scraped and scratched? Is it worth the money you will be spending on it? These are various issues you should consider before deciding to buy a used car.
 3.   Vehicle history report
The appearance of a vehicle can be deceptive and used car buyers should never base their decisions on how a vehicle looks. Requests for a vehicle history report and scrutinize it to discover any hidden problems with the car, who its previous owners were, and its mileage.
 4.   Comprehensive inspection
Once you shortlist a vehicle ensure you examine it comprehensively. If you are unable to do this on your own get help from your trusted car workshop mechanic. A thorough inspection may throw up unexpected issues with the vehicle.
 5.   Finance
If you plan to buy a secondhand car with a bank loan or through the dealership, find out about the financing options available to you. Enquire about whether the loan can be abandoned if the car has major issues.
 6.   Insurance and registration costs
Consider the cost of insurance and registering the vehicle. The expenses on insurance premiums and registration fees should be added to your budgeted costs. Insurance coverage for your pre-owned car in UAE must be purchased before you can drive off with your car.
 7.   Maintenance and ownership costs
Owning a car involves routine maintenance and ownership costs including the cost of warranty coverage and insurance premium. These costs also need to be considered When budgeting for your used car purchase.
 8.   Documentation requirements
Ensure the seller provides you with all the necessary documents for registration of the vehicle in your name. Ascertain that you meet all the legal requirements and possess the appropriate paperwork for the vehicle.
These are some of the key aspects to keep in mind when shopping for a second-hand car. This will ensure you make an informed purchase and do not end up spending on a car not worth the money.
AUTO LEVEL: A DEPENDABLE USED CAR DEALERSHIP IN THE UAE
We are Auto Level, your reliable partner for used cars in the UAE. Once you have decided on your budget and shortlisted a few cars, ensure you check out what we offer. We have a diverse inventory of used cars to cater to the diverse needs of our customers. Our team of expert technicians inspect all our pre-owned to ensure these vehicles are in perfect condition. We also provide the necessary paperwork to meet legal requirements for transferring the title. Benefit from our professional touch for your used car purchase in the UAE. Just call 80053835 to schedule your test drive today!
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danthropologie · 2 years ago
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Daniels whole demeanour and confidence at the gp though. He was absolutely walking and was feeling himself which makes me soso hopeful esp from his comments about next year and the stuff about the sim too. And him wanting himself to race, the belief in himself to go out and do what he loves!! I think the whole things with the fans and support is just a bonus tbh, like I do believe he would’ve decided he wants to come back either way with or without the huge reaction he was getting at the weekend but I like to think it shows him how supported and loved he is.
right and it was also such a nice (and interesting) progression from the launch as well, where even then he was SO excited and it felt like he probably kinda already knew that he wanted to get back on the grid, even if he wasn't quite ready to say it yet 🤧
#it DOES make me wonder if the initial poor outing in the sim was pre winter break tho#like right off the back of abu dhabi still in that kinda fucked headspace#going into winter break wondering if this is the end of the road if the mclaren fucked him up so bad that he can't come back from it#and because of that throwing himself so completely into to the break and not thinking about racing at all just because he Can#(and because maybe this is just How It Is now and he because he better get used to it)#only to come back from the break and jump in the sim; kinda dreading it cause what if it's still just as bad and fucked#but then it's???? not???? maybe only marginally better but there are flashes of what he used to be buried in there#and as time goes on more and more of that old daniel keeps getting uncovered and it feels GOOD#so by the time he's at the launch he's like pretty sure that if things continue like this he's gonna be back#but it's too early to say it just yet so he just holds it in. plays coy.#spends a bit more time in the sim and it's only getting better and better#to the point where he KNOWS he'll be back on the grid (and back in the red bull) it's just a matter of time#and showing up to melbourne with the glow of it all compounded by the leagues and leagues of fans still there supporting him#and telling him they hope to see him back soon :(#dan#red bull redux#answered#anonymous#insane about it actually#and if this is what he's done in just 2-3 months.....and there's three more months before he even gets in an irl car.....😵‍💫
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seoteamwxt · 3 months ago
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theallovernations · 4 months ago
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Get the best value with KMCash4Cars for Used Cars Buyers in Abu Dhabi
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lazyfrog96 · 6 months ago
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Discover the unparalleled convenience and extensive inventory of icarsu.com, one of the premier online car-buying sites in Abu Dhabi. Find your perfect vehicle hassle-free! Click the link now.
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alsayaaratdubai · 9 months ago
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Used Cars for Sale Abu Dhabi
If you are searching for an online platform for Used Cars for Sale in Abu Dhabi? If yes, then visit Alsayaarat once. At our Online Marketplace, you should find out the best quality new and used cars at reasonable and affordable prices. To get more details visit:
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hamilando · 4 months ago
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ੈ✩ My personal volkov (smau) ੈ✩
pairing : max verstappen x fem reader
summary : max verstappen got married, and his fiancé cannot stop sharing their twisted love
tw : suggestive, fluff
a/n : thank you so much to @amberjazmyn for suggesting this ! lysm 🫶🏻 also, if not obvious, the fic contains references of twisted love by Ana Huang 🫶🏻
·:。・゚゚・ ✩ ・゚ ・゚·:。・゚゚・ ・゚·:。・゚゚・ ✩ ・゚ ・゚·:。・゚゚・・゚·:。・゚゚・ ✩ ・゚ ・゚·:。・゚゚
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liked by user1, user2, maxverstappen1, yncooper and 2,482,492 others
landonorris helping him take over the husband duties
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fransisca.gnomes good job with the ring max 🌟💪🏻
maxverstappen1 your approval was only needed 🙄
maxverstappen1 aslo norris, I WAS SUPPOSED TO POST THE PICTURES, I was supposed to announce MY ENGAGEMENT
landonorris best friends right ? maxverstappen1 meet me in Abu Dhabi
user1 AHAHAHAHA
user2 MOM AND DAD ARE MARRIED
user3 MR AND MRS VERSTAPPEN !?
user4 I want to taste both max and the pasta he made -
charlesleclerc Y/N, you sure you want to deal with his anger issues for life !?
maxverstappen1 WHAT ANGER ISSUES!?
yncooper exactly the way you are screaming over text in CAPS
yncooper and yes Charles, those anger issues lead tobest fucking of my life
maxverstappen1 Y/N!? HELLO!?
charlesleclerc I regret saying anything
lewishamilton then please calm him before every race, this lad is climbing over my car every time 🫷🏻
georgerussell you are using an emoji !?
lewishamilton so what ? 🤺
georgerussell you need to learn the correct usage of them
user5 they forgot we can see this-
user6 the freakiness on public account !?
user7 I don’t even want to imagine the private -
user8 no worries, some nudes might be there 🍑
user9 BUNDA
user10 🗿💀
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liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris, user1, user2, and 283,391 others
yncooper engaged men do it faster 😮‍💨🌟
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user1 yn never beating the freaky allegations
user2 I won’t be surprised if max whips out handcuffs
user3 they definitely spend millions on bdsm
user4 the dress has easier access-
user5 WHY ARE THE FANS MATCHING THE FREAKINESS !?
maxverstappen1 my skills were top notch since d1
yncooper true, best first date ever 🫶🏻
user6 YALL TELLING ME THEY GOT FREAKY ON FIRST DATE !?
user7 I won’t be surprised if they were just dating for 2 months
user6 surprisingly , they waited for two years 💀
user8 PROJECT VERSTAPPEN IS GOING TO HAVE SOME FINE LOOKS?
user9 blonde, blue eyes, rich parents, yup I would get my kid to befriend their kid
user10 their kid or befriend the kid’s parents 🗿
user11 MAX WINNING THE 100 WDC
user12 that’s biologically impossible 🦅
charlesleclerc do you both bother reading what your fans write ?
yncooper yes, sadly me and max don’t have twisted love
user13 DID SHE QOUTE TWISTED LOVE !?
user14 max and Alex volkov….
user15 THATS A SMASH
user16 I get a TMI every time she posts ✋🏻
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liked by maxverstappen, mclaren and 1,485,398 others
redbullracing the three aspects of happy married life “ Stress, tears and beer” 🍻
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user1 my wife said they quoted perfectly 🗿
user2 admin has marriage trauma
user3 admin got too real 💀
user4 max is going after the admin with a knife for posting that pic
user5 them crying on the altar 😭
user6 they are so cute 😭🥹
maxverstappen1 the middle and last picture is perfect ❤️
redbullracing the best for the best 🌟
ynverstappen my heart 🥹 thank you for capturing the sweet and teary moments ❤️
redbullracing welcome to red fam ❤️
user7 y/n chugging down beer is somehow the most y/n thing she could do
user8 max watching y/n chug down 10 glasses of beer be like-
landonorris @ mclaren will I also get such appreciation post on my wedding ?
mclaren a wedding needs two humans Lando
landonorris I have Oscar 🧡
mclaren kindly do not engage in spoiling Oscily 🧡
user9 WE SUPPORT OSCAR AND LILY
user10 admin shutting down lando for Oscar and lily 😭
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liked by maxverstappen, landonorris and 2,497,499 others
ynverstappen the eyes never lie, my Alex Volkov 💋
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carlossainz55 you both deserve the world ❤️
liked by ynverstappen
lewishamilton if you ever have marriage troubles, just call me up
maxverstappen1 says the unmarried virgin man
ynverstappen the person staying virgin for the next few month would you max and THANK YOU LEWIS FOR THE LOVELY GIFT 🫶🏻
lewishamilton your welcome yn ❤️
charlesleclerc what did he give …..
ynverstappen Cheval Blanc 1947
charlesleclerc Lewis, I am your teammate, I deserve that too 🫶🏻
landonorris you managed to click a photo max without his racing suit …
ynverstappen I have a whole album ..?
landonorris send me few
ynverstappen nude, semi-nude, shirtless or with clothes ?
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immoral-stranger · 8 days ago
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𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬 // 𝐎𝐏𝟖𝟏
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Summary: “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” – Or, the one where Oscar has to go to group counselling after a turbulent race incident and meets you, the quiet girl at the back of the hall.
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x fem! reader
Word count: 19k
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ❀ Angst: they meet in therapy, it's all angst, lying, guilt, implied former drug addiction and fraudulent behaviour. Smut: penetrative sex, oral (f! receiving), Oscar is a boob guy, very soft and vanilla, maybe a size kink? Fluff: they cuddle? and the ending is happy-ish? Other: takes place during a fictional 2025 season, an atheistic conversation about religion, smoking cigarettes.
A/N: This might be the gloomiest thing I’ve ever written, but it also has 5k words of pure smut, so yeah, there's that. I’m weirdly proud of it. Please tell me what you think ♡
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Abu Dhabi, 2024. Oscar could still smell the smoke sometimes, in nightmares or if he zoned out for too long. The scent clung to his mind—burning tires, scorched metal, and marshals running around in panic. In his dreams, he could hear the crackle of flames, feel the searing heat against his skin, as they carefully dragged him out and placed him in the medical car. He was sure that it was already in some compilation on youtube about the worst crashes of the season. Hell, maybe even in history. 
Verstappen had already claimed his title, but getting the last win of the season would be a dream for anyone. It was a matter of pride, ending the season on a high note. For Oscar, it ended with a crash instead, just as he was about to overtake for the win on the last stint of the race. 
And of course, it had to be with Charles. 
Everyone loved Charles. And everyone hated Oscar for being the reason their favourite driver lost out on a win. Hate was a strong word and he was used to people having varying opinions about him, but there was something about this that he couldn’t shake off. 
The worst part was the screaming—screaming that he had later been told never even happened. He'd made it up in his head. When he was being pulled from the wreckage, he could have sworn he’d heard Charles crying out in pain. He’d replayed it over and over, only to learn that Charles had gotten out first—before the fire even started to spread. Sore from the impact, but otherwise unharmed.
Oscar didn’t realise in the moment that the crash would affect him. It took months for it to catch up to him. It all cumulated into a breakdown during the pre-season testing for 2025, where he had locked himself in a room to drown out Charles’ screaming, getting the attention of his trainer and people on his team that something was wrong. 
He was supposed to be the calm one. This was the opposite of calm. 
He had Murphy’s Law on loop in his head. Everything that can go wrong will. It had never been like that for him before—analysing every possible mistake. It wasn’t even the mistakes he actually made, but the ones that never happened. It made him paralysed to get in the car every single time, but once he actually started driving, all those thoughts went away. 
It was the imaginative screaming that had led him to where he was today—the parking lot outside of St. Anne’s Church before a group therapy and support meeting. It wasn’t a grand building by any means. The stones of the church were worn, weathered with years of storms battering its exterior. It always seemed to rain in this fucking town. 
His therapist, trainer, and team had decided that this was best for him. Mandated meetings once a week until he could feel calm outside of the car and not just while driving it. This wasn’t about talking to some high-paid therapist; he already had one of those. No, this was about learning to cope with normal people, people who had been through real trauma, people who didn’t live their lives in the fast lane.
“You need support,” they’d said, as if these weekly gatherings at a worn-out church with other equally messed-up strangers would patch up whatever was broken inside him. 
He had talked on the phone with the man leading the group, explaining that it would most likely be best for Oscar to show up to his first meeting, take a seat, and just get a feel for how it worked. 
The meeting was held in a hall on the side of the church, an annex built sometime in the seventies while the church itself was centuries old. He was hit with the smell of old wood and damp air as soon as he entered. The group wasn’t small—maybe twenty people scattered around the room, sitting on mismatched chairs. It didn’t feel like one of those alcoholics anonymous meetings he’d seen in movies, which had been his first preconception. 
He found a spot on one of the middle rows, on the edge to not draw attention to him. The personalities he could see around the room were all different. There were the nervous ones, bouncing in their seats—maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was abstinence. The tired ones seemed to be the majority. He fitted into that group himself—tired of life. You also had the desperate ones, sitting in the front, almost leaning forward to better grasp whatever words of wisdom were being said. 
Guilt seemed to be a theme for everyone. 
One after one the facilitator let people go up and speak at a makeshift lectern. Some just gave little updates, giving Oscar the impression that they’d gone to meetings for a long time. Others were speaking up for the first time. One that stood out was a mother, maybe in her fifties, whose daughter had just passed away in a car accident. She cried as she spoke, searching for some way of dealing with the guilt she felt, having let her daughter borrow her car even though she knew it was old and unsafe. 
This was around the time when Oscar thought to himself that he should just take the money he had, find a way out of his contract, emigrate to Iceland, and change his name to Fabio. Never ever have to think about a race car again.
People were going on about their lives, their regrets, their struggles with addictions, or just their attempts to survive whatever the world had thrown at them. But none of it really resonated with him. Oscar didn’t feel like he belonged here. His problems felt different. And he wasn’t sure if that was because they actually were different or because he just couldn’t find the right words to describe them.
At some point, his gaze shifted toward the back of the room, and that was when he noticed you. 
A girl his own age. You were sitting there, apart from everyone else, half-hidden in the shadows near the exit. You looked like you didn’t want to be seen—shoulders hunched, sat far down in your seat. You stared at your hands, fidgeting with skin around your nails. Oscar could spot your chipped black nail polish from across the room. He had a hard time reading your face, mostly obscured by your hair and the collar of your jacket. 
He couldn’t help but wonder why you were here. He wondered it about everyone else too, but you stuck out since you were similar in age—young enough that people didn’t automatically assume that you’d gone through hardship. You looked… different. Troubled, maybe. Definitely out of place. 
Oscar forced himself to look away, trying to focus on the group facilitator, who was droning on about acceptance and healing. He felt restless, a creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Why had he even come? This place didn’t feel like it could fix anything. 
By the time the session ended, he hadn’t spoken a word.
As the last of the attendees dispersed, Oscar lingered under the arched entrance, watching the downpour. He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, offering him some warmth from the cold rain. A faint glow from distant streetlights illuminated the soaked pavement, creating an eerie atmosphere that somehow felt fitting. 
That’s when he saw you again, as the heavy church doors closed behind him with a slight thud. You were the last one out of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw you light a cigarette. His eyes met yours briefly, but you were quick to look away. 
You exhaled smoke, sitting down on the stone steps leading up to the entrance, letting single raindrops fall onto your leather jacket, while still being mostly covered by the awning. 
For a second, Oscar thought about walking away. He didn’t know you—he didn’t know anyone here—but something kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was because he knew he would need to talk to someone here, not easily getting away from the mandated meetings. Maybe it was because you looked so damned lost. 
Either way, he found himself speaking before he could stop himself.
“Uh,” he started awkwardly. “I like your stockings.” 
You blinked, glancing down at your legs. Through the rips in your jeans, a pair of sheer black stockings peeked out, the floral lace pattern barely visible. You didn’t say anything right away, just stared at him with a look that was half-surprised, half-annoyed. Then, you blew out smoke from between your lips. 
“Thanks,” you muttered. 
Oscar shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he should leave or try to salvage the moment. Why had he said that? He wasn’t good at small talk, never had been. He had no idea why he thought this was the time to start improving that skill.
You let out a low chuckle, almost like you were laughing at him. Wordlessly, you asked him if he wanted a cigarette, lifting the carton up in his direction. 
He shook his head. “I don’t smoke.” 
You took another drag, shrugging your shoulders, basically saying suit yourself to him. With your gaze turned back to the ground, the silence stretched on awkwardly, only broken by the sound of raindrops splattering against the asphalt.
“Aren’t white lighters supposed to be bad luck?” he asked suddenly, noticing the bright plastic you were flicking between your fingers. He’d heard that somewhere, an old superstition and coincidence—that a group of famous people who had died at a young age all had white lighters in their possession. It was a stupid thing to say, but it felt better than nothing.
You looked down at the lighter in your hand and then back at Oscar, a humourless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Maybe that’s the fucking point.” 
Oscar didn’t know what to say to that. He wondered if you actually meant it—that bad luck didn’t matter to you, like you almost welcomed it. He wasn’t sure he believed in luck in that sense anyway. To him, life felt more like a balance of choices and chances, not fortune’s favour. But sometimes, maybe when the stars aligned and all that palaver, he believed in luck and he believed in doing the right thing to experience that luck. 
Call it superstition, if you must. 
The both of you continued to stand there in silence. Well, technically, you were still sitting.  Two strangers, clinging to the building that was supposedly about to fix them, all while not really knowing if they even wanted to be fixed. 
After a few long moments, you stood up, stubbing out the cigarette on the wet stone. You stuffed your hands into your pockets, casting him one last glance before heading out into the rain. The water immediately soaked your hair, but you didn’t seem to care. You hopped into a car that had pulled up at the end of the parking lot, an older woman in the driver seat. 
You left him without a word and a strange feeling inside of him—like this situation wasn’t already odd enough. 
_______________________________
You put out your cigarette as you reached the entrance of the church, again. Just another Tuesday in your life. You’d lost count on how long you had been going to these meetings. Two hours every Tuesday and one hour every Sunday. 
It was a bit of a lie, that you didn’t know how long it had been. You just didn’t want to know how long it had been and therefore told yourself to not think about it until you’d all but forgotten about it. 
However, Oscar was a new addition to the meetings, for a month or so. Seeing him, seemingly waiting for you before going inside, was odd? But not uncommon by now. 
You didn’t say anything as you walked up beside him on the church steps, only giving him a slight nod as a way of saying hello. You looked out over the parking lot, glistening wet from the rain that seemed to haunt this small town. You were practically lucky that it wasn’t raining at the moment. 
Something about the parking lot was different today, though. It stood out like a diamond in a drawer of costume jewellery. 
There, parked conspicuously at the curb, was a sleek McLaren. The kind of car that didn't belong in this part of town, especially not parked outside a church where people came to unload their emotional baggage.
As if reading your thoughts, Oscar caught you staring with raised brows. “What nobhead takes their McLaren to counselling?” you muttered under your breath, clearly not expecting him to hear. But he was close enough, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile.
He chuckled, a low, surprised sound. “That would be me.” 
You blinked, not expecting it to be him, let alone be so direct about it. “I’m sorry.” 
“No, you’re not,” Oscar chortled, shaking his head, like he found your frankness refreshing, if not amusing, as though he wasn’t often spoken to like that. 
“Yeah, it’s a dickish thing to do,” you admitted, giving him a half shrug. You couldn’t help but smile a little, though. He had a way of taking the sting out of your sharp words, as if he didn’t mind your snark. 
You’d quite frankly been rude to him at a few of the former meetings, yet he still didn’t mind sitting in silence next to you for two hours every Tuesday. You were both here, after all—both stuck, both dealing with whatever mess had brought you to therapy. 
The last few sessions had been the same—catching each other’s eye as you sat in the back of the room, listening to people’s stories. Neither of you said much during the meetings, but you always seemed to find each other afterward, just outside the church, where the air felt a little less suffocating. You smoked, and Oscar just stood there, pretending not to be bothered by the cold weather. 
It had become something of a routine. You weren’t friends, exactly, but there was a strange sort of understanding between you. Tonight was no different as the meeting started. 
You slipped into your usual spot near the back, watching as Oscar settled in a seat nearby. The room was filled with voices, people exchanging quick pleasantries before it started, just like every week, with people telling their stories. 
You’d gone to meetings for such a long time that you knew the backstories of most people. It had been so long that some regulars had even stopped going, claiming they were fixed. Or at least fixed enough. You guessed that was the real goal—to not completely overcome trauma but to learn how to live with it. Then there were the people who were mandated to be there, by their workplace or by a court order. They were more hesitant than the people who went by their own free will, but their stories were always better when they finally got to talking, more interesting to listen to. 
“Have you ever gone up there?” Oscar whispered at one point, curious. 
“Nope,” you replied without hesitation, not looking at him. “They can force me to be here, but they can’t force me to talk.” 
He looked at you for a moment, head tilted slightly, like he wanted to ask more but thought better of it. You could practically feel the question hanging in the air—who the fuck were they?—but he didn’t press. Instead, he glanced around the room again. 
You liked that he didn’t push. That meant you didn’t have to lie to him. 
There was an unspoken rule in these circles. Speak, or don’t, but never fake it. It couldn’t be about pretending, and for now, silence was as close as either of you seemed willing to come to honesty. 
When the session ended, you found yourselves once again standing on the church steps, the night air brisk and cutting. You fumbled with a cigarette, attempting to light it against the persistent wind. Oscar lingered nearby, hands in his pockets, as he watched your futile attempts, half amused. 
“Not getting picked up today?” he asked. 
You shook your head, giving up on the cigarette and putting the lighter and carton back into the pocket of your jacket. 
Oscar hesitated for a second, unsure whether to say anything. He was starting to feel that familiar awkwardness creep back in, the same feeling he’d had the first time he spoke to you. But before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I could give you a lift.” 
You shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m not sleeping with you, Oscar,” you said flatly. 
Oscar’s eyes widened, and he spluttered, “W-what? No! That’s not—” He stumbled over his words, horrified.
You raised a brow, watching as he struggled to find his words. He was blushing, his ears practically glowing red under the streetlight. “You offered to drive me home without ulterior motives?” you asked, sceptical. 
“Yes, I was just trying to be nice,” he said firmly, but flustered. “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” 
You let out a dry laugh, almost feeling guilty for your wrong assumption about him. “You’d be surprised at how many men find head-cases attractive.” 
He only became more embarrassed, his mind flashing back to the first thing he’d ever said to you—a compliment on your stockings, of all things.
There was a vulnerability to him you hadn’t expected—something behind the stubborn façade and expensive car. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who was used to rejection. Or awkwardness. Or therapy, for that matter. But his loser personality made all of those things very possible. 
“Well… I just wanted to make sure you got home safely,” he said, shifting awkwardly.
You studied him for a moment, weighing his words. Then, with a sigh, you jerked your head toward the McLaren. “Fine. Start the fucking car.” 
Inside the car, the quiet was different, somehow more suffocating than outside on the church steps. Maybe it was the notion of having to actually talk to each other now that hadn’t felt as forced outside of the car. 
 “So, where to?” Oscar asked, his hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary.
You glanced out the window, your fingers tapping idly on the door handle, almost scared to touch the absurdly shiny car. “Do you know the council houses behind the post office?” 
“By that one pub? With the—” 
“The Swan, yes that’s the one,” you interrupted. “My aunt lives right there.”
Oscar nodded, pulling away from the curb and heading in the direction you’d indicated. You kept your gaze fixated out the window as the car began to move. The streets passed by in a blur, the rain-slicked asphalt reflecting the dim glow of the town’s yellow lights.
“Aunt?” he asked after a beat of silence. “Parents not around?” 
You didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, Oscar thought he’d overstepped, thought you were going to turn to a rudeness that he couldn’t joke his way out of.  
Then, quietly, you muttered, “I think I am the one who’s not around.” 
He heard you clearly, but he didn’t press further. He didn’t try to fill the space with meaningless chatter, and for that, you were both grateful. For a moment, it was peaceful, almost as if you were just two people out for a casual drive instead of a pair of strangers bound by a not-so-positive common denominator. 
As the car approached the run-down council houses, you unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t immediately move to get out. Instead, you turned to him, studying his profile in the low light, something unreadable in your expression. 
“Thanks,” you said after a moment. 
“For the ride?” he asked. 
“For not being a complete dick,” you replied as you pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold. You didn’t look back, but you knew that he was smiling behind you. 
_______________________________
The following week, you were late. Not late enough for it to actually be a problem, but late enough that Oscar felt the awkward tension of deciding whether to wait for you outside like he usually did or go inside. He definitely could have waited, but he was particular about time, so he went in. 
Oscar glanced around the room, sitting somewhere in the middle now that you hadn’t decided seats for the two of you. He noticed the faces that had become a strange sort of fixture in his life over the past months. 
The season had started and it was going fairly well. He had thoughts of disaster almost every weekend, but he didn’t hear Charles’ screaming as often. It was usually worst during qualifying, when the short amount of time made the anxiety build up quicker. But he was stable. Even his therapist had said that. He wasn’t a danger in any way, but he still just wished to get an answer as to why this crash had affected him in the way that it did. 
Your heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts, your Doc Martens making a thumping sound against the old hardwood flooring. You looked like a drenched, unhappy cat, caught in one of the town’s relentless downpours. For a moment, Oscar smiled; he hadn’t thought he’d ever see you sit anywhere but the back row, yet here you were, sliding into the empty seat next to him with a huff.
You took off your wet leather jacket and threw your bag on the floor, almost curling into your seat on the uncomfortable chair, a paper cup of hot water warming your hands. There was a station outside of the room with tea and coffee and you would grab a cup of tea for yourself before every meeting. Oscar had learnt that by now—also knowing that you brought your own tea bags since they only offered black tea and you drank rooibos. Oscar had lived in England for a long time, but the science behind drinking tea was still something that confused him.
You rubbed your face dry with the sleeves of your oversized sweater, not caring that your mascara smudged around your eyes. Oscar thought about offering his own hoodie, or at least a tissue, but you didn’t seem the type to want help with something so small. Instead, he kept quiet, simply watching as you tried to shake off the rain.
A beat of silence passed between you both. Then, you spoke first.
“You never come to the Sunday meetings.”
You tried to sound casual, but the question was deliberate; it was thought through. He glanced at you, surprised. It wasn’t often that you were the one to initiate a conversation, and when you did, they were short and edged with sarcasm.
“Didn’t even know they had meetings during the weekend,” Oscar replied with a shrug. “I work most Sundays.”
“So do I, but I manage to show up here anyway.”
He noticed the way your eyes held his gaze, challenging but curious. You weren’t shy to look him straight in the eye, unlike himself. The light from the nearby windows cast a muted glow over you, softening the lines of your face, your smudged makeup giving you a look of tiredness that felt familiar to him.
It was like you were waiting, expecting him to talk again, and he felt that familiar twist of unease, a reminder that vulnerability wasn’t something he navigated easily. A hint of a smile crossed Oscar’s face as he looked away, not sure how much to say.
Today’s meeting wasn’t much different from all the others. There was the mother who dealt with guilt after losing her daughter in a car crash. There was Anthony, a local restaurant owner, who was there as part of his probation plan after an assault charge. There was Jenny, a girl in her thirties who was mandated by her therapist to be there as exposure for her agoraphobia. It was definitely ironic that the girl with a social anxiety disorder did more talking than you and Oscar combined.
During a brief five-minute break, Oscar looked over at you again, seemingly lost in your thoughts.
“You think you’ll ever get up there?” he asked, nodding toward the lectern.
Oscar knew he had asked similar questions before, but this one was more to ask if you thought this group counselling thing would ever lead to you opening up—if you saw an end to these countless meetings by actually letting them help you, letting them make you feel better.
“No,” you answered flatly. “Opening up to strangers is weird.”
He smiled at that. “I think this is supposed to have the opposite effect,” he said, crossing his arms. “That it’s easier with strangers because we won’t feel judged in the same way.”
You looked up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Keep talking Oscar, and we won’t be strangers by the end of this.”
He laughed, shaking his head. There was a subtle humour to your banter, like you both enjoyed pushing boundaries without really crossing them. Oscar settled on the idea that he didn’t want you two to be strangers after all.
As the meeting came to a close, people began to shuffle out, some lingering to chat with one another, others heading straight for the door. You, as usual, made your way outside without a word. Oscar followed, as he always did, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that it didn’t feel like a coincidence.
He never knew why he lingered. He wasn’t even sure if you wanted him to. But the silence you shared after group therapy felt easier than the forced vulnerability inside.
Outside, the air was crisp, the rain from earlier having tapered off, leaving the ground damp and slick, the sun breaking through the clouds. You leant against the stone wall of the church, lighting another cigarette with the same white lighter he’d seen you use before.
Oscar frowned slightly, feeling a strange sense of unease creep into his chest as he watched you. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared, but before he could stop himself, he spoke up. “Can you stop buying white lighters, please?”
You raised your brows, almost mocking him. “Why? Are you superstitious?”
“No,” Oscar replied, shaking his head. “It just feels like a weird thing to jeopardise.”
“What do you know about the 27 club anyway?” you asked, taking another drag. You were mindful enough to turn your head in the opposite direction as you blew out the smoke.
The 27 Club—a bunch of musicians, mostly rockstars, who had died at the age of 27 due to rough lifestyles. Rumour had it that they all used white lighters for their cigarettes and other smokeable substances. Oscar didn’t know anything about their music or the club they were in. He just knew of the rumour.
“Literally nothing except that they died carrying white lighters,” Oscar admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And that you deserve to live way past the age of 27.”
You blinked, taken aback, and for a moment, the armour you wore around yourself seemed to crack. You stared at him, cigarette halfway to your lips, processing what he’d just said.
“Who knew you could be so sweet?” you teased, trying to be your usual sarcastic self, but there was a warmth in your voice that hadn’t been there before. That tiny hint of warmth made his chest feel strangely tight.
A few moments passed in comfortable silence before you broke it; your voice quieter now. “Why do you keep coming here anyway? You don’t talk much either. So why show up?”
Oscar hesitated, unsure how much to say. He wasn’t a stranger to lying about his job to people, often times just because he couldn’t be arsed to explain or have people ask if he was rich and famous. It wasn’t like that with you, but he still decided to lie—or opt out of telling the entire truth. He wanted you to think he was normal.
“I’m mandated to be here by my workplace,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I caused a car accident with a colleague of mine, and I kind of need to be able to drive to keep my job.”
You frowned in confusion. “But you drove me home? Are you scared of driving?”
“It’s… different,” he admitted. “Driving long distances for work or just around in this little hellhole.”
You studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then, in a surprisingly gentle tone, you asked, “Do you like… get flashbacks of the crash and blame yourself all over again?”
Oscar nodded, exhaling softly. “Yeah, I guess it’s like that. I keep replaying it, even though my colleague was fine. It’s like this… loop in my head, where I keep imagining every possible way it could have gone worse. Murphy’s Law, you know? Like, I can’t help but think of every possible mistake I could make.”
“Murphy’s Law is about engineering, though,” you pointed out. “You can’t just apply that to your everyday life. It’ll turn you into an impossible perfectionist, constantly waiting for everything to fall apart.”
Oscar smiled, appreciating the unexpected insight. It reminded him of how little you knew about him, since, y’know, he hadn’t told you the truth—that engineering actually was involved in his everyday life. And yet, somehow, you still seemed to understand. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and he found himself wondering what other surprises you might be hiding.
You stubbed out your cigarette, bending down and reaching into your bag for a piece of chewing gum. He watched as you unwrapped it, slipping it into your mouth, the familiar scent of artificial strawberry filling the air. It was a ritual he’d seen before, almost like you were trying to erase the smell of smoke as quickly as you’d created it. The action was so practiced, and he found himself charmed by the small, sort of endearing quirk.
“You’re not gonna ask me why I keep on showing up here?” you asked, looking wondering up at Oscar, mumbling slightly as you chewed to get the gum soft.
He glanced at you with a faint smile. “You’ll tell me when you feel comfortable enough. I know that.”
A soft, almost approving nod was your only response.
“There’s my ride,” you murmured as a car drove into the parking lot—the same car he’d seen many times before, the same old woman driving. He could now assume it was your aunt. “I guess I’ll see you next week, then.”
Oscar stumbled on his words as he tried to say goodbye to you, caught off guard by how you almost skipped down the church stairs, looking happier than ever. It was a weird juxtaposition, because you obviously weren’t—happier than ever, that is. You actually dared to look back at him, smiling as you walked over the parking lot. The mascara still sat heavy under your eyes as light shone down on you from the clouds breaking above, and in that moment, you looked like the saddest thing under the sun.
After the car had driven away, Oscar stood still with his thoughts outside the church for a second. He had to look into the weekend meetings. Even if he could never attend them himself, he needed to know why they were important enough for you to mention them to him.
With a last glance toward the parking lot, he went back inside, his eyes drifting toward the bulletin board in the hallway. Various flyers covered its surface. The community really tried its hardest, offering support groups for just about anything—newly becoming parents, cancer survival, dealing with grief and death.
Oscar looked at the schedules, most of them being on weekdays. However, anonymous groups for recovering alcoholics and narcotics were on Saturdays, respectively, Sundays.
It didn’t take long for Oscar to understand.
He also understood why you had asked him. You wanted to know if you had another thing in common other than the group meetings. You hadn’t known he was there because of a car crash, so in your mind he might as well have been there for other issues, like drugs or alcohol.
Oscar didn’t know your full story. He didn’t know why you were here, why you kept showing up week after week, or what had led you to seek out meetings. But he did know one thing: you weren’t as unreachable as you pretended to be, and he was willing to wait until you felt ready to show him the parts of yourself you’d kept hidden.
_______________________________
The soft clink of glasses and low murmur of voices filled the pub as you wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your hands moving out of habit, eyes scanning the sparse crowd. Picking up an afternoon shift instead of the night shift wasn’t something you normally did, just for that reason. It was the same amount of hours, but it felt a lot longer since the customers were fewer. Thankfully, the evening crowd was starting to build up. 
A woman sat at the counter, maybe ten years older than you, her fingers tracing the rim of an empty glass, her gaze flitting between the door and her phone. She had a nervous look and was dressed too nicely for the pub. You knew the type—the first daters—planning nights to the last detail, hoping for it to go well but preparing for disaster.
“Waiting for someone?” you asked, offering to take her glass. 
“Yeah, a first date. I needed some liquid courage in advance,” she replied with a tight smile. 
“Well, you look gorgeous,” you assured, showing her a genuine smile. “If they turn out to be a wanker, just come up and order an angel shot and I’ll help you out of here.”
Her smile widened, a bit more relaxed now, as she thanked you. 
You made a point to watch over her as your shift went on. Her date arrived shortly after. You let yourself relax; at least he wasn’t a no-show, and he didn’t look like the type to catfish someone. In fact, he looked almost as nervous as she did, and you found yourself rooting for them.
Working in a gritty pub had never been your dream, but it was what your CV got you at this point in life. You had tried living in London, making ends meet by working at a cocktail bar, but you had crash-landed back in your hometown, like big time crashing.
Thankfully, the owner of The Swan hadn’t looked too closely into your past, or he at least didn’t care. You knew how to pour a pint, you knew how to clean up, and you knew how to deal with rowdy drunk people. That made you a top employee. 
You moved on autopilot around the familiar bar with its familiar patrons. Some old, who frequented the bar even on weekdays, and some young, who you mostly saw on weekends. 
You had learnt to listen to some and to eavesdrop on others. Like, you knew all about Denny’s divorce and custody battle because he sat by the bar and went on and on about it as he downed London Prides. But you had to eavesdrop to know that the group of girls who came in after work on Fridays had finally staged an intervention for their friend who put up with too much shit from her boyfriend. 
Little things like that made bartending enjoyable. 
Other things—like loud groups of lads your own age—almost always made it less enjoyable. That was why you felt a tiredness fall over you like an anvil in a slapstick comedy when you, even with your back turned to the door, could hear them enter. You let out a resigned sigh, knowing that the evening was about to take a livelier turn, and maybe not for the better. 
However, they weren’t the usual group that gave you and your colleagues trouble. This were customers you’d never seen before. Strange for being such a small town with only The Swan and two other pubs. Sure, the boys were loud as they came to the bar to order from your colleague, but they were patient and not overly rude. 
You froze in surprise. 
You felt your grip slip from the glass you were holding, almost dropping it. While his friends filed up to the bar with an eagerness for drinks, Oscar lingered, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you. The shocked look on his face was almost priceless. He looked as startled as you felt, his eyes widening briefly as they locked onto yours.
He seemed out of place in the gritty atmosphere of the pub—too put-together, too polished. You knew he wasn’t British from his strong accent, and you knew he wasn’t the most outgoing type from his well… personality. He didn’t belong in here, but for some reason his friends had waltzed right in to The Swan, never having done so before. 
You were scared to think about why, but deep down you knew. 
Before your colleague could ask him for his order, you stepped forward. You wiped your hands on a towel and raised an eyebrow. “You lost?” you teased lightly, leaning against the bar.
Oscar’s friends were still gathering their drinks, a couple of them glancing your way with open curiosity. Your colleague doing the same, knowing full well that you would have to explain this to them afterwards. 
Oscar smiled back, a bit shyly. “No, just… here with some friends.” He gestured vaguely behind him, looking mildly uncomfortable.
“So,” you said, folding your arms. “What can I get you?”
Oscar chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not drinking tonight. Just…moral support, I guess.”
“You know where to find me if you change your mind.” 
For a moment, you both stood there, the noise around you fading into the background.
His friends soon called after him to join them at their table and you had a job to do. As you moved around the bar, greeting regulars, wiping down counters, and handing out drinks, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Oscar was still there, his presence lingering even when he was out of view.
Each time you glanced over at their table, you caught him glancing back. The first few times he seemed nervous to be caught, but when he realised how often you looked at him, he really had nothing to be ashamed of if he stared back at you. 
After a while, the place grew livelier, and you lost sight of him in the ebb and flow of customers, the noise picking up as more people filled the seats. The usual rowdiness of a Saturday night began to take hold. 
Eventually, you saw his friends begin to gather their things, settling their tabs, pulling on jackets, and nudging each other as they headed out. You felt yourself get stuck in your steps behind the bar as you watched Oscar stand up from his seat. He exchanged a few words with his friends as they left, but he stayed, earning what you assumed were amused laughs and some crude comments. 
Oscar waited a moment, watching them go, before he turned his gaze toward the bar. You tried to make yourself seem busy, cleaning a counter that wasn’t even dirty. You felt a flicker of nerves as he approached, unsure if you should be the first to talk. He sat down on an empty bar stool next to Denny. He didn’t have to dare to look at you because you already had all of his attention. 
“I don’t think I’ve seen you this long without a cigarette before, y’know,” he said, breaking the silence.  
You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I only smoke when I’m stressed, which is less often than you’d think.”
Oscar’s smile lingered, a warm glint in his eyes that hinted that he understood that the only time he saw you was at the group meetings and that they were the thing that caused you stress to the point where you felt the need to smoke. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a nicotine addict. However, of all things, nicotine wouldn’t be the worst thing to admit that you were addicted to. 
Your conversation was briefly interrupted by your other patrons, like Denny, who flagged you down for another pint. You poured his drink wordlessly, and Oscar waited, his presence somehow calming amidst the usual chaos of the bar.
The couple you’d served earlier—the first-daters—approached to settle their tab.
“That looked successful,” you remarked with a friendly smile, referring to their date.  
“Yeah, honestly green flags all around,” she replied, throwing her date a soft smile as he took out his wallet. “Thanks for the angel shot advice, though.”
You smiled. “Glad you didn’t need to use it.”
The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling as she looked from you to Oscar, as if piecing something together. She tilted her head toward you. “Do… you need an angel shot yourself?” 
“For this bloke?” you asked in surprise, pointing at Oscar. “Nah, I can handle him myself.” 
The woman nodded, smiling in amusement as she gave Oscar another once-over before heading out with her date, holding hands. Oscar, who had been listening to the entire exchange with a bemused expression, raised an eyebrow.
“What’s an angel shot?” he asked.
“It’s a code we use for people on bad dates,” you explained with a shrug. “If they order one, it means they need help, and I step in. It’s a subtle way for someone to signal they’re uncomfortable without making a scene.”
Oscar’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he nodded. “That’s pretty smart.”
“Yeah, it can be useful. When I worked at a cocktail bar in London we had to use it almost every night. This place is a lot calmer.”
You knew it, Oscar knew it too—that rich people drinking Negronis at a rooftop bar in London were more troublesome once they got drunk than what people like Denny did once they were in on their seventh pint of the evening in a small town pub. 
There was a brief lull in the conversation, the uncomfortable kind where you just waited for someone to break the silence. Oscar’s fingers tapped lightly on the bar, and he seemed lost in thought for a moment before, as if summoning courage, he spoke again, his voice a bit hesitant. 
“So… when are you off?” 
“In…” you stopped to check the clock on the wall behind you. “Three minutes.” 
Oscar shifted, clearly nervous. “Do you want to maybe hang out? Get dinner or something?” 
You blinked, taken off guard. He looked so uncomfortable. It was endearing in a way you hadn’t expected. He was as unsure of himself as anyone else was. 
Oscar, meanwhile, felt as though he was the world’s worst at this. It was no wonder he never had casual things like Lando seemed to have every other weekend, one night stand after one night stand. Not that Oscar necessarily wanted that, but to even feel like he had the possibility to ask someone out would’ve been nice. 
“I mean, if you’re up for it,” he added quickly, tripping over his words. “Like, we don’t have to or anything. I just thought—”
You cut him off with an uncharacteristic giggle, the sound breaking through the tension. “Only if I can use your shower. I smell like cheap beer and fryer oil,” you said, lifting your t-shirt with the pub’s swan logo on it to your nose, grimacing at the smell. 
“Oh,” he breathed, his face lighting up in relief. “Absolutely.” 
You tossed the towel onto the counter, giving him a playful smile as you stepped around the bar to join him. “But I’ll let you know,” you said, lowering your voice, “you shouldn’t hang out with someone like me. I’ll defile you.”
“I’m not as innocent as I act,” he said teasingly, but he wasn’t even sure if he believed his own words, let alone did he fool you. 
_______________________________
Oscar sat like a sociopath on the sofa waiting for you to finish showering. He was not sure his posture had even been this good. You’d made your way to his flat after your shift had ended. He’d offered you his shower and clothes while he said he’d fix the rest. However, every film he could think of watching seemed pathetic. Every type of food he could think of ordering seemed disgusting. He hadn’t exactly thought this through when he asked you to hang out. He hadn’t expected it to be so… casual? Or maybe easy? Like you actually wanted to be here, in his flat, spending the evening with him.
He was probably overthinking this—no, he was overthinking this. But how could he not? He tried so hard to not think of the fact that you were wet and naked just a wall away, but he was pretty sure his brain broke in the process. Every detail was suddenly monumental, as though he was a teenager again.
The faint sound of the shower stopped, and he quickly sat up straighter, mentally scolding himself to look less… tense. He wasn’t sure he was pulling it off. He could hear the bathroom door open, and then you were padding down the hall, and he practically whipped his head around to see you. 
You were wearing one of his favourite shirts, the maroon fabric hanging over your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair was still damp, small droplets darkening the shirt where they fell. The sweatpants you’d borrowed were too long, so you’d tucked them into your socks—baby pink, fuzzy socks with little red hearts on them. The socks were definitely not Oscar’s. He couldn’t believe that was what you were hiding under your Doc Martens. 
Oscar blinked, trying to reconcile the idea that this—this ridiculously adorable version of you—was the same person who’d honestly scared him during your first conversation. 
“Cute socks,” he chuckled, unable to stop himself. 
“Shut up,” you muttered, hiding a smile, before flopping down on the sofa next to him, already more casual than Oscar could ever be. “What are we watching?” 
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was acutely aware of how close you were, your leg brushing against his as you made yourself comfortable. You didn’t hesitate to grab a blanket that was thrown over the back of the sofa, cuddling into it as you wrapped it around yourself. 
“We could watch… uh, anything you want,” Oscar finally managed. 
You rolled your eyes, sinking into the sofa cushions. “If you let me pick, it’s going to be something dumb.”
“I’m okay with dumb.”
Your lips curled into a smile, but you didn’t say anything as you leant forward to grab the remote. Oscar sat there, watching as you navigated through streaming options. You were on the hunt for something specific, he noticed. Right in on Disney+ and quickly you searched for…Brother Bear? 
Oscar’s brow lifted in surprise, but he didn’t question it. In a way, it felt perfectly fitting. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and settled into the cushions, letting himself ease into the film, into the quiet comfort of the moment.
You both ordered pizza that arrived sometime in the middle of the film. You liked pineapple on pizza, but he guessed he could overlook it. Especially if it meant you were here, sitting beside him, taking a bite with a content look on your face. 
You’d grown soft around the edges, for him. This was domestic, bordering on romantic. The girl he had first met—cigarette and white lighter in hand—would’ve never admitted to liking Disney films and to wearing pink fuzzy socks. 
When the pizza was finished and the movie neared its end, you laid down in the corner of his L-shaped sofa, blanket fully surrounding you. Oscar wanted to scoot over, closer to you, maybe put your feet in his lap, but he hesitated, scared to cross boundaries. He chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, hoping that his nerves would miraculously disappear. 
And then you made a sound—a soft, involuntary awe that escaped your lips during the scene where Koda, the little bear cub, was reunited with his deceased mother through some sort of glowing spirits in the sky. Oscar had to admit that even though he’d seen this film as a kid, the plot was now completely lost on him because of you. 
It was cute. Like, painfully cute, and Oscar felt that weird mix of cute aggression, where something is so adorable you just want to squeeze it. Instead, he let himself simply watch you, taking in the way your eyes glistened and your mouth parted slightly, as if you’d forgotten everything around you, wrapped up in this world of animated magic. He mentally cursed himself when you caught him looking. 
“Why are you staring at me?” you muttered. 
“You look like you’re about to cry,” Oscar teased and smiled boyishly.
“Shut up, I do not,” you shot back, rubbing your eyes with your fingers. You were sharp enough to draw blood, and he was somehow always left unscathed.
He couldn’t help but smile wider, watching as you tried to hide your embarrassment. In a brave moment, he moved closer, daring to take a hold of your wrist so that you couldn’t hide from him. Your eyes were shining and a couple of your eyelashes had clumped together from the moisture. 
“It’s okay to cry to movies,” he said, nudging you gently. “Especially one’s about animated animals.” 
“I am not crying. Not even close,” you insisted, laughing, sinking further into the sofa, pulling the blanket up to your chin. 
You moved to the side and somehow, Oscar felt himself fitting naturally into the space behind you. He felt something shift inside him, a strange warmth settling in his chest. This was soft, quiet, almost painfully domestic. Yet it was real. You were here, cuddled up on his sofa, wrapped in his blanket, wearing his clothes, and laughing at something he’d said. 
Neither of you said another word as you moved to lay together like you’d done it a million times before. He found his arm moving to wrap around you, pulling you in closer until your back was touching his chest. You lifted the blanket to cover him partly too. The movie rolled through its final scenes, and Oscar found himself paying even less attention now that you were literally touching him. 
“You’re gonna stay there?” you whispered as the end credits rolled. 
“Yeah, we’re watching the sequel.”
But neither of you moved to get the remote. 
After a still moment, with a deep breath you moved to lay on your back. You glanced up at him, your gaze holding his for a long moment. Oscar didn’t dare look away, even if his confidence told him to do it. At least it was easier to look you in the eye than to take in the rest of you. 
His heart picked up when you adjusted yourself, the blanket slipping from your shoulders and the maroon fabric of his shirt shifted slightly, revealing the outline of your body beneath. Your breasts moved gently, and he couldn’t help but notice the lack of anything underneath the soft cotton. His throat felt tight, and suddenly, every molecule of air around him seemed saturated with the scent of you.
Then, he realised that the scent of you was actually the scent of his laundry detergent and the soap he kept in his shower mixed with something that was uniquely you. And oh, how Oscar hated being a man. Was he really pathetic enough to pop a boner because you smelled good? 
His body reacted before his brain could process it, betraying him in ways that were anything but subtle—warm and spreading, settling quickly. He shifted uncomfortably, moving his legs in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence of just how much you affected him. 
“Oscar…” Your voice was soft, questioning.
He shook his head, looking anywhere but at you as he managed to respond. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said, mortified. His face burned with embarrassment. He couldn’t believe this was happening—couldn’t believe he was that guy right now.
“You don’t have to apologise,” you whispered, and you still weren’t scared to look him in the eye. Oscar for once wished you were. 
“Yes, I do. It kind of ruins the mood,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. 
Your expression softened and then you shifted to give him a bit of space. In the process, you nearly tipped off the edge of the sofa, and instinctively, Oscar reached out, his hand steadying you by your arm. The warmth of your skin under his touch sent a spark up through his palm, grounding him, but he couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt if he’d made you uncomfortable.
“Ugh… it’s just…you just smell good, and you’re wearing my shirt, and your skin is the softest thing ever, and I can’t think straight—” he stopped himself abruptly. 
A laugh escaped your lips, soft but warm, and Oscar froze, unsure if he’d actually said all that aloud or if his brain had finally imploded.
“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head as you watched Oscar suddenly move away from you, sitting up in an awkward half-way position with the limited space he had behind you. It probably looked like he was about to bolt out of the flat out of sheer embarrassment. 
“What am I doing?” He frowned. “I just—I don’t want you… I mean, you shouldn’t have to, y’know, feel it.”
At that, your smile deepened, and you moved your legs, spreading them just enough to make space for him to settle between them, throwing the blanket off the sofa. 
“Oscar, can you… just calm down for a second?” you said gently, meeting his gaze with a reassuring look. “I’m not appalled by it, y’know? But you’re acting like I should be.”
His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he looked at you, processing your words. You didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. It was in this moment that Oscar also realised the position you were in, with him between your legs, fighting with his arm propped up to not fall flatly over your body. You weren’t scared to brush his sides by shutting your thighs just the slightest. 
“You’re okay with this?” he felt the need to ask. 
“I am.” 
Oscar let his eyes linger for the first time, deciding for once to let the awkwardness melt away. And just like always, your eyes were on him, almost shamelessly scanning his broad shoulders and the way the fabric of his grey sweatpants stretched.
The shirt you’d borrowed had ridden up slightly, revealing your soft stomach and the hem of your underwear—a black cotton thong, the thin material peeking out. What was the frontal version of a whale-tail called? When the elastics sank into the soft parts of your hips and showed on either side above the waistband of your sweatpants. 
Yeah, Oscar’s brain was definitely broken. 
His mind spun, grasping for words, but all he managed was a shaky breath as he leaned in, like he couldn’t believe that he was seeing it, that he was this close. The air brushed against your skin. His mouth was as dry as a desert. You inhaled so sharply that he could hear it and see your stomach rising. He was eye level with your belly button and he decided upon… kissing it. Or right next to it, on the softest part of your stomach, the world narrowing down to just that patch of skin. 
He looked up for reassurance, and you just smiled. A perfectly content smile where light sparkled in your eyes. Oscar’s hands found your waist as he kissed you again, his lips trailing gently across your stomach. Your skin was impossibly soft, practically melting into his hands. 
Oscar’s next step was unplanned—like this entire thing—and maybe a bit silly, but when he was down there, kissing your stomach, he couldn’t help but want to venture higher up. So, like any other unreasonable person with hormones clouding their judgement, he stuck his head under your shirt, starting by kissing your ribs. 
You let out something between a gasp and a giggle as your breathing picked up the higher up Oscar’s mouth wandered. Where your ribs connected in the middle of your chest, right where the skin was the thinnest, was where he started to gently suck and he earned his first moan. You could feel him start to smile as it escaped you. 
When you looked down at him, all you could see was how his head stretched the fabric, and it was simply just humorous. 
“I could just take my shirt off, y’know?” you teased, though you were out of breath.  
��No,” he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin, an audible mwah leaving his mouth as he moved higher, planting a soft kiss in the valley between your breasts. “It’s warm under here.” 
You let out a small laugh, your fingers resting on top of his head, the shirt still acting as a barrier as you felt his hair through it. “Wouldn’t have taken you for such a boob guy.” 
Oscar closed his eyes as he felt your quiet laugher vibrate through your chest against his lips. Your breasts were practically lodged against his cheeks and he was definitely flushed red all over so it was actually convenient for him to be hidden under your shirt. 
“Shut up,” was all he could manage to mutter. 
He couldn’t hide anymore when he felt you pull the shirt up by the hem, first over his head and then swiftly over your own, it landing somewhere on the floor. Oscar was left laying there, chin resting against your sternum, feeling totally exposed as your eyes met his again. He didn’t dare to take in the sight of you shirtless, even though he was literally on top of your breasts. 
And while he probably looked like a flustered mess, you looked totally unfazed. 
“You motorboated me,” you exclaimed, laughter in your voice, “and you haven’t even kissed me on the mouth! Feels a bit backwards, don’t you think?” 
Oscar chuckled, not having the time to think that he should be ashamed because of what you just insinuated. His hand moved to gently cup your cheek as he lifted himself to look at you.
“What I’m hearing is that you want to kiss me.”  
He hated to sound cocky. He promised he really did. But with your jaw slacked and disbelief plastered on your face, he felt like he had said the right thing. You weren’t pushing him away, weren’t closing off the moment like he half-expected.
Instead, you were pulling him in.
If he thought your chest had been soft, your lips were like fucking velvet. It was like he was scared to touch you with how delicate you felt; with how softly you met his own lips. The initial connection was quick before he pulled away an inch or two to gather your reaction. With pure lust in your eyes, you were back to kissing him again before he had the chance to overthink what had just happened. 
The kiss deepened slowly, a tender exploration of new territory, a silent acknowledgement that this—whatever this was—wasn’t just a one-off moment.
Oscar’s heart hammered in his chest as he shifted, his body now hovering over yours. His lips brushed against yours in a series of soft kisses. Then, before he knew it, your tongue was fighting his own. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in closer, and he let himself be totally absorbed by you. 
And oh my god, you were shirtless beneath him. He struggled with where to place his hands, feeling strange holding your face for too long but scared to grip your bare waist with his wandering hands. But when he felt you push up towards him—your nipples rubbing his shirt, the soft flesh of your breast squished against his chest—Oscar felt like he could indulge fully. 
With his forehead pressed against yours, Oscar pulled away and asked, “Do you want this to go further?” 
You nodded first, swallowing your breath, before verbally saying a low and desperate yes too. 
He wasn’t sure if he answered anything coherent or just let out a loud huff when he leant back down to kiss you. As his hands travelled up your body, you could feel goosebumps form under his fingertips. He stoked the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted, before fully cupping them in his palms. 
You tipped your head back between the sofa cushions as his lips moved down your jaw and neck, littering you with open-mouthed kisses. He towered over you, his lower body fitting perfectly with how your legs spread for him. 
Oscar smiled as he grazed his teeth against your nipple, hearing you gasp at how he purposely teased you. And while he hadn’t thought about it like that before, you were definitely right with calling him a boob guy. Because fuck, could he spend his time adoring and fondling your soft tits, malleable in his hands and stimulating on his tongue. The way they perked up and became more sensitive with his touch was about to make him delirious. 
And the sounds you were making—the gentle breathy groans—were better than any sound he’d ever heard before, practically deafening to his ears by how much he was concentrating on it. God, was he glad to have not turned on the sequel because having sex to Phil Collins wasn’t really on any bucket list. Especially not with how overwhelming he found your noises.  
He released your nipple with a smacking sound, gazing at the attacked skin of your chest and neck. It would leave bruises, which made him feel even more like a horny teenager. 
“Can you take your shirt off?” Your voice felt airy and small. 
While your hands had already crept under to rake down his back as you were kissing, Oscar hadn’t exactly thought about the imbalance. He’d do just about anything to make you comfortable, meaning that his t-shirt soon joined yours on the floor. 
He was an athlete, yet he hadn’t personally ever thought he looked like one. He’d never been one of those guys to confidently parade around without a shirt on in summer or post pictures of himself flexing in the gym. He just couldn’t do it.
But your eyes on him, the way you nestled your lower lip between your teeth, and how your hands immediately reached out to touch him… yeah, that was maybe the closest thing he’d felt to confidence in a long time.
“Do you feel okay?”
He wasn’t sure how his own voice would sound when he spoke again—dry and muffled, distracted by a million different things. 
“Mhm,” you sighed out. “You wanna take off the rest of my clothes or should I do it myself?” 
Oscar gulped at your forwardness, but he guessed he already knew that you wanted to take this further. So did he, like insanely. With fumbling fingers, he untied the drawstring on your sweatpants and worked them down your hips, until you laid there in front of him in just your thong and fuzzy socks. 
He had sat up to take off his shirt, but he now nestled down between your legs again. There was no way in hell that he would last long inside of you, so he would need to please you beforehand. A gentleman, after all. 
Oscar felt like he was about to die at the thought of going down on you, his blushing cheeks almost hurting from how warm they were. His hair was messy, his lips were kissed raw, and his pupils had dilated until all you could see in his eyes was darkness. 
“Y’know you don’t have to—” you tried to tell him. 
“What if I really want to?” he questioned, almost rhetorically. You didn’t fight him on it. 
He kissed down your stomach until he came to the hem of your panties, absentmindedly rubbing soft circles on your hips and then down your thighs. There, his thoughts were simply reduced to the need to have you, in whatever way you allowed him. 
You were impatient, while Oscar took his time to enjoy you. He tortuously dragged his lips across your thighs; the faint pattern of your skin looked like thin, pale lines spreading like lightning strikes. Once he dared to touch you over the fabric and feel the wetness that had soaked through, he could hear your breath hitch. 
Slowly, he hooked his fingers in the sides of your thong and dragged them down your legs, leaving them discarded on the floor with the other clothes. Fully naked, except the socks, but those were staying on, Oscar decided. 
“Have I told you that you’re gorgeous yet?” 
You were looking down at him with an expression akin to frustration—mouth slightly open and heavy breaths spilling out, almost scoffing at his cliché words. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as his own breaths hit your skin, blowing against your exposed heat. He pecked the stretched skin on your inner thigh to soothe you, stopping your writhing.
At a loss for what to do with your hands, they found their way down to his hair, weaving through his soft curls, tugging gently to get his attention. 
“Osc…” you said with a simple breath. 
That was really all Oscar needed—to hear you want him. That stupid little nickname was also something special. He hummed against you, feeling your reassurance as he kissed gently over your clit. And before you were able to complain for more, he latched his lips around it, suckling in a way that made your vision momentarily blank. His movements were tentative at first, unexperienced and lacking confidence. 
“Oh, you’re so good,” you exhaled, praising him. 
And there was something about the way you say it that just drove Oscar mad. It wasn’t that it felt good—it was that he was good. He got off on your reaction. It was as simple as that. It made him determined, building something with precise dramatics. 
You felt his left hand grasp at the skin of your thigh, slowly inching upwards before he carefully sank a finger into you. Your hips twitched and you moan out loud as he played with you. He worked you open before adding another finger, his mouth never leaving your clit in the process. Even when your thighs fought to stay open, caging him between them, he didn’t falter. And every once in a while, when his eyes looked up to meet yours, you only felt yourself falling apart quicker. 
His voice was low, the tone soft, when he mumbled something against your swollen cunt; something about how you tasted good. His free hand gently pressed down on your stomach to make you focus on the sensation—to feel his fingers ripping you apart from the inside out. 
“God, fuckfuckfuck—” You were barely making sense of your own words as you bucked up against his mouth, completely buried over you, nose bumping your clit with his repeated motions. 
Automatically, your hands grasped your breasts, fingers toying with your already sensitive nipples. Moving from your stomach, Oscar’s right hand was placed on your tits too, clasping his fingers over your own as he squeezed. 
When you inevitably fell apart, he didn’t stop—not until you were a complete mess beneath him. Arching, white-hot, and expanding with intensity before his very eyes as he continued to softly lick. The way he was making out with your soaked core and babying your clit with the tip of his tongue would make one believe that this was a man who had never been shy or embarrassed over a single thing in his life. 
And he wasn’t going to stop until you begged him.
With a pleasured and defeated “Oscar, please…” you were letting him know that he had done his job—that he had won you over in more ways than was necessary, that you were spent by him. 
“I know,” he cooed, kissing your stomach. “I know.” 
He moved to lay beside you, gently sliding his fingers out of you before tap, tap, tapping at your puffy clit, keeping his eyes steady at how you reacted. A slight hiss left your mouth before a hoarse laugher slipped out too. Your legs were still trembling from how intense your orgasm had been. 
“You’re a mess,” you chuckled, raising a hand to brush his hair back then wiping his mouth with the back of your hand to clean him. “And a menace.” 
“Well, so are you,” he smiled, kissing you on the mouth, neither of you caring about said mess. 
You took a moment to breathe, and Oscar took a moment to think. While he couldn’t think straight, he could still come to the conclusion that this was such a good feeling—an overwhelmingly good feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe never before. 
By now, his cock was painfully hard beneath his sweatpants, definitely having leaked pre-cum through his boxers. If it had been bad before, it was so many times worse now with you heaving next to him, naked and looking at him through your eyelashes. He was practically seeing stars, and you hadn’t even touched him where he ached the most.
It was almost unjustifiable the way he was feeling—someone should just tape a sign to his forehead that said practically a raging virgin and call it a day. He wasn’t one, just to clarify, but you made him feel like one.  
Your hand trailed gently down his chest, your nails painted black like always. Oscar wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. He wished he could react normally to your touch, but instead it was like his skin raised like a mountain range wherever your hand wandered, his eyes following your movements with a pitiful desperation. 
And when your hand moved below the waistband of his sweatpants, resting gently over his boxers, and therefore his erection too, he wasn’t sure what exactly would happen to his body—something new, a biological error, or a supernatural phenomenon. 
You were so close to him, pulling his trousers down in such a fashion that your legs almost clashed together while it happened. Then he was naked, and you turned quiet. 
Abashedly, he tried to think about what he looked like from your perspective. He wondered if he was too thick or too thin, if he should’ve groomed better, or if his upper body was disproportionate to his legs, or if he smelled bad, if he was just plain weird, or—
“Holy shit,” you whispered. 
“W-what?” Oscar stuttered. 
While Oscar was busy analysing himself, you were gawking. Maybe people on TikTok would call it a ’sleeper-build’, but there was nothing subtle about it. His pale skin looked pretty in a flushed pink tone, easily scratching under your sharp nails. Broad shoulders, toned stomach, thick thighs. Your eyes couldn’t help but look lower and lower. The pure size of him sank in a second later. 
“You’re… big,” you said like a matter of fact. “It’s been a while, so you’ll have to go slow.” 
“W-what?” Oscar stuttered, again. 
His eyes widened to the point where it strained them. Of all the things you could’ve said, that was probably the one he expected the least. He tried to read your face, waiting for more of an explanation. 
With your brows furrowed, all you asked were, “You’re surprised that I haven’t had sex in a while?” 
“No!” he hurried to say, not thinking about other implications his reaction could’ve had. He’d curse himself for eternity if you thought he meant to slut-shame you. “I’m surprised about the other… thing. No one’s ever said that before,” he gesticulated with his hand, unsure what to call the thing that had just happened. 
You glanced up at his face to see that he was now sporting a smirk, letting you know that your words had gone completely to his ego. Motherfucker, was he pretty. 
“I’m not sure I believe that,” you mumbled, kissing him again. Laying side to side next to each other on the sofa, both of your hands had grown eager to touch. It was waists and chests, up bare backs to tangle fingers in hair.  
“I promise you that it’s the first time I hear that,” he mumbled back. 
Your hand sneaked down between your bodies, and any cockiness that Oscar gained from his newfound ’big dick energy’ was washed away in seconds. A whimper. A fucking whimper was ripped from his throat as soon as your fingers were wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop himself. Your movements were slow and languid, spreading the beads of pre-cum around his tip with your thumb. Oscar closed his eyes as he tried to not fall apart instantly. 
“How’s your pull-out game?” you asked between placing kisses on his neck and jaw. He had beautiful freckles and birthmarks all over his skin. 
And, fuck, how Oscar couldn’t think when dirty words left your mouth. 
“I—, Uhh… Not good?” 
He let out a moan mid-sentence. He felt both pathetic and tortured as your delicate fingers kept stroking him up and down. 
“I’m on birth control anyway.” 
“I could go and get a condom,” he fought himself to say. 
“Do you have one?” you questioned, and Oscar’s lack of an answer told you what you already knew. “I thought so.”  
And while Oscar knew that he came across loser-like, he didn’t also need it to be so transparent to you. Even though he sort of liked the dynamic built between you. He had always liked that you were quick-witted and a little mean. 
Oscar exhaled, concealing another moan with a breathy chuckle. “You need to stop making fun of me when I’m naked. It’s going to affect my self-esteem.” 
“Can’t help it, you’re an easy target.” You quickly pecked his lips, a little laugher slipping out. “You’re also a very pretty target.” 
He wasn’t used to being called pretty. His mum called him handsome. His instagram comments called him a polite cat. Pretty was entirely new territory. But he liked it, and impossibly, he blushed even harder. 
“Are we really doing this?” 
He just had to be sure, still in a bit of disbelief. 
“Please,” you said. “Fuck me.” 
Oscar propped himself on his elbow, placing it beside your head, caging you beneath him. He took himself in his hand, giving his cock a few slow stokes. He looked tortured, the tip pink and engorged as it curved up towards his stomach, a thatch of hair connecting to his faint happy trail. 
The head of his cock sat heavy against your entrance as he aligned himself, and you felt yourself desperately clenching around nothing. His free hand rubbed circles on your hip comfortingly. He was hesitant, and maybe that was your fault for asking him to take it slow, but the last thing he wanted was to cause you pain. With an eager nod, you gave him the green light. 
“God, you’re tight,” Oscar murmured, his voice breathless as he pushed forward. 
“No,” you gasped, gripping his bicep for something to hold onto. “You are massive.” 
A low, strained laugh escaped him. “You really wanna argue right now?” 
No, you didn’t. Not when you felt him slide inside you completely. 
“I’m okay,” you whispered, breathing heavily, unable to help the way you tightened around him. “F-fuck, you can move,” you told him, voice muffled against his neck. 
Oscar inhaled sharply, softening to the touch by your reassurance, as he pulled his hips from yours before slowly moving back, tentatively creating a steady rhythm, stretching your around him. 
It was intoxicating, and warm. While he knew that he liked you, he had never imagined it to feel like free falling. You still smelled like a mixture of him and yourself, and your soft skin was touching him in ways and places he couldn’t describe. It was gratifying that you were just as desperate as he was.  
He lifted your leg up by gripping under your knee, thrusting at a deeper angle. The sounds of your bodies crashing together filled the room as your moments only got quicker and needier. 
Looking down at you, he saw your eyes struggling to stay open and your jaw dropping loose with the whimpers and moans you were letting out. Your tits bounced in pace every time he came to the hilt inside you. 
“Holy f-fuck, you feel good,” he stuttered right in your ear. “You feel like you were fucking made for me.” 
He was being lewd and you giggled. God, you giggled—like Oscar didn’t have enough of a hard time keeping it together. You were teasing him, but it was gentle and honeyed, like a beautiful song to his ears. 
He forcefully dug his fingers into the soft fat of your thigh, spilling out between his fingers, doing just about anything to ground himself, but it was impossible. Admittedly, Oscar had never felt this good before in his life. 
His living room was ablaze with your movements—an incoherent mess between two bodies, all skin and bone, at each other’s disposal to use. 
“Fuck…” Oscar moaned, grinding his cock into you. “I’m already so fucking close.” 
“Me too,” you whined out, voice strangled. “Let it all go.” 
Oscar buried his face in your neck to try and hide his desperation, moaning and biting down into the soft skin. He was moving frantically, feeling it all approaching rapidly. 
With a soft cry, Oscar was cumming, stuttering and needy, groaning everything from your name to all the curse words he could think of. He twitched inside of you, coating your walls with his cum. You moved one of your hands to his cheek and you held his face, staring intensely into his eyes, as he rode out his high. 
Damn you and your damn eye contact. 
He continued to slowly thrust, doing whatever he could to get you off while being totally spent. The hand on your hip drifted to your pubic bone before delving between your folds, his pointer and ring finger running steady halos over your clit. Thankfully, you weren’t long after. He wasn’t sure he could take the embarrassment of not making you cum when it had been so easy for him. You arched your back as it hit you, throwing your head back in blind pleasure. 
And then it all slowed. The moans disappeared, and all that was left were heavy breaths in an eerily quiet living room. He felt warm air hit his neck as he laid down and you cuddled up against him. Mindlessly, you ran your fingertips along his skin, soothing the marks your nails had left. He’d gone soft inside you, his release mixed with your own leaking out the sides. 
“I’m gonna slide out, okay?” 
“Mhm, slowly,” you whimpered as he did it, going from feeling full to achingly empty. A single tear ran down your cheek out of exhaustion and pleasure, and Oscar stopped to kiss it away, tasting the saline on his lips. 
“Talk to me,” he whispered. 
You let out a deep breath, your body feeling heavy but sated. “I’m good,” you murmured, your cheek pressed against his chest. “Can feel you dripping down my thighs though.” 
“We should probably clean up.” 
He didn’t move, and neither did you. You were perfectly content with the mess if it meant that you would stay cradled in his arms. He wrapped his arms tighter around you, legs intertwining. His pec was soft against you, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment.
“I was going to let you wait annoyingly long before sleeping with you. I can’t believe I caved in so easily,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but teasing. The words hung in the air for a moment, light and playful, but you could feel the way his chest rumbled as he chuckled.
Oscar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Oh, really?”
You nodded, hiding your face in his chest. “Yeah. Like, painfully long. Months, at least.”
“What changed?” 
You hesitated for a moment, your face still pressed against him. But then you tilted your head slightly, sneaking a glance up at him through heavy lashes. “Can’t help the fact that I’m insanely attracted to you,” you admitted shyly. 
Oscar took in your smile before embarrassment made you hide it into his chest again. You were so… soft, like he couldn’t actually believe it.  
“Glad we’re on the same page,” he exhaled, sinking down further into the sofa cushions. He ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to contain the pleased grin that spread across his face.
You kissed his chest gently, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into a sense of peace. For a while, neither of you spoke, the comfortable silence stretching between you. You were glad this hadn’t turned awkward. 
Then, his voice broke the quiet, low and soft. “Are you staying the night?”
You didn’t look up at him, sort of scared to say a right-out yes to his question. 
“If you want me to.”
His arms tightened around you slightly, and you could feel the smile on his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “I’d love that.”
_______________________________
Oscar wasn’t sure how long he spent starring at himself in the bathroom mirror afterward. He moved through his routine on autopilot—brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth—only for his movements to slow as his reflection pulled him back in. His messy hair was still tousled. The love bites on his neck, faint but unmistakable, stood out against his pale skin. His fingertips grazed over the scratches on his shoulders, his cheeks warming as he recalled how they got there. He didn’t think he would ever stop blushing tonight. 
When he finally mustered the courage to step back into his bedroom, he found you there: bare feet on the hardwood floor, wearing only his maroon t-shirt. You stood in front of his dresser, looking intensely at something placed on it. 
The trophies.
You had fucked his brains out so good that he had forgotten about the intricate web of omissions and half-truths he had woven around you. And now, his lies were staring back at him, literally and metaphorically. 
This was about to be awful. 
“So, this is where you keep them?” Your voice was calm, deceptively so, as you turned to face him.
Oscar stood frozen in the doorway. He opened his mouth but no words left it, his body rigid as he grappled with the realisation: you already knew.  
He hadn’t wanted to keep these things out in the open. Unlike some drivers whose homes were practically shrines to their achievements, Oscar preferred subtlety. Most of his trophies were tucked away, gathering dust in storage. But these— mostly medals and pictures from his childhood, tokens of his early racing days—remained on his dresser. 
“I’ve known for a while,” you admitted, as if offering him a way out of the confession he hadn’t yet made. “Since I questioned you driving a McLaren to counselling.”
Oscar blinked, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with an awful, grinding clarity. It wasn’t like he had tried to be undercover or specifically careful about concealing his identity. 
“I thought you just worked for McLaren at first,” you continued, gesturing vaguely to the trophies. “But then I googled your name and the brand… My brother used to be a big Hamilton fan, so I made the connection.”
He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension drained out of him. “Why didn’t you say something?” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound defeated, but it did. 
“Figured there was a reason as to why you didn’t tell me,” you shrugged, taking a seat on his bed. “I won’t force you to talk about things you don’t want to. We met in an unconventional way and I fully understand that you don’t want a stranger to know everything about you.” 
“Don’t say that,” Oscar interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. He stepped further into the room, his hands flexing at his sides. “We’re not strangers, we know each other.” 
You tilted your head, your expression softening as you studied him. His sudden reaction surprised even himself, but he couldn’t let the word “strangers” hang in the air between you. Oscar guessed he was more emotionally involved than he had let himself believe, but that he now couldn’t deny it. He sat down beside you, the bed shifting under his weight, and your eyes searched his for something—an explanation, perhaps
“I know you,” he argued. “I know that you only smoke after counselling since it stresses you out and you think that because you smoke Marlboro Silvers, it won’t affect you as badly. know that immediately after, you chew strawberry gum to get rid of the taste, because you don’t actually like it.” 
He started at you intensely as he kept talking, finally not scared of your eye contact. But he could see that you were crumbling. 
“You only drink rooibos tea because it’s naturally sweeter than black tea. You carry white lighters to appear fearless, but in reality it’s because you’re sad and you don’t care if something bad happens to you.” 
“Oh, and you cry to Disney movies,” he lastly added, “because you are in fact not fearless. You’re scared shitless of the emotions you harbour inside and never tell anyone about. So, yeah, I know you. ” 
You blinked, his words hanging in the air between. “That doesn’t sound like you know me,” you said after a long pause. “That sounds like you’ve observed me.”
“We also quite literally just had sex,” he reminded you, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “And I think we’re alike in that sense—that we don’t casually do that with random people.” 
“Fair point,” you conceded, unable to suppress your own smile. 
And there it was again—the strange, undeniable truth between you. There was truth in what you had shared with each other, always. Even if he had skipped the specifics, his feelings had never been false. 
You exhaled loudly, your back hitting the mattress. It was like a balloon had popped, the tension in the taut latex having exploded into nothing. You were so tired. You always were. 
Oscar knew not to push further. Not right now at least. He fell back on the mattress too, hiking further up to rest his head on his pillow. He lifted the covers to invite you underneath, cuddling you closer as your arms and legs were now slightly cold to the touch. 
He also came back to the realisation that you knew him too. That you knew why he went to the group meetings. That you knew what he did all those weekends he spent working. That the car crash he blamed himself for wasn’t exactly average. 
“Did you see the crash?” he asked quietly after a moment, his voice murmuring between the sheets. 
He felt you shake your head. “No, I haven’t seen a race since Hamilton last won the championship.” 
“Right, because of your brother,” Oscar remembered. “Is he no longer a fan?” 
“I don’t know if he is. Haven’t talked to him in over a year.” 
Oscar nodded slowly, taking in the weight of your words. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tracing the edge of the covers. “Do you want me to see the crash?” 
“No,” he answered quickly. “Not really.” 
“My first impression of you racing probably shouldn’t be a crash anyway.” 
The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, grateful smile, and he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. The weight of that topic seemed to drift away, and you found yourself sinking into the comfort of his embrace again, your head resting on his bare chest. He could feel your warmth tucked against his side, your breathing steady like a rhythm. You traced little patterns along his palm and fingers. 
For a moment, it felt easy again. Soporific, even.
He could’ve easily fallen asleep, for once without thinking about nightmares. Oscar also didn’t want this to end, for the night to be over and for him to have to say goodbye to you in the morning. Not that he imagined it to be a dramatic goodbye, you’d see each other soon enough again, but still, he didn’t want to. 
“You should come with me to a race,” he said softly, breaking the peaceful silence, looking at you almost succumbing to slumber. 
“I can’t—” you began and Oscar could immediately sense your hesitation. 
“I’d pay for everything. I just want to have you there,” he added quickly, tilting his head to gaze down at you. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about showing off. He just needed you near him, in whatever way he could. 
Your body tensed up against him. “I can’t leave the country Oscar.” 
The words didn’t make sense at first. He frowned, confused. “I’m sure you can get time off from work,” he said, worrying that was the reason. 
You turned your gaze away, your cheek no longer resting against him, and the absence of your touch sent a quiet ache through him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and the pause that followed felt agonisingly long. The words felt stuck in your throat, your chest tightening. 
“I mean—,” you paused, swallowing hard. “I’m not allowed to leave the country.” 
The room fell silent, save for your faint whisper. 
“I’m on probation.” 
Oscar’s mind went blank. Probation. That was for criminal offences. You’d done something deserving of a court sentence. Silence stretched between you, and Oscar pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you more closely. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak.
“So, I’m sorry for calling us strangers,” you said finally, “but you don’t know the half of what I’ve done.” 
You sat up fully now, a cold weight settling in the bed. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice steady, watching as you untangled yourself from the sheets, kicking the comforter off your legs.
“I’m leaving.” 
“No. You’re not.” 
His voice was firm, almost commanding, as he reached out and grasped your arm before you could move further. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was resolute. He wasn’t going to let you walk away—not like this.
“You’re going to stay and tell me about this. I feel like you owe me that after what we just did.” 
You froze, whole body going rigid, but Oscar didn’t let go. 
“I need to know if I’m falling for a serial killer or not,” he added with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood, “because then I’ll seriously need to reconsider my life choices.”
Your heart ached at his attempt to make you laugh, but the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. The humour didn’t land, not fully, and the weight of what you were about to confess pressed down on you like a heavy stone.
 You bit your lip, your voice trembling as you said, “I c-can’t tell you.” 
“Why?” 
Your body trembled beneath his touch and he loosed his grip, thumb rubbing soft circles on your arm. 
“Because you’re a good person,” you whispered. “You’re going to find me repulsive and never want to see me again.” 
Oscar could see it in your eyes—the battle raging within you, the fear that once the words left your lips, he would be gone. But he wasn’t going anywhere. You cared about seeing him again. That alone gave him something to hold on to.
“Unless you’ve actually murdered someone—I don’t think that’s possible.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing.
“I don’t think you get probation for murder. I promise no one got hurt physically.” 
And even in this state, you still kept that sarcastic edge that he’d grown to adore. 
“Okay,” Oscar said softly. “Then tell me.”
You sighed, your hands trembling as you ran your fingers through your hair. Your eyes squeezed shut, as though blocking out his gaze would somehow make it easier to speak.
“When I was 19 I got into a relationship with a guy who was a lot older than me,” you began, your voice uneven. “He had a very… destructive lifestyle that I became a part of. I let him use me.” 
Oscar’s stomach twisted, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. He could see how much it was costing you to admit this, and the last thing he wanted was to make it harder for you.
You slowly opened your eyes, not to look at him, but to look at the ceiling, blinking to fight tears from running down your cheeks. 
“The reason as to why I haven’t spoken to my brother in such a long time… ” Your voice broke, and you paused, taking a shaky breath. “…is because I committed fraud with his identity. I took out a loan using his name because I was desperate for money.” 
Oscar couldn’t hide his shock, but he didn’t pull away. You were laying it all out, raw and exposed, and he wasn’t going to judge you. He couldn’t. He stayed rooted in place, his hand still on your arm, grounding you.
“When he found out, he turned me in. I confessed to doing it and agreed on accepting help which is the only reason I’m not currently in prison.” 
“And the boyfriend?” Oscar managed to ask.
You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “He took the money and fled the country. Haven’t seen him since. But I paid my brother back. Every penny.”  
Oscar nodded slowly. “What did you need the money for?” 
Your lips trembled as you looked down at your hands. “Don’t make me say it. I feel like you already know.” 
And he did. He’d known since he realised what those Sunday meetings were for. 
“Are you clean now?” 
“14 months,” you quickly said. “Ever since he turned me in. I have a badge on my keys if you—” 
“I’m proud of you,” Oscar said, cutting you off gently.
Your breath hitched as he said it. It had surprised you. “See?” he whispered. “You didn’t scare me away.” Oscar gathered his courage to hold you in his embrace again, laying you gently down on the mattress, letting your body relax on top of his. 
“Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “I’m in an industry where if you haven’t committed tax fraud, you’re probably the odd one out.”
You blinked in surprise, a startled laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. “What?” 
Oscar chuckled, the tension between you easing ever so slightly. “I know drivers who’ve had people go to prison on their behalf because of embezzlement,” he said, clearly exaggerating, but the humour in his voice was infectious. “You’re practically a saint compared to some of them.” 
“Fucking corrupt rich people,” you muttered. 
“Well,” Oscar said, his hand moving down to hold yours, “the point is… you can’t scare me away.”
He heard you exhale loudly. He even felt it against his shirtless skin. Your arms tightened around him, clutching both yours and his chest. It was adding pressure to stop you from panicking. 
And then you started crying. For real this time. It wasn’t you fighting the tears from falling or shyly getting watery eyes from Brother Bear. You were sobbing. He hadn’t thought he would ever see you cry. 
Oscar’s heart broke a little as he watched you finally let go, your body shaking with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. He immediately pulled you closer into his arms, holding you close, his hand gently stroking your hair as you cried against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” Oscar whispered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You clung to him, your tears soaking into his skin, but he didn’t mind. You were essentially a stranger—even though he hated the word—crying in his arms, and he’d do anything in his power to never see you like this again. He had fallen for your softness, not the jagged edges you put up around yourself in protection. He’d accept you unconditionally if it meant you didn’t see him as something you needed to protect yourself from. 
As your sobs quieted and your breathing got steady, you remained tucked against Oscar’s chest, resting over his heartbeat. You could feel his hand tracing soothing circles on your back. He almost thought you had fallen asleep. 
“Thank you,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice hoarse from crying.
Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “For what?” 
“For making me stay.” 
_______________________________
A couple of weeks later, on a Tuesday at St. Anne’s Church, you did something you’d never expected yourself to do. You found yourself standing at the lectern in front of the room of strangers that you had spent the past year of your life with. And Oscar, but he had never really been a stranger. 
It felt stupid at first, when you walked up there and said your name, the people in the room saying it back to you like a choir. Some clichés from movies really were true. 
You started off by giving a brief background as to why you went to meetings. It was supposed to be a guilt-free environment, one where you wouldn’t be judged for anything. But opening up about betraying your own brother and getting probation because of it wasn’t guilt-free no matter how you twisted it. 
“Some of you might recognise me from NA meetings as well, but the drugs were never my main issue. I mean, I was— or am an addict, that’s how they want you to say it in NA at least. There is really no denying that, but the real problem was how it made me treat the people around me.” 
You didn’t like how your voice sounded in the echoing room, but it didn’t stop you from trying. You knew that the people listening had their own issues so present that yours wouldn’t bother them.
“I understand that my brother never wants to speak to me again,” you continued, your gaze falling to your hands, a cuticle bleeding from unconsciously picking at it. “I think I almost feel the same way. But then… I’ll go to Sainsbury’s and buy green apples, even though I hate them, but he loves them, and I used to buy them for him.” 
It was true. You’d have vivid flashbacks about apples every time you saw them. You’d get them from the store as if you were moving on autopilot and hate yourself for it when you got home and unpacked the groceries. Your aunt would always question why you bought them but never ate them, and you couldn’t put that into words. 
“I’ll have a mental breakdown over some stupid apples and realise that… we are connected in a way that can never be erased. That’s my fault, my guilt to carry—that I ruined it, that I get to argue with apples instead of arguing with him,” you said with an almost laugher. 
You fixed your gaze on Oscar, whose eyes had never left yours for as long as you spoke. He held a tight smile, like understanding the humour in how trauma tended to materialise. 
The facilitator asked you a question, like he normally did when he saw people trying to find the right words but struggling to get them into actual sentences. He asked you how time had changed the guilt you felt and if your probation still felt fair to you. 
“It’s just so… fucked up that you can convince yourself that you’re evil and unfixable,” you answered, your voice growing steadier. “But it turns out you’re just young. And you’ll make mistakes because of it. I’m paying for those mistakes, but I can’t let them define me.” 
You decided that you were done there. You could say more, and you could’ve said less, but you’d done it now. That was the important part. And even though you’d never admit it, it really did feel better to have said it out loud. 
As you stepped down and walked back to your seat, a small wave of applause followed you. You felt Oscar’s hand slip into yours as you sat down, his fingers squeezing gently, a wordless assurance.
It took a bit longer for Oscar to finally walk up to the front of the room, a month or so. But he did it in the end. You understood that he felt like his problems weren’t like everybody else’s, because no normal person could really understand his job. And feeling guilt over a car crash where no one was hurt wasn’t easily explainable either. 
Oscar’s movements were deliberate, almost stiff, as though he was trying to keep himself together with every step. He stood at the lectern, his hands gripping the edges tightly, and you could see the tension in his knuckles.
He talked about the crash in broad terms, but most of his focus was on Charles, and Oscar’s messed-up idea about how he had hurt Charles. When the facilitator asked him to base his guilt around something real, something factual, you saw the struggle in his expression.
“It’s just… guilt,” he said finally, his voice low. He paused, searching for the right words, but they didn’t come. “I’m not sure I can explain it or give it a likeness. Not everything feels like something else.”
Not everything felt like something else. Issues were allowed to be unique and entangled. It wasn’t about understanding them as much as it was about accepting them. You watched him closely, and you raised your arm to ask him a question, waiting for him to acknowledge you with a silent nod. 
“If Charles felt like he never needed to forgive you because he knew all along that this was an accident and no one was actually hurt—why can’t you forgive yourself?” 
Oscar’s gaze dropped, his shoulders slumping slightly. He stood there for a long moment, the words sinking in. 
He realised then and there that his main issue wasn’t the crash or the possibility of it happening again. It was that he blamed himself for hurting someone else—a hurt that granted hadn’t even happened, Charles was fine—but his mind hadn’t cared about that. He had the lives of others at risk with the turn of a wheel, and the crash had made him mentally unprepared for that risk. He guessed he knew now what to bring up the next time he met up with his therapist.  
After that meeting, Oscar talked for a moment with the facilitator, before he walked out to find you standing by the big doorway into the actual church, looking down the isle to the altar. He stood quietly behind you, placing his arm around your waist. The quiet of the church was profound, almost unsettling. The rows of pews stretched out before you, bathed in a soft glow of candlelight. 
“I don’t think I ever understood religion,” you said, whispering in the stillness. “Or God, for that matter. It’s too quiet. Too much about self-reflection and not enough about the old men in the Bible for me to grasp it.”
Oscar didn’t respond right away, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he followed your gaze to the altar.
“I see it as a last ditch effort for when you have no one else to talk to, but all you end up doing is talking to yourself,” he explained. 
“Sounds a lot like self-reflection to me,” you huffed a little. 
Maybe that was the thing people needed most—to get to know themselves. Bad people don’t wonder if they’re bad people. A truly evil person wouldn’t feel guilty for something bad they’ve done. You were both paralysed by guilt, but standing there with Oscar, it felt just a little less heavy.
“Oscar…” you began again, turning to meet his gaze. “Please don’t tell my secrets to anyone else.” 
“We literally had to sign an NDA to join the group, babe.” 
“You know what I mean,” you said, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a small laugh.
“I promise.” 
When you left the church that evening, it was abnormally sunny. Early summer, colouring the nature around you green. You walked across the parking lot hand in hand, that silent show of affection a normal occurrence between you now. 
“Oh,” he said suddenly, stopping by his car. “I got you something.”
From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter, its surface bright orange. He held it out to you, his expression almost shy. You blinked, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected anything like this, the small, unspoken care behind the gesture. No more conscious bad luck. 
“It’s a myth, y’know?” you said, taking the lighter and looking at him softly. “Most of the 27 club died before Bic started making the white version.” 
Did Oscar feel a little stupid for not thinking to google the superstition before buying you—granted, a very cheap gift—but also something so laced with thoughtfulness? Maybe. Did he also deeply want you to stop being reliant on nicotine to feel calm? Definitely. But that was too late to say right now when you already had the lighter in your hand and he was blushing from how exposed he felt. 
“Well, I think orange suits you better anyway.” 
_______________________________
Oscar had insisted, of course—gently but persistently—until you’d finally agreed to come to a race. Silverstone wasn’t out of the country, which meant it didn’t violate any of your probation rules. A technical loophole, but a loophole nonetheless. Your 18 months were nearly over, but Oscar hadn’t been able to wait.
Now, standing among the sea of spectators in the garage, the weight of his world began to settle. The sheer scale of it all was overwhelming. You couldn’t deny it was exhilarating, but it also made you feel small, like an intruder. It was fucking Silverstone, after all—on a Sunday afternoon just minutes before the lights would go out. 
You glanced down at your phone, trying to distract yourself from the growing tension in your stomach. That’s when a message appeared.
Eli: “Are you at Silverstone?? I swear I just saw you on TV.”
Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened around your phone. Eli. What happened to hello? What happened to how are you? You stared at the message for a long moment. Before you could even process how to respond, another message appeared.
Eli: “Are you with Piastri?? What the hell?” 
A startled laugh escaped your lips, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You glanced around, as if half-expecting Eli to appear out of thin air. Of course, he wasn’t here. He’d gone once to Silverstone with your father when he was young, but nowadays it was cheaper to try and go to Hungary or another European race. 
So, right now you knew exactly where your brother was—in the living room at your parents’ place because even though he’d moved out a long time ago, he still went home every Sunday to watch F1 because he leached off of their streaming services. 
You took a deep breath and typed back.
You: “Yeah, I’m here with Oscar.”
For a moment, you stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the send button. Then, with a rush of courage, you pressed it. The three dots indicating Eli was typing appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again.
Eli: “Why didn’t you tell me? You’re at an F1 race with a driver, and I have to find out on TV?” 
He definitely didn’t mean to guilt-trip you—you knew that. It was his way of breaking through the awkwardness. In a way, you supposed it was better to feel guilty about not telling him about Oscar than about the bigger things. The real things.
Before you could reply, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you saw Oscar in his race suit, his face flushed from the adrenaline of pre-race preparations. He looked out of breath, but his smile was unmistakable, the sight of you clearly easing some of the tension in his own chest.
“Hey,” he said, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “You good?”
You nodded. “Yeah. My brother just texted me.”
Oscar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. You bit your lip, holding up your phone so he could see the messages. Oscar leant in, glancing at the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“He recognised you on TV?”
“Apparently,” you said with a soft laugh. “He’s freaking out.”
Oscar’s expression softened, his hand squeezing yours reassuringly. “That has to be good, right? That he’s talking to you?” 
“I hope so,” you whispered. 
Before either of you could say more, someone called Oscar’s name from across the paddock. He sighed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I have to go. National anthem and all that.”
You nodded, your fingers reluctantly slipping from his grasp as he stepped back. “Good luck,” you called after him.
He grinned over his shoulder, his confidence infectious. “Thought you didn’t believe in luck.” 
And while in the past you hadn’t minded your own bad luck and superstitions, you definitely didn’t want to spread that mindset to Oscar. You would start carrying wishbones, four-leaf clovers, and horseshoes if it meant that just a smidge of luck would be transferred to his life. 
As he disappeared into the crowd, the nervous energy around you seemed to intensify. The minutes ticked by, stretching into what felt like hours. Your phone buzzed again, pulling your attention back.
Eli: “I’ve missed you. We should talk whenever you can.”
Your breath caught, and for a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade. You read the message twice, three times, the words sinking in slowly. For so long, you’d been afraid that you’d lost him for good, that the damage you’d done was irreparable—that you were irreparable. But here he was, reaching out.
You: “I’ve missed you too. I’m back in town tomorrow.” 
You hit send just as the formation lap started. You were not sure for how long you held your breath after that. 
Oscar was good—so good—and as you watched him race, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. He was in his element, completely focused, completely in control. You were glad to not have seen the crash that still haunted him at times, because this proved that it was just a fluke, a temporary stumble rather than a career-defining event. 
As the checkered flag waved, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, knowing he had made it through safely. By the time the race was over, Oscar had finished in fourth place—a strong result considering weak qualifying. Most positions gained by anyone in the race. As the crowd erupted in cheers, you found yourself smiling, the tension in your chest finally easing.
Afterward, you found yourself standing in Oscar’s drivers room, waiting for him to return. Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see another message from your brother.
Eli: “That was an insane race. Piastri is a beast. Proud of you for being there.”
You smiled, feeling lighter than you had in months.
Moments later, Oscar appeared, his hair slightly damp from the helmet, his face flushed. He spotted you immediately, his eyes lighting up as he walked over, his smile wide despite exhaustion. 
“How’d I do?” he asked, his voice breathless. 
“You were amazing,” you grinned, stepping closer to him. “How are you so calm? That was nerve-wracking as hell.” 
“I’ve done this a couple of times before,” he teased. Oscar laughed, pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered into your ear. 
You buried your face in his shoulder, holding him close, and felt the last remnants of tension melt away. “Me too.”
Pulling back slightly, he looked down at you, his smile soft. “You haven’t been sarcastic with me all day, y’know? Is there something wrong?” 
You smirked, tilting your head. “I can always start—” 
Before you could finish, he leant down and kissed you, cutting off your words. Smack dab on the mouth, messy and rushed. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright and his grin was infectious. You guessed you didn’t need to resort to sarcasm and snarky comments when you were happy. Simply happy. 
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I'd like to thank Strangers by Ethel Cain, Strangers by Sarah Klang, and Stranger by Blanks for all inspiring this fic. Apparently, I really like songs about being strangers.
╰ Join my taglist or check out my masterlist <3
Tags: @alexxavicry
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starkwlkr · 8 months ago
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was i such a fool? | mark webber
part 1 part 3
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ENGLAND
You felt embarrassed. You didn’t know who was the person who spread the confirmed rumor around the paddock, but you knew that being in the paddock was the last thing you wanted to do.
Your daughter, Grace, had been reading in her room while you were in your home office replying to some emails. Zak had let you get some time off, which you were hesitant to take at first but you knew how chaotic it was going to get in the paddock if you were present.
“Mommy!” Grace called for you from her room.
“What is it, my love?” You asked, closing your laptop as you stood up and walked to her room. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, i finished my book. Can we go to the bookstore and get more?” Grace asked.
“Of course we can, baby.” You replied. As you were about to leave to go back to your office, Grace spoke once again.
“Can I go to a race?”
Grace had never attended a race before. She knew what your job was and why it required you to travel so much, but she never once attended a race. It surprised you that she even thought about it.
“A race . . .” You sighed. “You really want to go to a race?”
Grace nodded. “I want to see the fast cars.”
You thought about it for a second. It would be nice for Grace to see a race after years of only seeing it on tv. But then again only several people knew that she existed and you liked it that way.
“I’ll think about it.”
TIME SKIP TO ABU DHABI 2023
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MCLAREN GARAGE
Grace watched as several men dressed in orange with helmets on sat in their chairs. She was introduced to the pit crew by you. Everyone on the team was more than happy to meet her. She was extremely excited to be able to watch her first race in person.
“I’ll be over there watching the race, okay? Stay here with Lucy.” You told Grace. Lucy was an old friend from school. When you explained that Grace wanted to attend a race, she offered to look after the girl while you worked.
“Okay. I love you.” Grace gave you a kiss on the cheek.
“I love you more, my love.” You replied and hugged her before you left.
From a distance, Mark watched the girl wave goodbye to you. It made him feel like the worst person ever. How could he do that to you? You never deserved it. You were always so supportive of him, comforting him when he needed it and that all changed the second Mark kissed someone else.
He thought about going up to Grace and making small talk, but he knew you wouldn’t like it. As much as he wanted to, he didn’t want to upset you even more. Seeing her, so close yet so far away, brought sadness to the older man’s heart. She had his eyes, his smile, they even shared the same laughter, something you loved when you were dating Mark.
By the end of the race, he had decided to talk to you.
He tried to find you, but it seemed like you knew he wanted to talk so you hid from him. Only it wasn’t like that. Grace wanted to walk on the track so you took her. Lucy was tired so you told her that you would meet her back at the hotel. She held your hand as you and her walked around. It was a perfect moment for you and your daughter.
“Did you enjoy your first race?” You asked.
“Yes! The cars go faster than on the tv, it was so cool!” Grace exclaimed. “Can I go to another race?”
“You’ll have to wait until next year, my love, and you have school. I don’t want you missing a day of school because of a race.” You explained.
“Okay. . .” She sighed. “Who was the man that was in the garage?” She suddenly asked.
“There’s a lot of men in there, Grace.”
“He didn’t wear orange like the rest of the team. He had one of these too.” Grace pointed to her paddock pass. “I think Lucy said he used to be a driver.”
You had an idea of who Grace was talking about and you didn’t like it.
When you made it back to the Mclaren garage, you saw that it was almost empty. A few members of the pit crew were cleaning up, but that didn’t catch your attention. It was Mark that was pacing around the garage.
“Mommy, that’s the man I was talking about.” Grace whispered to you.
Mark noticed your presence and stopped pacing. “Hi.” Was all that he said.
“It’s getting late, Mark. You should go back to your hotel room, get some sleep. I know you don’t like early morning flights.” You said to the Australian.
“Hear me out, please. Just this once and I’ll leave you alone. Give me five minutes.” He pleaded. The remaining pit crew took that as a sign to give you privacy so they left.
Grace held onto your hand even tighter. “Who’s that?” She whispered again to you.
“His name is Mark.” You said.
Four words was all it took to break Mark Webber even more. He was just Mark to his daughter and he had to accept that.
“Three minutes and that’s it.” You said.
“I’ll take that.”
@glow-ish @vicurious28 @dannyriccsupremacy @viennakarma @pear-1206 @nathalielovesonedirection @jaydaaasworld @shimmermotorsport @honethatty12 @a-beaverhausen
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carsworldswiss · 3 months ago
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How to Avoid Common Pitfalls When Purchasing a Used Car in the UAE
While buying a used car in the UAE is a wise decision, deciding which car you want to get can be a perplexing experience. This is mainly because in the UAE used car market, buyers are spoiled for choice with the large variety of cars available. You'll find vehicles of different makes, models, and years in the UAE used car market. However, be careful in your choice to avoid buying a car that is defective and requires constant repairs. This list of checks will help you make an informed decision on a used car purchase.
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Checks that will protect you from common pitfalls when buying a used car
1.       Inspect the car body
Before buying a car, ensure you inspect the body thoroughly for any dents, damage, rust, or scratches in good lighting. Look for signs of accident damage or damage due to natural calamities such as floods. Mismatched paint, gaps in the seams, or uneven seams on the car body indicate that panels may have been changed due to accidental damage. Don't forget to check under the car for rust, leaks, and any other issues.
2.       Inspect the interior
Examine all the interior panels, headrests, carpets, and car seats for stains, rust, and water damage. Inspect the electronic fittings such as the car stereo, central locking, etc. to know the working condition. Also, check for the presence of the airbags. Switch on the air conditioning, and check the temperature and fan settings.
3.       Assess age and warranty
Before buying a used car, you need to find out its age and whether it has warranty coverage. A car experiences rapid depreciation during the first couple of years after it leaves the showroom. Hence, buying a used car that is two or three years old will be ideal. Such vehicles will be in good working condition while available at a price much lower than the showroom price. Verify the service records to ensure the car has been regularly maintained and will serve you well.
4.       Pre-purchase inspection
Pre-purchase inspection is a service provided by reputed car service centers or workshops. Experienced technicians at these workshops will conduct comprehensive tests on the vehicle to ensure it is roadworthy and worth the price you will be paying for it. They can diagnose and detect hidden issues that may not be immediately apparent with the car. This will help you negotiate for a better price and protect you from expensive repairs in the future.
5.       Verify VIN
To know whether the car you are buying is in good condition you need to verify its registration papers and VIN. Compare the VIN on the documents with the one engraved on the chassis. Using the VIN you can also check online for the vehicle history and whether there are any accident, recall, or theft reports.
6.       Test drive
Before finalizing the deal on your used car, Ensure you take it for a test drive to see how it handles various road conditions. Pay attention to vibrations, jerks, rattling sounds, or other handling issues.
These checks can help you make an informed used car buying decision and protect you from the pitfalls of buying a damaged or defective car that requires frequent repairs and replacements.
AUTO LEVEL - A DEPENDABLE CAR DEALERSHIP IN THE UAE
We are Auto Level, a renowned new and used car dealership in the UAE. We offer our customers a wide variety of new and used premium and luxury cars. All our vehicles are of the highest quality standards. We ensure our experienced technicians thoroughly test our used cars to discover any hidden issues or other problems. This means you have peace of mind when you buy a car from us. We do not charge inflated prices for our used vehicles, and ensure our customers receive value for their money.
If you're planning to buy a used car in the UAE, just give us a call at 80053835 and we'll guide you through the entire car-buying process.
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swissautoservice · 2 years ago
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Learn more about the signs of timing chain failure in the BMW
The timing chain in the BMW has to be replaced for every 100000 kilometers. Understanding the signs of timing chain failure in your car will help you to visit the authorized BMW service center in Dubai & Abu Dhabi as soon as you encounter it.
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Without the properly functioning timing belt your car engine will not be able to function effectively. The timing belt may be damaged mainly due to the usage of wrong engine oils, gradual wear and tear or problems with the guides and tensioners. Read More
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sebnameyourcar · 4 months ago
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wait would you u want to explain the context of multi 21?
MULTI-21: A HISTORY LESSON
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MODERN ASSUMPTIONS:
it has been over a decade since the 2013 malaysian grand prix. as the years have gone on, people have forgotten, or smoothed out, the minutiae of it.
when people talk about multi-21 nowadays, it tends to fall under three headings:
• evil supervillain seb was addicted to winning and didn’t care about his team. selfish emotionless robot. got booed for a year and deserved it
• cunty brat seb was a disobedient child and refused to listen to his team and faced no consequences ever because he was red bulls special little boytoy
• poor mark webber was betrayed by his team as he had been for five years. the win was his and seb stole it
but of course, nothing is ever so simple
BACKGROUND
by 2013, sebastian and mark had been teammates for 5 years, and part of the extended red bull “family” for 7.
when they became teammates in 2009, mark was the older, more experienced head. seb was the young wunderkind who already had a race win under his belt, more than mark had.
(ironically, mark won his first race in germany in 2009. seb wouldn’t win his home GP until 2013. seb has since called mark’s 2009 german gp win as one of the most impressive drives he’s ever seen.)
anyway. let’s go back in time. it’s japan. it’s 2007. and it is raining. it’s lap 45, under the safety car after alonso crashed out. the rain is TORRENTIAL, and mark (red bull) is running in 2nd. he’s so sick that he’s vomiting in his helmet. seb (toro rosso baby. 20 years old) was 3rd. hamilton was leading, and braked quite dangerously. seb was caught out by this, and crashed into the back of mark. both of them had been running in the podium places, and both had to retire. mark called seb a kid without experience fucking it up. seb cried in his garage. this is the first time they crash. mark later referred to it as the first time they made love on track because he’s a freak
fast forward to turkey 2010. they are teammates now, and have been for over a year. fuji 2007 had largely been forgotten. water under the bridge. they are fighting for the championship against ferrari and mclaren. mark got pole, but around lap 40 seb had caught up to him as mark had to save fuel. they “merged towards each other” (generous). mark didn’t give seb enough space, seb was too over-eager. people will have different opinions. unless you’re helmut marko, who will always back seb, since seb is a product of the red bull academy whereas mark wasn’t. mark went on to finish on the podium, seb had to retire. seb was PISSED! (sexy). this is seen as the start of the “rivalry” by many.
britain 2010. aka the mark-webber-slams-water-on-desk moment. seb was given the new front wing from marks car for qualifying because he was a better qualifier because his had broken in fp3. he would ultimately get a puncture in the race, whilst webber with the old wing came first, and graced us with the “not bad for a no.2 driver” radio message.
so, where are we by summer 2010 and spring 2011? fuji was no one’s fault really, turkey was six of one half a dozen of the other, but mark felt the team favoured seb. britain made that feeling CONCRETE in marks mind. then seb won the title in 2010 after not leading until the final race of the season. in the press conference before abu dhabi 2010, seb kept getting asked if he’d let mark past it if would win mark the championship, and he kept evading the answer. see, mark had been ahead in the championship, but he qualified 7th while seb got pole and won. so, come 2011, webber was convinced the team favoured seb. however, seb was by far and away the better driver.
so. britain 2011. an underrated moment of the vettel webber rivalry. mark qualified on pole, with seb p2. seb quickly took the lead in the race. later on in the race after some botched pit stops and drama, mark was close to seb. red bull told mark NOT to pass seb.
mark ignored this team order. he tried to pass his teammate, but ultimately failed to do so. it’s often forgetting in vettel/webber rivalry lore that mark was the first of them to ignore a direct team order. the difference was he just wasn’t able to make the overtake. here are two interesting quotes from just after the race:
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and now. brazil 2012. another forgotten multi-21 backstory. it was the last race of the season, and seb was fighting for his third straight championship, only alonso could possibly beat him. mark qualified 3rd, seb 4th, and alonso 8th. seb had a rocky start to the race, which resulted in him being hit from the back & spun around. he pulled off the mother of all recovery drives to win the championship. alls well that ends well right? wrong. horner admitted a few years ago that seb felt that mark was to blame for the rocky start by forcing seb into the wall. horner even went as far as to say that this lack of teamwork was directly in sebs mind when malaysia 2013 came around. that that was seb’s revenge.
conspiracy theorists will say that mark forced seb towards the wall because he wanted his mate alonso to win the championship over his teammate. definitely possible but not confirmed.
so. here we are. malaysia 2013. it’s been 5 years of crashes, ignored team orders (mark), favouritism (seb) and finally an almost championship-ruining shove towards a wall.
seb qualified on pole, mark 5th. but mark took the lead after the first round of pitstops. around lap 46, seb was gaining on mark, who was on old hard tyres. team orders came through for seb not to fight mark. multi 21 literally means that car no 2 should stay in position ahead of car no 1. just as mark ignored team orders in britain 2011, seb ignored them here. the only difference was seb actually got past. mark was furious (“yep that’s good teamwork!”) seb, a bad liar, was hilarious (“i was really scared… all of a sudden he was moving… i had to…”) horner was regretting most of his life choices (“this is silly seb come on.”)
seb won the race. the most awkward of all cool down rooms ensued (“multi 21 seb. yeah? multi 21”) seb chugged an entire bottle of water. poor lewis hamilton just trying to disappear into thin air. underrated moment is you can see a clip of seb trying to explain something to mark and neither of them are having a good time. on the podium interviews after mark said “seb will have protection from the team as always” - harkening back to his long-felt belief that the team favoured seb, yet ignoring his own history of ignoring team orders, and ignoring brazil 2012.
seb would later apologise.
three days later seb would rescind that apology.
(“i was racing i was faster i passed him i won.”)
at this stage, seb had been the dominant driver for four years running and some crowds had grown annoyed at him, so used this as an excuse to boo him at basically every race for the summer swing of the season. seb spoke at the end of 2013 about how hard this was for him, and how he was thankful for the support of his family and girlfriend during the hard times. it’s important to remember that seb was only in his mid 20s when all this booing and controversy was happening. it’s a lot to shoulder, especially when you’re only doing what you’ve always done, what you’re being paid to do: winning.
mark would retire at the end of the 2013 season, though apparently he had already made up his mind before malaysia.
seb would stay at red bull for one more year before moving to ferrari.
when asked in 2022, seb said he wouldn’t change what he did in malaysia 2013. and in my opinion, he’s right.
unlike the mclaren clusterfuck of hungary 24, there was YEARS of history between vettel and webber before multi-21. grudges, crashes, hurts, pride, friendship, rivalry, championships lost and won. this was the cumulation of their entire careers to date, all of their mistakes and their motivations for better or for worse.
basically, it was never so simple as “seb ignored team orders because he was an arrogant brat” or “poor mark the team never liked him” it’s… well it’s all of the above. cheers for reading. fuck me i went on a bit
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pickingupmymercedes · 5 months ago
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It's not just a win - Lewis Hamilton NSFW
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The 104th win Special - He's bloody done it ❤️
pairing: Lewis Hamilton x Reader!
warnings: unprotected sexual activities.
Also, wrap it before you tap it guys
wordcount: +2K
a/n: Don't have anything to say really. I don't even think this gets close to putting to paper what it meant. To him. To us. But I also think it's going to take time for us to really understand how much this win meant.
As always, I'm open for feedback, come say hi!
EXPLICIT CONTENT UNDER, -18 DO NOT INTERACT
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Y/n stirred gently in the early morning light, the soft glow of dawn filtering through the slits on the window of the motorhome. She blinked sleepily, her eyes slowly adjusting to the soft, golden hues that bathed the room.
The warmth from the arms around her brought a lazy smile to her lips, and as she turned, she saw Lewis lying awake, staring at the ceiling with a faraway look in his eyes.
"Good morning, GP winner" she murmured, her voice still husky with sleep.
Lewis turned his head towards her, a content smile capturing his features as he returned from whatever world had been occupying his mind. "Good morning, love" he replied softly.
Y/n scooted closer, her arm draping over his chest, her head resting on his shoulder as he embraced her tight. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pick up as she looked back up at him " Wanna debrief?" her voice gentle and inviting.
Lewis sighed, his eyes gazing into hers, searching for the right words. "Just...thinking about everything," he admitted. "Yesterday was...a lot."
Y/n nodded, encouraging him to continue. She knew that he needed this, a chance to make sense of his emotions out loud.
"There were moments in the past few years when I doubted myself," he began, a low rumble in his chest. "That maybe I couldn’t do it anymore. That I should have retired. It felt like I would never win again. But then...yesterday."
"I thought I had healed from 2021" Lewis admitted for the first time to her, his voice low and hesitant. "I know I always told everyone I was through. And maybe I had tried to convince myself I had. But standing on that podium yesterday… I still have so much to give."
He paused, taking a deep breath as he gathered his thoughts. "I’m not one to accept love easily… you know that” he almost whispered shaking his head a bit as you lowly chuckled “But these past years… the energy and support people have given me. I couldn’t… I can’t let that go unnoticed.”
Y/n traced small circles on his chest, her touch soothing and grounding. "What makes you think that?" she asked softly.
"I kept catching myself thinking about Abu Dhabi," his voice barely above a whisper. "About how close… how everything just...slipped away. It felt like...like I had failed. Like I had let everyone down." He sighed, a deep, shuddering breath. "I just...I needed this. I needed to win. To prove to myself that I still can."
Y/n tightened her embrace, her heart aching for him. "You deserve every bit of love you receive, Lew." Her hand going to trace the lines of his cheeks where his beard started. “And I’m sure people don’t expect anything more than the best you can do. And I know you always try and give your best.
Lewis nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I know. I know. But I could always fight on track those who doubted... and then when I couldn’t…" he shook his head looking away. “Finally winning again. At home, with everyone there, my mom, my dad, my family. You. It was...overwhelming. I sobbed when I got out of the car. I couldn't help it. It was like everything I’d been holding in just poured out because I knew I had proven myself. That I had shown everyone what you all believed in... even when I doubted it"
Y/n sat up a bit to reach for his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her gaze. "There will always be challenges, always be obstacles. But you’ve proven time and time again that you can overcome them. You have an incredible strength, Lewis. And you don’t have to face them all alone. I’m here. Your family is here. Your team is here. And we’re always going to believe in you." she said honestly.
Lewis smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes "It felt like...like a new beginning. Like maybe, just maybe, I’m finally starting to heal." he said softly.
"It's not just a win, is it?"
He looked at her, his eyes glistening with tears. "No" he sighed; his voice thick with emotion. "It's...closure? Proof that I'm not finished. Not just yet."
Y/n agreed. "You can finally let go of the past now … or at least put it in its place."
He nodded, a sense of peace settling over him. "Thank you. For everything. For being here, for believing in me."
"Always," she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. "I’ll always be here." she whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck.
Lewis angled his head slightly, meeting her lips with his own. The kiss was tender at first, a sweet affirmation to her, but it quickly deepened. His hand found its way to her hair, tangling in the soft strands as he pulled her closer.
Y/n responded eagerly, her hands roaming over his chest and shoulders, feeling the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. She pressed her body to his side, savoring the feel of his warmth and his muscles.
The kisses grew frantic and soon they were wrapped up in each other, lost in the moment.
Y/n felt Lewis's hand slip under the hem of her shirt, his fingers tracing patterns on her skin. She arched against him.
When she felt his hand move lower, sliding towards the waistband of her underwear, she pulled back slightly, breathless. "Do we have time?" she asked, her voice a husky whisper. "You’re supposed to head to the factory this morning."
Lewis looked at her through hooded dark eyes "They can wait" his voice rough with desire. "I feel like celebrating a bit more." Y/n smiled, a slow, sensual curve of her lips, and leaned in to capture his mouth in another searing kiss.
But just as their lips met again, a sudden bark from the foot of the bed pulled them back to reality. They both glanced down to see Roscoe looking rather annoyed and impatient. His expressive eyes, almost accusing, seemed to say "Are you two quite finished?"
Lewis chuckled, the sound vibrating through Y/n’s chest. "Looks like someone needs to go to the bathroom" he said with a grin, his fingers gently brushing Y/n’s cheek.
Y/n laughed softly, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before sitting up. "Duty calls, go one dad, we’ll resume after" her eyes twinkling with amusement.
Lewis gave her a playful nudge before swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "Alright, buddy, let’s get you sorted" he said, his tone affectionate as he leaned down to give the bulldog a scratch behind the ears.
When he returned the sounds of running water drew his attention, and he made his way to the bathroom, a soft smile on his lips.
He found Y/n in the shower, the steam curling around her, obscuring his view. And as the mist cleared, he could see her silhouette through the glass door, the water cascading over her body. She glanced back through the glass, catching him watching her.
"Enjoying the view?" she asked teasingly, her voice thick with amusement.
Lewis chuckled, leaning against the doorframe. "Very much," he replied, his voice low and warm. Y/n turned to slide open the box door, her expression softening. "Care to join me?"
He didn’t need to be asked twice. Quickly shedding his clothes, he stepped into the shower, the hot water immediately welcoming him.
They stood there for a moment, letting the water pour over them, washing away the remnants of the previous day.
He was the first to reach out, his fingers gently trailing along Y/n’s arm, marveling at her. She almost felt exposed at his gaze, but the way his eyes held her captivated had her forget everything but him.
She stepped closer until their bodies were pressed together and he dipped his head, capturing her lips in a tender kiss, their movements slow and deliberate. A rhythm that was achingly familiar although their hands explored each other’s bodies like they had to reach every bit of skin they were yet to memorize.
Y/n’s fingers traced the lines of his muscles, her touch light and loving. Lewis mirrored her actions, his hands caressing her curves, his touch both soothing and electrifying.
The water continued to cascade over them, a warm, comforting presence that seemed to heighten every sensation. Y/n tilted her head back, her eyes fluttering shut as Lewis kissed a path down her neck, his lips leaving a trail of electricity.
"I love you " she breathed, her hands tangling in his loose braids as she pulled him closer.
"I love you" he whispered back against her skin; his voice filled with emotion.
They lost themselves in each other, the world outside the shower fading into insignificance. The water poured over them, mingling with the soft sighs and whispers that filled the small space.
When Lewis’s hands found Y/n’s waist, he pulled her flush against him as he kissed her deeply. She responded, her body arching into his, seeking more of his touch. They savored the moment, the feeling of being so close, so connected.
Y/n's hand slid down his chest, her fingertips tracing the hard planes of his muscles. Her touch was electric to his skin.
She reached his half-hard erection, her fingers wrapping around him with a gentle but firm grip. She began to pump him slowly, her movements teasing and deliberate. Lewis groaned softly into her mouth, both of his hand finding her waist. Her pumping combined with the hot water cascading over their bodies was almost overwhelming. He responded by pressing her against the cool tile wall, his lips never leaving hers.
With one hand still wrapped around his length, Y/n used her free hand to anchor herself against his shoulder. Lewis lifted one of her legs, creating better access to her core. He positioned himself at her entrance, his eyes locking onto hers.
"You ready?" he whispered, his voice a low rumble.
Y/n nodded; her pupils wildly dilated. "Yeah" she breathed.
Lewis kissed her deeply, his tongue tangling with hers to muffle her moans as he slowly entered her. The sensation was almost too much, her walls stretching to accommodate him. He paused, holding himself still to regain control, feeling her warmth envelop him.
She gasped into his mouth, her breath hitching as he filled her completely. He waited a moment, allowing her to adjust, before he began to move. Each thrust was slow and measured, his lips still pressed against hers to keep their sounds low to possible bypassers around the motorhomes.
Y/n's nails dug into his shoulders as she wrapped her arms around his neck, her body arching to meet his movements. She bit down gently on the soft spot where his neck met his collarbone, making him wince in pain and pleasure.
The rhythm between them became more urgent, their need for each other driving them on. Lewis groaned softly, his grip on her tightening as he lifted her other leg, supporting her entirely against the wall.
The change in angle allowed him to penetrate even deeper, eliciting a moan from Y/n that he quickly swallowed with another kiss.
As he felt her walls start to flutter, he pulled out to turn her in his embrace, her back pressing against his chest as she moaned in protest. He entered her from behind, the new position allowing him to reach even deeper.
One of his hands slid around to hold her close by her lower abdomen, pressing into the spot where he could feel himself pushing into her.
Y/n's head fell back against his shoulder, her moans growing louder despite their attempts to stay quiet. Lewis kissed along her neck, his other hand moving down to flicker at her clit with precise, deliberate movements.
"I'm so close" she whimpered, her body trembling.
Lewis's own control was slipping, the sensation of her tight around him driving him closer to his own orgasm "Let go" he whispered against her ear. "I've got you."
With a final thrust, he felt her walls clench around him as she saw white. Her body convulsed; her cries muffled by how she bit on the skin of his neck, her head hanging on his shoulders. The mix of her walls and the biting of his skin triggered his own release, a wave that left him shaking.
They held each other close when he pulled out and turned her on his arms, his forehead resting against hers. "Hi there gorgeous" he murmured when she opened her eyes to look at him, his breath still coming in ragged gasps.
Y/n smiled; her eyes glimmering with satisfaction. "You’re handsome too" she joked, chuckling softly.
They stayed like that for a few moments longer, savoring the intimacy of the moment and the water falling on them. Finally, Y/n reached out and turned off the shower, the sudden silence almost deafening after the steady sound of running water.
Lewis grabbed a towel, wrapping it around Y/n before pulling her into his arms. "I think that’s the best way to start the day," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her damp hair.
Y/n leaned into him, her heart swelling with love. "Couldn’t agree more. Now go, they’re waiting for their champion."
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theallovernations · 4 months ago
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uluvjay · 1 year ago
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Mad Max- M. Verstappen
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Max Verstappen x innocent Horner! reader
In which Max takes a shitty race out on you
Warnings?; SMUT, oral (m receiving), mean max, checo slander(I’m not sorry), cursing, slight manipulation?, cursing, kissing
Part of my 1k celly:)
Au masterlist!
To say he was pissed would be an understatement, he was moments away from exploding and he didn’t care who got hurt in the process.
Everything was going amazing-perfect even, until turn four when an anxious and determined to prove himself Checo made contact with the back of Max’s car, sending him spinning into the wall.
He usually wouldn’t have gotten so mad but Checo knew how important this weekend was to Max, he was capable of winning the championship long before Abu Dhabi and all he had to do was win the fucking race.
He walked into the garage face red with anger and frustration, his helmet had already been thrown somewhere in the room and Christian was trying his best to calm the man down.
With Christian Telling him he needed to go into his drivers room and take a moment to himself the Dutch man stormed off to the room knowing his principal was right.
He was almost there when he saw your little body clad in his favorite white dress, with that stupid bow(that he actually adored) in your hair.
He didn’t even give you a proper look in the eyes before he was grabbing your wrist and dragging your smaller body behind his.
“Max wha-“
“Shut up” he interrupted.
Shoving you into his drivers room he shut and locked the door before turning around and removing his race suit.
“What happened?” He heard your small voice from behind him.
“Fucking Checo” he grumbled and by his tone you knew better than to ask him to elaborate.
Finally stripped down to just his boxers the anger filled man turned around to face your small frame.
“Come here” he demanded, a sickly smirk overtaking his face as you obediently did as he said.
He looked down at you with dark eyes, his dick hardening even more at the way your clueless ones stared back at him.
“Need you to help me a little baby” he spoke as his hands gathered your hair in one of his hands.
“B-but last time my dad almost caught us Maxie, what if he actually does this time?” You stressed but all he did was place a finger to your lips and tell you to shush.
“Don’t worry about him schat, he’s to busy making sure Checo actually finishes in the points.” He spoke, a finger running along your cheek.
“Now are you gonna help me or are you gonna make me suffer here?”
“I’ll help” you whined as his hands tugged your hair and a smile appeared on his face.
“Good girl, on your knees” he patted your cheek and moved back.
You did as the Dutch asked, sitting on your knees with your hands folded patiently in your lap. Awaiting his instruction.
Max loved you like this, on your knees and obedient for him, all for him.
“Such a good little whore” he smiled, hands gathering you hair once again to form a makeshift ponytail.
“Take my cock out” he nodded down at you.
A smirk appeared on his face at the little whimper that emerged from your throat at the sight of his hard and aching cock.
“Go ahead baby, fill that little mouth of yours” he encouraged.
You spit in your hand brining it forward to slowly jerk him off while your tongue started to leave little kitten licks at his tip.
Max gasped as the feeling of your tongue coming into contact with his tip, he was doing his best to allow you to take your time but he wouldn’t be able to contain his urges much longer.
His head leaned back as you took him deep in your throat, your small moans vibrating his cock.
“So good schat, such a perfect whore for me” he groaned out as his hand began applying pressure to your head.
Sucking greedily on his cock, spit began to drip down your chin and mascara mixed with the salty tears escaping from your eyes, one of Max’s favorite sights.
His little noises and degrading words he spoke in Dutch spurred you on, even more determined to make him feel better.
Pulling away from his cock with a cough for much needed air you continued to use your hands to work him, thumb running over the tip just as your tongue would.
Pulling your head back towards his cock Max took full control this time. Smirking at the sight of his cock making a bulge in your mouth as you tried taking all of him again.
“Getting so close Schat” he groaned as he fucked your face.
Your little gags egging him on to go faster, the way your nails dug into the skin of his bare thighs had him moaning out at the slight pain.
Looking down at your ruined face was enough to bring him over the edge, eyes wet and messy from runny mascara, spit covering your chin and cheeks.
With a heavy breath he pulled out of your mouth and instructed for you to open your mouth and stick your tongue out for him.
He pumped himself till he came with a deep groan, most of him cum making it into your mouth with a bit scattering your chin.
“Swallow for me” he told you, a hand petting your hair.
You did as he asked and stuck your tongue back out to show him. He smirked at you before pulling you back onto your feet and crashing his lips against your own.
He moaned at the taste of himself on your lips and tongue, the spit and tears on your face making the kiss even more sloppy.
“Did so good for me, my perfect little whore” he praised before dragging you towards his small bathroom to get cleaned up.
-
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blorbocedes · 4 months ago
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radicalizing norstappen moment from us gp 2023
so the mclaren is slow and lando's lamenting they don't have any tracks left to perform, then max interrupts him to call him an abu dhabi specialist which lando cannot swallow praise for the life of him
max: you are always quick there!
lando: (floundering eh noises)
max: You Are Always Quick There 🫵
lando: i-me?
max: yeah, you.
lando: not the car?
max: 😆
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