Work Text:
For as long as he could remember, George knew there was something different about him.
When he was a child, he enjoyed going to school. Obeying a set of rules, following his teachers’ instructions and learning everything by heart brought him satisfaction. It made him feel good whenever his results were better than his peers’, but whenever someone managed to get a higher grade, his eyes would fill with tears and he’d have to get comforted by an adult.
He wanted to beat the other children with his fists, for taking what was his—being the best, but he was small and his anger was useless. Little George told his parents about it: his mother looked horrified, however his father appeared delighted.
Angry people make good champions, he had said. You can’t be soft or they’ll eat you alive.
When he was pulled out of school to focus on racing and was instead taught by his parents and private tutors, good grades suddenly didn't matter. There was no competition; no way of feeling superior because of how clever he was.
No, there was none of that. Instead, he found competition on the track.
First with karting, where he became the British champion at the age of ten. Those years flew by, and when George stopped to think about where he was, he had just been crowned Formula 2 champion. He channeled all the anger he felt as a child and put it into racing, and whenever things didn’t go his way, the rotten thing inside of him would shine, as though luring George to show his true face.
The transition into the highest category was harsh, but it was everything he had dreamed of. In Formula 1, he found the best of the best. Men who had trophies and championships; men who would make him cry like a little boy if George didn’t make himself to be as strong as them.
For every crash, every missed opportunity to get points, George would hide his real opinion behind carefully rehearsed words and a smile he practiced in the mirror.
In reality, for every driver that placed above him, George wanted to put all of them in the wall. The jealousy burning inside of him and turning into hatred as he observed the others around him, happier than they had any right to be.
When his gaze shifted as he was becoming increasingly sick from looking at his peers, he caught Max looking at him. The Dutchman didn’t look away, and instead, he smiled, like he knew exactly what was going through his mind. As though the same was going through his.
George turned his back, and in Qatar in 2024, he got his answer.
Max was angry that George was trying to make him lose his pole position. He deserved to lose it, of course, but it’s what he said after that made the rotten thing churn more violently than ever before.
“I’ll put you on your fucking head in the wall.”
Those words were spat at him, Max’s eyes burning with so much violence that they barely looked blue anymore. George was speechless, his heart beating so fast it made him dizzy. Even as Max turned his back and walked away, the younger man watched. He didn’t realise he had started smiling until a steward looked at him weird.
He had found his equal, finally.
Barcelona in the next year was a shitshow.
He was driving a decent race, nothing that would get him closer to the McLarens, who were absolutely dominating, but it wasn’t that terrible. Certainly not like in previous years.
That is, until his teammate retired and the safety car came out. The restart is shambolic, and he doesn’t know why the fuck Verstappen is acting like a child. Or, more like a guy who knows he’s got no shot at the championship this year.
George’s angry even as the race ends and he gets out of the car, spotting Max not too far from him. There’s a brief moment where their eyes meet, both still with their helmets on as they stare each other down. He’s not smiling, and neither is George.
There’s some sort of understanding between the two of them, one that George doesn’t understand very well until he’s lurking outside of the RedBull garage hours after the race ended. He’s got a cap on and he’s dressed in a big jacket his girlfriend got for him. He’s still easily recognisable to anyone who looks hard enough—not many people look like him.
When he spots a guy shorter than him clad in RedBull merch and skinny jeans, George is moving before his brain can catch up with his body and tell him it’s a bad idea.
He pushes Max against the side of the garage, hands fisted in the front of his shirt, and his body close to the Dutchman’s so he can’t leave. Max’s eyes widen for a second and George sees him lift his hands, but infuriatingly, he relaxes once he sees who’s cornering him.
Then, he smiles.
“George, fancy meeting you here,” Max speaks before he can, looking awfully joyous for someone who’s about to get choked.
George tightens his grip on his shirt and pushes him further up against the wall. His fingers are shaking.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” The Brit asks, words spoken through his teeth in barely contained anger.
Max stares at him like…George can’t decipher the look. He definitely doesn’t look scared or intimidated.
George pulls him away from the wall just enough to slam him back against it, hard. “Tell me! What were you doing, Verstappen?”
That finally gets a reaction out of Max.
He grabs his wrists and digs his fingernails into George’s skin. It hurts—Max is stronger than he looks, and heavier than him. Yet, he only holds him there, their bodies pressed so closely together that it probably looks like they're doing something else.
“It’s called racing, you should try it more often,” Verstappen replies, deadpan.
He loves to pretend that he doesn’t give a shit about anything, that it’s just his ‘Dutch honesty’ that his fans love him for. George can see how much he cares. He can see the blue in his eyes getting swallowed up by his pupils, he can hear him breathing like he’s trying (and failing) to keep it steady, and he can feel his heart, loud and strong where their chests are pressed together.
“That wasn’t racing. You know it wasn’t. You’re stupid, but not that stupid.”
George is starting to get tired from practically holding him up. After a grueling race, Verstappen feels like he weighs a thousand pounds. Still, he doesn’t let go of him, even as his arms start shaking slightly and Max notices—because of course he does.
“You should’ve driven better and given me space. And you should also start going to the gym more, or do you just train to post shirtless pictures?”
“Do you actually believe that? God. You’re fucking delusional,” George chooses to ignore the second part, knowing better than to fall for such obvious bait.
“They gave me a 10 second penalty because of your driving. I should be the one shoving you against a wall, maybe,” his nails dig deeper into George’s skin and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from wincing.
He gets closer to Max, enough for their breaths to entangle. He wants to let go of his shirt and wrap his hands around that thick neck to see if his hands are big enough to cover every inch of his skin. George wants to squeeze, and he wants to watch as his blue eyes widen as he tries to breathe.
George wants to do a lot, but the only thing he actually does is whisper, full of rage. “You make me so fucking angry.”
“You don’t seem too sad about it, princess,” Max spits out, his voice hoarse.
It’s then that George notices his trousers feel slightly tighter than usual.
He’s getting hard just from a little bit of roughhousing; it’s pathetic. The Brit angles his hips away from Max and prays he didn’t notice.
“Infuriating. You’re infuriating,” George declares through clenched teeth, his voice lower than he’d like.
“If I lose the title because of these points, I’ll actually show you how infuriating I can be.”
The threat only makes George exhale, feeling his cock twitch inside his pants. Yet, he smiles.
“If you lose the title just because of these points, then you didn’t deserve to win it in the first place.”
He leaves Verstappen where he is and finally leaves the paddock. For the first time in years, the rotten part of him is quiet and pleased.
The next day, Max apologised on Instagram and he has talked about the incident six times in different interviews, not that George is counting.
Later that year, Max and George find their way to each other.
Their car isn’t perfect yet, but George just needs to endure this season because the next one is looking promising already.
Max’s car is getting better, or maybe it’s just him that’s good. However, it still looks like the championship fight will be between the two McLarens. He knows that Max is stubborn, but even he can’t compete with shit machinery.
As the year goes on, George becomes more tired. The words he wanted to say but can’t because of the image he built around himself start getting stuck in his throat. They suffocate him and push that rotten thing out until he starts wearing it on his face.
An empty gaze and lips pressed into a line that make Lando ask if he’s alright. He says that he’s okay every time with his father’s words floating inside his brain: soft people don’t become champions.
His sweet Carmen is always there when he comes home. His girlfriend who wants nothing but the best for him.
Unfortunately, George needs something she can never give him. Even when they argue, she can’t get under his skin, not like Verstappen does.
He finds himself constantly comparing the two of them, and after yet another fight where George wouldn’t even raise his voice because he’d never scream at her, she leaves. He never shouted, but he’d press where he knew it hurt, haunting her with his words without getting angry.
Carmen takes her things and doesn't come back. In a text message, she tells him that he’s the coldest and the sweetest person she has ever met. George understands the words perfectly, and he doesn’t beg her to come back. She could never scratch the itch growing under his skin like a damn parasite calling out for his equal.
The grid finds out about his breakup quickly. They’re all nosy, and it didn’t help that Carmen deleted all of the pictures she had with him off Instagram while George kept all of them.
None of them are brave enough to ask him about besides Alex, who simply assures him that he has a shoulder George can cry on if he ever needs it.
He doesn’t take him up on that offer, but he does allow Alex to pay for dinner every time they go out in those two months.
Max starts gaining momentum in the second half of the season, but he’s still far from winning his fifth championship. George is gaining momentum too, but he’s still far from even getting third place in the drivers’ standings.
After years of battling each other on and off the track, it all comes down to Las Vegas.
It’s the race that’s always so extra; the race that screams ‘Danny Ric’ even though he’s no longer competing with them.
George gets third place, a podium that feels even sweeter after the Mclarens are disqualified and he’s promoted to second.
They’re driven around the track by Terry Crews in a pink car, and it’s almost overwhelming, but God. George loves it—it’s too much, and exactly what he deserves.
He pretends not to hear when Max says that it feels like a clown show.
He might as well be the clown with how hard he’s smiling standing there in the first place, even though he claims to hate it.
Drowned in champagne, George feels better than he has in a long time. Good enough, actually, that he doesn’t mind when Max approaches him and places a hand on his shoulder.
“Meet me in my room.”
Max tells him—orders him, with one hand covering his mouth. George raises an eyebrow, and feels his treacherous heart flutter.
“What for?” He asks. There’s people around them, cameras, staff.
“Come to my room and find out,” at the Brit’s unimpressed look, Max smirks. He knows he’s smiling because his eyes crinkle up a bit at the corners. “Aren’t you a little bit curious about what I want, Georgie?”
“Fuck off,” George says instinctively, covering his mouth because he doesn’t want another PR nightmare. Max nods, like that’s enough of a response.
“I’ll wait.” And then he walks away to celebrate with his team.
George is not sure why he’s standing in front of Max’s door in RedBull’s garage. He let himself get baited into this and now he’s here, in Mercedes clothing from head to toe.
The Red Bull employees he passed on his way there looked at him with mild surprise, but none of them tried to stop him or question his presence. Maybe Max had warned them they’d be expecting a visitor.
Not that that’s likely, with how much the Dutchman pretends to not give a shit.
George knocks at the door, and Max opens it only a few seconds later as though he was waiting for him. The smile on his lips makes the Brit want to punch him in the face.
Instead, George enters the room when Max moves and hears the door close with a soft click followed by the distinct sound of a lock mechanism engaging. When they face each other, the look on the other man’s face is almost daring him to say something about it.
He remains quiet, hands in his pockets, and takes a deep breath.
“So, what did you want to show me?” George asks, dryly.
“My dick,” Max replies in the same tone.
The Brit rolls his eyes and takes his hands off his pockets to brush his hair back. Why did he think Max could be normal?
“Stop being so crude. You’re not fourteen anymore.”
Max doesn’t even blink. “But I did mean to show you my dick.”
“God, shut the fuck up, Verstappen. I’m so sick of your poppycock,” George snaps, gesturing wildly and unconsciously stepping closer to the other man. “Even when your car’s shit, you still find a way to get on my nerves.”
He hears him repeating the word under his breath, his brow slightly furrowed. George can’t stop the mean smirk that grows on his lips.
“I’m not going to explain to you what it means, so you better pick up a dictionary and see it for yourself. Might even help you improve your vocabulary.”
The next few seconds, barely a minute, are silent and tense. Max is looking at him, and George holds his ground, consciously keeping his posture straight. He’s got a good few centimeters on Max.
“Does it turn you on?” The Dutchman asks out of the blue, catching George off guard.
“What?”
“When you’re insulting me. Does that turn you on?”
The Brit inhales sharply through his nose, his eyes flicking to the wall for a moment before he remembers they were playing a game of who looks away first, and he just lost.
It doesn’t—does it turn him on? He’s never got turned on when he argued with Carmen, or when he argued with another driver. George always gets angry, of course, violence bubbling at the surface because he can’t allow himself to show his true face.
However, nothing had ever affected him quite like this. The shock comes first, sharp and unexpected, before slowly being replaced by a warmth in his lower stomach he doesn’t know how to handle.
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” George sneers, hoping to put a stop to this nonsense. “If you’ve got nothing to say, I’ll just take my leave, then.”
Max is standing between George and the door, and when the Brit reaches for the handle, a pair of hands suddenly grabs him by his jacket, pulling him backwards and turning him around until his back hits the wall.
George gasps at the impact, dizziness taking hold of him momentarily before he reacts on instinct.
He wraps his hands around Max’s thick neck, his fingers twitching as he feels the other man’s pulse, quick like a rabbit. He’s able to cover every inch of skin with his long digits, and the realisation has him breathing hard as the dizziness clears.
“There you go, schat. You’ve been thinking about doing this for a while, hm?” Max rasps.
He looks smug and calm, hands on each side of George’s waist, fingers digging into the muscle to stop him from leaving. The Brit is not sure he’d be able to get out even if he wanted to.
It takes him a few tries to be able to talk.
“Shut up,” George mumbles weakly.
“It’s okay, Georgie, I know. I’ve always known,” he sounds so patronising. “You can squeeze.”
“I don’t need your permission to do it,” his words come out stronger now.
George starts squeezing, and his heart jumps when Max gasps. He looks completely undone; his eyes are dark, as if his pupils have swallowed all the blue, and his cheeks are flushed. It reminds the Brit of every time Verstappen gets drunk, the way his cheeks turn red after only a few drinks.
“Yeah, just like that, Georgie,” Max moans.
George’s cock jumps inside his pants at how wrecked he sounds. His hips are flushed against the Dutchman’s and they’re both hard.
Max’s cock feels big, even through four layers of clothing, and that thought should make him angrier than it actually does.
“Shut the fuck up,” George hisses, presses his hips against Verstappen’s.
Max lets out another delicious sound. “Make me.”
George doesn’t have time to put a stop to this (he wasn’t going to) or to simply tell Max to fuck off because he’s not about to follow his orders. Instead, Max keeps him pinned to the wall with one hand while he uses the other to push his own trousers and pants down, leaving him standing in front of George with his cock out.
“You’re not going to win it. Not this year,” George’s hands don’t leave his neck; they only squeeze harder when Max unzips his jacket and reaches inside his pants to pull his cock out from the confines of the fabric.
His balls are still trapped inside his pants and it should be uncomfortable, but all the Brit can do is watch as Max spits on his own hand, twice, and wraps it around their cocks. This time, they moan in unison.
“Why not?” Max asks, his lips parted as he breathes hard. George can only stare at them as he tries his best to not move his hips and accidentally show the other man he likes this.
“You’re not good enough,” George proclaims, biting his lip as his head thuds against the wall. Max’s hand feels huge and he leaks so much pre-cum that it’s enough for the both of them.
“Yeah?” Max mumbles, a hint of a smirk in his voice. He squeezes his hand around their cocks and George tightens his grip around his neck.
Max starts fucking into his own fist, his cockhead bumping against George’s and making them both groan. It’s so warm inside his room; the Brit is already sweating, but he won’t let go of him, not when he has Max under his fingertips.
“You got lucky in 2021. This is Lando’s year,” George continues with his taunting, gasping as Max traces a vein on the underside of his dick with his nail before continuing to jerk them off.
Verstappen gets closer to him, and for one terrifying moment, George thinks he’s going to kiss him. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Max does that, but the other man, almost disappointingly, bypasses his face and moves closer to his ear instead.
“Do you really believe that?” Max whispers, his lisp easy to hear now that he’s so close. George can only nod, his hips twitching in what resembles a thrust. Max chuckles. “Liar.”
“I beat you in Singapore.”
That race was exhilarating.
Singapore is always one of the toughest races on the calendar. The heat is brutal, and he always sweats so much that one year he dropped four kilos in just two hours. This time, though, he came out on top. Standing on the podium felt better than ever, knowing he had beaten everyone else out there—knowing he had beaten Max.
He remembers Max and Lando spraying him with champagne. However, it was Max who made him feel lightheaded. He sprayed him as George was drinking from his bottle, eyes closed and savoring a drink he doesn’t even like very much.
George had half a mind to open his mouth and let Max feed him the sweet nectar since he looked so desperate to do it.
His mouth stayed closed, but later, much later in the night, he stripped his cock raw and came against the pillow, thinking about Max and a champagne bottle.
“You did. Did that make you hard too? Beating me?” George lets out a noise that sounds more like a whimper.
He nods.
“Fuck,” Max groans, thrusting more forcefully. The head of his cock leaves a trail of pre-cum on his pubic bone when he bumps against it.
“Would you bite my dick off if I pushed you down on your knees and made you suck it?” Max continues, breathing roughly in his ear.
George chokes on a breath, pushing his face against Max’s. “Why don’t you do it and find out?”
“Another time,” Max smirks.
The slide is so slick just with their pre-cum and Max’s spit that it almost feels like lube. George’s thighs are beginning to shake, and he’d struggle to stay upright if the other man weren’t keeping him pressed against the wall.
It’s not even a great handjob. Georg has had better, but it’s who’s giving it that makes it special. And he hasn’t been touched like this by anyone since Carmen left.
“Verstappen,” George gasps, his thumb pressed against his carotid artery to feel how it jumps. ”Max,” he moans.
“Better. Are you close, sweetheart?” Max asks, and takes that moment to bite George on the side of his neck, his teeth surely leaving a mark.
George makes a sound between a yell and a moan, hips jerking against Max’s. He digs his fingers into the side of Max’s neck in retaliation and listens as he starts choking, struggling to breathe.
“You—,” Max starts, barely managing the word. George wants him quiet, but he lets up a bit because the Dutcham’s grip around him becomes more loose. “You’re so wet. Made my cock so slippery, schatje. I bet I can just slip it inside your hole and you’ll take it so well,” he continues, voice fucked.
“Shut the fuck up. Shut up,” George pleads, sneers.
“Did Carmen touch you like this? Did she make you feel as good as me?”
He should push Max away as soon as he mentions his ex-girlfriend, but he doesn’t. George only lets go with one hand, gripping Max’s shoulder instead, his nails digging in as if he wants him to feel it. Max pulls back slightly, and George can finally see his face.
God, he looks beautiful.
“Come for me, princess,” Max keeps talking, his hand moving fast, gripping them both in a tight fist. George is close, he’s so fucking close.
“I don’t—I don’t obey your orders,” George gasps, holding himself back from coming for as long as he can, but he can feel his balls drawing up.
Max chuckles, shaking his head slightly, wearing George’s hand like a collar. “C’mon, don’t be stubborn.”
And then, and then, “Let me see how beautiful you are when you come and I might let you take my dick when I win the championship.”
George is coming all over Max’s hand, dirtying their clothes as he gasps and moans, his hips working to prolong his orgasm. Max’s eyes don’t leave his face as he falls apart, and he looks like he’s trying to commit George’s face to memory.
He spills all over his own fist a few seconds later, outlasting George even when it comes to sex. The Brit should find him ugly when Max tenses and then lets go, his face settling into a relaxed expression most people would probably find unappealing. But it's so unmistakably Max that he can't see it that way.
When he looks down, he sees their cum mixed together as Max is still slowly moving his fist, coming down from his high.
They breathe in unison. It’s intimate, and George starts to hate it after a minute. When he notices his hand still wrapped around Max’s neck, he lets go of him slowly. There’s marks in the shape of his fingers on the pale skin.
He hopes they’ll still be visible when he goes home.
Wickedly, he wants Kelly to look at them.
Max takes a couple of steps back and tucks himself back inside his pants. George does the same, and runs the hand that didn’t touch his cock through his hair, hoping to make it more presentable. The Dutchman stares at him.
“I’ll call you when I win it,” the championship, Max means.
George predicted at the beginning of the season that RedBull wouldn’t win it.
“Alright,” he says, and leaves the room, closing the door behind him.
Neither Max nor RedBull win anything. The Dutchman doesn’t call him after Abu Dhabi and George doesn’t think much about it when he’s partying with Lando.
The ugly thing inside of him is mostly silent.
2026 is supposed to be a good year.
They know they’ve got the best car in the grid, and George, as the senior driver, gets more perks than Kimi, who’s still a teenager.
Australia is amazing. George wins the race and the car feels good, finally responding to him as it should. He shares the podium with Kimi and Charles whilst Max comes in sixth.
He's not really thinking when he texts Max after showering and changing into clothes that aren't soaked in champagne.
It’s been months since they were last with each other. Since Vegas.
They’re good in front of the cameras, but the season has barely begun and he knows they’re bound to disagree at some point during the year. He texts him because he wants to gloat, because even though it’s only the first race, Max’s car is shit.
This might be his year.
George is scrolling on Instagram when he gets a text back from Max.
room 323
don’t be late
You didn’t tell me when to go.
How the hell am I meant to be on time?
George realises his mistake just as he sends the text, but Max is already writing and he doesn’t have time to delete it.
yeah but you’re gonna be a good boy
and come now xx
Fuck’s sake.
He stares at his screen, fuming, and thinks about not going. However, he won the first race of the year and he deserves to brag about it.
George grabs a bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leaves his room. The drive to Max’s hotel is shorter than he’d like.
Max bends him over the desk, fucks him against the wall and then has George in missionary on the bed.
The older man’s chest is scratched, as is his back. Some scratches are so red that they look like they’re bleeding—George wants to trace them with his lips, but the only thing he can do is moan as Max fucks him like he hasn’t orgasmed twice already.
Max stares into his eyes, almost unblinking as he splits George open on his cock. It’s uncomfortable to have him look at him like this—like he can see. The Brit needs to remind himself that the ‘ugly thing’ is just metaphorical. It doesn’t exist, and Max can’t see through his soul; he can’t see who George truly is.
Still, with shaking hands, he reaches for Max’s neck. The other man doesn’t slow his thrusts, they only become more vicious as George starts squeezing, more than he had dared to last time.
“You like it when I do this? You like to wear my hands around your neck like a collar?” The Brit asks in a hoarse whisper, his voice barely recognisable as it’s tinted with lust.
“Your hands might be the collar, but I’m still holding the leash, Georgie,” Max rasps, and buries his cock inside him in a rough trust that has him sliding up the bed to drive home his point.
George, after a stuttered howl, laughs and sees Max’s mouth twitch.
He tightens his grip around Max’s neck until he can’t even gasp anymore and his thrusts begin faltering, becoming more irregular as the oxygen doesn’t reach his brain. Max doesn’t try to stop him, and when he can’t hold himself up anymore, he collapses against George’s chest, punching a breath out of his lungs.
Only then does George allow him to breathe, and he clenches uncontrollably around his cock as he hears Max greedily taking gulps of breath. The Dutchman starts fucking again, no rhythm—reduced to mindless rutting like he still can’t think straight.
This is the hardest George has ever been: In Max’s bed, about to come for the third time in two hours, without having touched his cock, after almost choking him unconscious.
Max let him, Max enjoyed it. George can feel his cock pulsing inside him as the Brit comes with a shout, tightening around Max as though his body wants to keep the appendage as a souvenir. Verstappen comes, filling him up once more and staking a claim that no one else can see.
He remains seated inside him, and George doesn’t complain about it, surprisingly. He takes the other man's weight, giving him space to breathe as his fingers skim the sheets.
When the older man pulls out a few minutes later, he does so more carefully than George deserves, and gets out of bed after a few failed attempts, his legs refusing to cooperate.
George watches him go and he stares at the door waiting for him to come back. When Max returns, the Brit looks at the marks he left on his body.
Verstappen looks like he went to war—the scratches look more pronounced now and his shoulders are bruised where George grabbed him as he was getting fucked. The most interesting part, however, is his neck. George can still see the imprints of his fingers against the pale skin.
When he looks down at his own body, he sees that Max also left his marks. Besides the cum trickling down his thighs, his hips and thighs are bruised where Max was holding him open. His nipples feel raw and his buttocks are hurting from the Dutchman slapping his cheeks over and over again when he had him bent over the desk.
George can’t complain, he moaned like a virgin every time Max’s hand came down.
When Verstappen gets between his legs again, George resists the urge to close them, but he can’t stop himself from tensing. Max gives him a look the Brit can’t decipher, and he starts wiping off the cum with a wet cloth. When he’s done, he throws it to the side and lies down on the bed before turning the tv on.
They both look at the tv for long moments. There’s a penguin documentary on, and George starts getting more tired by the minute.
“I need to take a nap. I’ll leave when I wake up,” George announces as he turns onto his side and pulls the covers over himself. He doesn’t ask him if he can stay. It’s less humiliating like this.
“Okay,” it’s all Max says.
He turns the volume down and the last thing George hears is a penguin getting killed by an orca.
Only the toughest survive.
Monaco is always such a joke, so of course, this time it was no different.
Max didn’t even start the race, and George ended up 12th because of a stupid penalty that resulted from people not knowing how to do math.
He’s beyond frustrated when the race ends. The points just keep slipping away from him and the car is starting to give him problems. He hopes they’ll be solved soon; this is still George’s year.
He hears from Charles, unsurprisingly, that Max went to his yacht before the race even ended. It was a stupidly long and boring race, George can’t blame him.
What he can do, however, is text Max after fulfilling his duties and taking a quick shower.
Are you on the yacht?
He knows that he is, but he wants to see what the other man will tell him.
Max only takes a few seconds to reply.
yes
are you looking for an invitation?
Do you want to invite me?
ask me and you can come, georgie
George debates leaving him on read and going to party with Lando, who he knows is playing DJ on another yacht. But his blood is already boiling, and the other Brit won’t be able to do anything about it.
Can I go on your yacht, Verstappen?
yes you may
Annoying twat.
When George gets on a friend’s yacht and makes his way to Max’s much bigger one, he finds the man sitting down and practising on a simulator. He doesn’t know why he was expecting anything different.
“Get yourself a drink,” the Dutchman gestures in the general direction of the small kitchen and doesn’t remove his gaze from the screen.
George does as he said—not because he told him to, but because he needs a drink after the shitty day he’s had. He prepares an Aperol Spritz for himself, feeling slightly guilty about drinking on a race weekend, but no one’s going to know. Max is not the type to go around and tell others he got George to drink on his yacht. Especially if he needs to explain what the Brit was doing there in the first place.
Max joins him a few minutes later, barefoot and relaxed, as though the race was gone now and it couldn’t affect him anymore. George wishes he could think like that.
Verstappen makes a gin and tonic for himself, of course, before heading out to the deck and settling onto a sunbed. George lies down beside him, and together they look out at the sea with a strange calmness. This is not what George came here for.
Yet, he continues sipping on his cocktail.
“The penalty was bullshit,” Max states, one hand raised to block the sun.
Somehow, he had expected the other man to simply get on the sim and drive the entirety of the race there. It didn’t make sense; he needed to know how many points his rivals would end up scoring. Even so.
“I know. Can’t do anything about it, though,” George shrugs, taking another sip of his drink.
“Monaco is always like this.”
“The red flag went on forever,” George offers.
He resists the urge to smile when Verstappen makes a sound in agreement and gestures with his hands before settling down back in his lounge chair.
“I almost fell asleep waiting for the race to restart, man. So boring,” Max complains.
This conversation is…nice. They don’t talk much outside of the paddock and when the cameras are not on them. The Max he’s making conversation with right now is not the same Max that George has in his head. The one that wants to put him through a wall and that can give George what he needs.
“Mhm,” The Brit agrees with him, and takes another sip of his drink. “I need you to fuck me.”
Max looks at him amused and raises his glass. “Can I finish my drink at least?”
“You may,” George replies, equally amused and pretends he doesn’t feel anything when Max laughs.
They take a few more minutes to finish their drinks with Max making small talk, and George replying as he stares at the vast ocean and thinks about Max filling him. It’s better than thinking about the race he just drove.
When the Dutchman leads them to his room, George is thrumming with excitement, and the other man doesn’t disappoint. He undresses the Brit completely before he even removes his shirt. Just a few minutes later, he has George writhing on his fingers and bearing down on the digits to try to make him go faster.
Only then does Max undress, gets on the bed, covers his cock in lube, and pushes forward carefully, all under two minutes.
George is impressed, but he’d never say that out loud. Max already has a big cock; he doesn’t need him to feed his ego even more.
Max is driving that same cock inside him over and over again, using up all that energy that he had saved for the race on George. The only thing the Brit can do is moan and try not to howl as it touches all the right places.
When George is able to open his eyes for more than five seconds, he notices that Max is looking down. At first, he thinks he’s looking at his own cock drilling into George’s hole, but then, he notices his thumbs caressing his hipbones.
Max is stroking them so gently, so unlike his rough thrusts, that it short-circuits his brain. His fingertips trace each scar with painstaking care, lingering as though committing every line to memory, as if he's afraid that pressing too hard might somehow erase them instead.
The Brit falls back on instinct, reaching for control in the only way he knows when helplessness threatens to swallow him whole. Max is treating him like something fragile, and George has never been fragile.
He reaches for the Dutchman’s neck with both hands, squeezing before the other even has a chance to prepare for it. Max’s head snaps up, his eyes widening slightly.
George knows his own eyes are just as wide as Max's. Max doesn't look away for a single second, his thumb still tracing the old scars with impossible gentleness as he keeps fucking him. Their gazes remain locked, neither of them willing to break first. George's fingers tighten around the base of Max's neck, and he feels the answering hitch in his breath. Something hot and reckless curls in his chest. He decides he wants more.
George uses his grip to pull Max down and meets his lips for the first time in a kiss full of tongue and teeth. Max gasps against his lips, but he kisses back without hesitation, tilting his head to the right to deepen the kiss. He caresses Max's carotid artery with his thumb, pressing his finger in just enough to hear him choke. The reaction only encourages him, but before he can linger on it, Max answers with a punishing thrust that has his legs kicking involuntarily. Tears spring to George's eyes.
Max’s mouth doesn’t leave his even when they need to breathe. George pants against his lips and Max gasps, taking in gulps of air when George allows him to.
“Alex fucks me better,” George gasps out. It’s a lie, but the words flow out of his mouth so easily.
Max snorts, choking on a breath as George meanly tightens his grip. He only speaks when the younger man finally allows him to.
“I sincerely doubt that, schatje. You’re drooling and almost crying on my dick. No one fucks you better than me,” his voice is absolutely fucked, but he still manages to sound smug.
George shakes his head as one tear slips free, and Max is there to catch it, his hips jerking at the sight of the Brit crying from pleasure.
His cock is ruthless, his hands are gentle, and George is tightening around his dick as he whimpers, impossibly trying to arch his back off the bed under Max’s weight.
He comes, like last time, without having to reach for dick. When Max comes, he presses his cock as deep as he can and fills George up so perfectly.
Verstappen kisses him again, still inside him, and George allows him for long minutes. His hands are running up and down Max’s back. It’s definitely too loving for them, but George is drunk on endorphins, and that’s obviously the reason why he’s doing it.
The Dutchman kisses him again, still inside him, and George lets himself sink into it for a long while. His hands move slowly over Max’s back, a tenderness that feels almost unfamiliar between them. It’s far softer than either of them is used to, but George is drunk on endorphins. He tells himself it’s temporary; that it’s just the aftermath of their coupling, but he stays where he is.
Max pulls out with a slick sound, and he doesn’t waste any time before he goes to find something to clean George and himself up with. This time, the Brit doesn’t flinch when Max gets between his legs.
They lie down next to each other, staring at the ceiling as they try to regain their breath. George is so exhausted after the long race and getting hit by train Verstappen, that it’s not his fault when his mouth starts running.
“My father was very harsh to me when I was a child,” George starts, keeping his gaze on the ceiling even when he can see through the corner of his eye Max looking at him.
“He used to time my laps but—he’d start the timer late, every time, so I could never get a perfect lap no matter how hard I tried,” he continues, and hears Max hum in reply.
The fact that Max doesn’t say anything, for some reason, encourages him to keep talking.
“He said that I couldn’t be weak; that I’d get eaten alive if I allowed others to have any power over me,” George finishes with a heavy sigh, tapping his fingers on his stomach to try to feel less awkward.
“Angry people make good champions,” Max replies. The exact words his father told him when he was still karting.
George can guess who was telling them to Max. He nods.
“You already know how my dad was—is,” everyone in the paddock knew, even the fans, though not to the same extent as them. “He wasn’t happy when I didn’t win the championship last year.”
George could only imagine after all the things he heard about Jos Verstappen.
The thought of Max’s father putting his hands on him even as an adult doesn’t sit well with him, so he pulls Max into a kiss and reaches down to take a hold of his cock.
It’s easier when he’s not thinking about it.
It’s the day after when some interesting pics emerge on his feed. George has been searching Max a bit more often, so it’s not really a surprise that his algorithm assumes he wants to see more.
It’s paparazzi pics, taken this morning and are already on the internet for everyone to see. In them, George sees Max walking down the street as he tries to pull his t-shirt up to cover his neck. Still, the next few pictures are zoomed in on it.
George was gentler than last time—he knows he was, but there’s still marks on his neck that Max tries to hide from the paparazzi as he gives them dirty looks. The bruises look ugly and red, and they will probably turn purple in a day or two.
Did George actually do that? Hurt Max like this?
To see it from the outside, like a fan seeing new pictures of their favourite driver, really puts things into perspective.
It doesn’t feel good. He doesn’t feel powerful.
Max let him do it. He let George take his anger out on him and he didn’t complain for a single second.
When George looks down at his own body, the only marks he sees are the faint bruises on his thighs, left from where Max was squeezing them a bit too tightly in the beginning, eager to get his cock inside him. And nothing else. Max didn’t want to hurt him in the slightest.
Fuck.
Alex calls a few minutes later and George picks up immediately, grateful for a distraction to make him stop feeling sick.
George can say without a doubt that this year’s Stefano’s annual drivers' dinner is one of the best they’ve ever had.
Spirits are high, and speaking for himself, George feels pretty confident about the race. The car has been having problems, Kimi is still ahead of him in the standings, but there are still a lot of races left and a lot of points to win.
George arrives second for dinner. He came early, expecting to beat everyone to it, but he finds Max already sat down and talking to one of the employees.
He doesn’t even realise he’s smiling until Verstappen turns to him with a grin of his own, and George feels it widen.
“Are you going to sit at the other end of the table, again?” Max asks teasingly, bypassing greetings altogether.
Some of the workers laugh as George shakes his head and pulls up the chair opposite Max.
“No, this side of the room feels pretty good, this time.”
He doesn’t break eye contact with the other man, an annoying smile on lips that refuses to disappear, and Max looks at him with a twinkle in his eyes he hasn’t seen before.
Lewis sits on his left, Arvid sits on his right, and George can’t really complain about it. He’s used to Lewis from having been his teammate for three years, but he has admired him for much longer than that.
Arvid is chatty, but he gets shy when George jokes with him. He’s still got that rookie nervousness that will probably follow him around for another year. However, he’s nice and polite. They, unsurprisingly, discuss England and cars before the food arrives.
George can see why Max is so fond of all the rookies.
Even so, it’s Lewis who grabs his attention once they finally start eating.
“The car is finally good,” Lewis comments, leaning in so they can have a private conversation.
“Yeah, finally. We knew it would be—this year,” George replies. Lewis knew it too, but he couldn’t afford to wait another year. “Ferrari is not bad at all, either.”
Lewis nods. They’ve massively improved since he got there; the power of having Lewis Hamilton on your team.
“We’re getting there,” the older man concedes. “Much better than in other years.”
George hums, turning back to his plate. When he looks up, he makes eye contact with Max, who was already looking at him. The Brit doesn’t look away until Lewis draws his attention back to him once more.
“So, what’s going on with you and Max?” The words are murmured close to his ear, kept low and hidden from everyone else.
George turns his head slightly, and he keeps his expression schooled.
“What do you mean?” He feigns innocence.
“You’re sitting in front of him and you’re not actively trying to kill each other,” Lewis chuckles, though there’s a glint in his eye that George recognises as mischievous.
“I’ve matured, Lewis. I’m not the same guy from 2024.”
“Uh huh,” the older man smirks. “He was smiling when you were talking to Arvid.”
“Was he? I didn’t notice.”
That’s a lie. George couldn’t miss it, especially since Max shamelessly laughed at something he said to Arvid, not even bothering to pretend he wasn’t listening in on their conversation.
“And you were smiling when he was talking to Ollie.”
Shit.
Lewis, lovely Lewis, is like a dog with a bone when something catches his interest. George knows he’s already lost the battle, but he still needs to try to save face as much as he can.
“We were all smiling, then? Guess everyone is really happy.”
“Yeah, sure. You and Max, especially,” Lewis smirks, so cockily that George sighs.
“Are you going to talk to Charles about this?”
The look the older Brit sends him has duh written all over it. George exhales slowly, and decidedly does not sigh again.
“What’s ‘this’ you’re referring to?” He tries to push for more.
“Lewis,” George almost begs, watching him raise his hands like he’s not doing anything. “Nothing is happening between me and Max.”
“Of course. And I won the championship in 2024.”
“Well,” George starts, hoping to steer them towards a new subject, “Lando and Isack believe you deserved to win it.”
That finally gets Lewis to stop talking about him and Max, and instead they discuss Isack and how the younger man follows him around like an adorable puppy sometimes.
The mood lightens, and it’s always nice talking to Lewis when he isn’t trying to pry some gossip out of him. Everyone in the paddock is the same: nosy by nature. George doesn’t have much leeway to complain, though, not when he and Lewis used to talk about every single thing that happened to the other drivers.
This is karma, perhaps.
He feels something tapping him on his foot when Lewis is talking to Carlos, and he doesn’t need to look under the table to know it’s Max.
When their gazes meet, the Dutchman tips his chin up in what George recognises as him asking if something's happening.
The Brit shakes his head discretely, not wanting to draw Lewis’ attention to them, and Max nods. He strikes a conversation with Ollie and George asks Arvid about football, who seems really happy he’s starting a conversation with him.
They all go to their hotels after dinner, including George. He doesn’t stay for long however. Only enough to shower before he’s texting Max to ask him where he’s staying.
He wasn’t sure if he’d prefer to have proper sex or just get a blowjob from Max and call it a night, but when he gets there and the Dutchman’s lips are on his before he even locks the door, George is sure of what he wants.
He just didn’t account for Max to be so careful with him. The Brit should be grateful, of course, they’ll be driving their cars tomorrow, but this is not how they usually do things.
“I’m ready, c’mon,” George whines as Max fucks him with three digits.
It’s more than enough; he’d be okay with just two, but Max has been going on for ages—his fingers are probably wrinkly from how long he’s spent fingering him. George has a hand wrapped around the base of his cock to stop himself from coming prematurely, and he can see Max jerking himself off slowly.
Why Verstappen is taking so long when he clearly wants it, George doesn’t know.
“Just a bit longer, schat,” Max rasps infuriatingly.
“We haven’t got all night—fuck—I need to go back to my hotel at a decent time or Kimi is going to ask everyone where I was,” George moans, his legs twitching around Max’s body.
The older man groans, and it’s not a sexy one. “Don’t talk about Kimi when we're in bed.”
George smirks and clenches around his fingers. “Then fuck me.”
“Brat,” Max sighs, its effect lost on him when George can see him smirking.
“Piss off,” finally, Max removes his fingers and doesn’t reach for a condom.
They get tested often enough, and George hasn't been with anyone else since Carmen left him. He doesn’t know what Max’s situation is with Kelly, and he doesn’t really care.
They’ve been doing this for months now and the results always come negative.
“Do you like fucking in missionary?” George asks teasingly as Max holds his legs open with one hand while the other one grabs a hold of his own cock.
“I like looking at you,” and then, Max is lining his cockhead with his entrance and pushing inside him in an easy slide.
They moan in unison as he inches forward, not stopping until he bottoms out. He tips himself closer to George and takes his top lip into his mouth before he’s sliding his tongue against the Brit’s in a slow, sensual kiss. He hasn’t stopped kissing him since he found out it was allowed from their time in Monaco.
Max starts with slow thrusts, kissing the younger man until he needs to pull back to breathe, and then he’s kissing his neck. George expects him to bite down and draw blood, but Max doesn’t even bite him. He just kisses him gently and licks at the sweat gathering on his skin.
George wraps his arms around Max’s broad back, holding on until Max settles all of his weight on top of him. It shouldn’t feel good; the Dutchman is heavier than him and he’s forcing his legs open in a way that’s meant to be uncomfortable but—George likes it.
It’s as though he has nowhere to go, and he doesn’t have to think about anything else besides the weight of Max’s big cock bumping along his walls.
The Dutchman lifts his head, only just enough to look at George. His thrusts are still slow, almost a gentle grind into George, and it starts to become too much.
He’s not holding Max’s neck or scratching his shoulders until he draws blood—he feels good about the race and about himself for once; but why isn’t Max doing it?
Max, who’s so used to winning, who lives for it, and is stuck with a piece of shit for a car?
“I’m not weak,” George finds himself saying, the words flying out of his mouth before he can try to stop them.
Max furrows his brow and slows down even more, essentially just sitting inside him. “I know you aren’t.”
“Then why aren’t you hurting me? I’m not weak, I can’t take it,” the words feel heavy on his tongue—wrong, as though he’s following a script.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Max murmurs softly, holding himself up on one elbow to brush George’s hair back with his hand.
“But I’m telling you that I can take it,” he insists, swallowing around the lump that formed in his throat.
Max looks at him impossibly kind, his face doing things that George never saw being directed at him. His hand slides down the Brit’s face until he’s cradling his jaw, and George forces himself to stay still.
“Oh, George,” he croaks out.
“You’re the four time champion of the world, you can hurt me. I’m not a champion yet,” he continues, feeling uncomfortable under the weight of Max’s stare.
“Shh,” he hushes him quietly, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“It’s true,” George insists, his eyes widening slightly as Max pushes himself up and straightens.
“I’m going to stop,” the older man announces. George wraps his legs around his waist immediately, trying to keep him there as he reaches for his bicep.
“No—no, Max. Please, don’t stop,” George pleads, his eyes big and blue as he looks at Max, who remains silent. He hates that he can’t decipher the look on his face.
“I don’t want to stop. I just thought you—,” wanted to hurt me, George doesn’t say. “Please. I like this, I like feeling you.”
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
His words are final, not exactly daring George to push back, but Max is warning him that he’ll make good on his promise and stop if the Brit insists.
George hurriedly nods. “Okay, okay.”
“Like you were doing before, please,” he adds, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was holding when Max settles down on top of him again.
“Gentle,” the Dutchman utters.
George can do nothing but nod again. “Yes.”
Max pulls his hips back slowly, before he’s thrusting back inside. Some of the lube has dried, sticking to his thighs and bothering George. That is, until the Dutchman curves his body over his, and the head of his cock presses deliciously against the bundle of nerves that makes George kick out his legs and let out a gasp.
“Max,” he moans, his lips parted as the other man grinds against the spot, sending shivers all over his body.
“That’s it, sweetheart. So good,” Max praises, leaving kisses on George’s cheeks.
The only thing he can do is hold onto the Dutchman’s shoulders, and before he notices, he’s digging his nails into soft skin, leaving long marks that stop at the top of his back. George freezes when Max hisses quietly, biting the younger man’s cheekbone playfully.
He lets go of Max, digging his nails into his palms to stop himself from reaching for the other man. Max notices immediately, his sharp eyes catching the small act of restraint.
Without stopping his assault on George’s prostate, he grabs one of the Brit’s hands and guides it to his own neck, doing the same thing with his other hand. George has his thick neck in his grip once more; but it’s a hold so loose that his fingers almost slip away when he thrusts a tad faster.
“You can do it, it’s okay,” George knows immediately what he means, but he still swallows, his eyes widening as he looks up at Max. “Don’t be afraid.”
George squeezes softly, and Max moans.
He’s so beautiful, God.
With his mouth parted as he looks down at George, eyes rolling back when the younger man tightens his hold for a bit longer the second time. It’s exhilarating and—George shouldn’t like this; there’s something gravelly wrong with him, but the only place he feels good is in Max’s bed and with his hands around his neck.
“So good, princess,” Max groans as the sound of his balls slapping against George’s cheeks starts echoing in the bedroom.
The minutes pass and they get lost in each other, moans and whimpers filling the room as George is tethering on the edge of overstimulation. When his legs start shaking, he keeps hold of Max’s neck with one hand as his other one slides down his back until he can grab his plump cheeks.
George squeezes the flesh as he applies more pressure to the Dutchman’s neck. Max is barely thrusting now; he’s shoving his cock as deep inside George as he can and almost as if he’s trying to find a way to glue them both together.
“Max,” George exhales, the name barely audible. The older man pushes against his hand until his face is pressed against George’s.
“Baby,” Max whispers, the endearment warm against his skin.
It’s with Max man panting in his ear that George comes, his cock painting both their stomachs pearly white. Max only manages to buck his hips a handful of times before he’s spilling inside him, his cock twitching as George clenches around him.
They breathe hard, and the Brit’s thoughts are already spiraling into places he doesn’t want them to go. The relentless churn of his mind quiets only when Max leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his lips before carefully easing out of him.
The moment he stretches, a cramp seizes his legs, making him realise he'd kept them wrapped around Max’s waist the entire time. Max reaches for a warm washcloth and gently cleans him up before taking care of himself, wiping away the traces of cum and the sheen of sweat clinging to his chest.
George gives himself a few minutes to think, and when Max comes back to bed with two water bottles in his hand, he heaves himself up and immediately starts looking for his clothes on the ground. Max, who was in the process of handing him a water bottle, stops in his tracks.
“You’re leaving?” The Dutchman asks, his tone a far cry from the stoic Max he was used to. He sounds almost sad.
“I told you about Kimi,” George replies, finding his boxers and sliding them up his long legs before he picks up his trousers.
“I thought you were just saying that to get me to hurry up,” Max retorted, teasing, but there’s still something sharp about it.
The Brit merely hums as he gets dressed, not pausing to look at Max.
“George,” Max calls and the younger man makes a noncommittal sound. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing, Max,” he replies, tugging his t-shirt on. He just needs to find his socks and he’ll get out of his hair.
“Did I hurt you?”
That makes George pause where he was moving almost frantically.
He glances at Max, who’s still naked and still holding the water bottles. He no longer just sounds sad; he looks it too, as though the thought of hurting him is almost unbearable. George finds himself shaking his head, unable to find his voice.
“Have I ever hurt you?” Max’s voice breaks as he asks.
“I wanted it,” George speaks as steady as he can, his throat working as he swallows the saliva accumulated in his mouth.
“George.”
“What, Max?” He snaps, all the tenderness hitting him wrong. “I did worse, every time.”
The words are not said with pride, but with shame and guilt. He can’t recognise himself anymore.
“And you didn’t hurt me. I wanted it. It was good, we were—” equals, George wanted to say. You hurt me, and I hurt you, he doesn’t say, “—we were good.”
He looks at Max, his gaze taking note of the different parts of his body. He can see the scratches on his shoulders that extend up to his upper back and he saw the marks his fingernails left on his buttocks when George gripped them tight.
And looking at Max’s neck, George is still aggressive even when he’s not actually trying to be. He thought he had found his equal in Max, but whatever darkness he saw in him doesn’t compare to his own. How Max welcomed him into his bed time and time again, he doesn’t know.
The Dutchman stands there, saying nothing, just staring at George. The Brit, under the weight of his gaze, grabs his socks off the floor and his shoes before walking towards the door.
“I’m sorry,” George says, one hand on the handle, squeezing it tightly in his grip.
When Max doesn’t say anything, George opens his mouth and leaves, only pausing to put his shoes on when he calls for the elevator.
What a mess.
He remembers seeing those paparazzi pictures. He remembers the way they made him feel sick to his stomach as he looked through every single one. George thought he had wanted to hurt Max and be hurt, but he felt like shit when he saw the aftermath of what he did to the Dutchman.
The anger is not there anymore. The rotten thing that drives him to succeed, that pushes him to obey the rules whilst playing dirty if he ever needs to.
And what is George without his anger? The rage that’s refusing to come out when it’s about Max. He wants to be tender with him, even if he can’t seem to do it right, and he doesn’t understand these new feelings.
George doesn’t text him after he leaves, and in Silverstone, he refuses to look in Max’s direction even when he can feel the weight of his gaze on him. Max DNF’s, George comes second (still never good enough to be first in the standings), and he has to turn off his phone to resist the urge to text the Dutchman.
The guilt and confusion he feels help him stay away from Max.
Spa is his breaking point.
It’s been a long time coming, but the Belgium Grand Prix is where everything finally comes crashing down. It’s the culmination of weeks knowing something was wrong with the car, and yet having his concerns waved off. This race is proof that he was right, but he can’t even bring himself to be happy with it.
He can’t blame Lewis for the crash, either. It was just racing, even if it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue and it makes the rotten thing inside him want to scream at the older man—and at everyone who wronged him.
Besides, the car had been losing power on the straights, and with his luck, George would’ve ended up stuck behind the Aston Martins anyway.
As he leaves to go to his motorhome, George knows in his heart that Kimi will win the race and once again widen the gap between them.
He doesn’t take his helmet off as he walks past the Mercedes mechanics and engineers. A few of them look at him with something that borders on pity. Someone pats him on the back as he passes.
He'd shouted at them; at the team. Snapped over the radio, let his frustration spill over where it didn't belong. And still, they look at him like this.
Because they know he’s right. They know his driving didn't just suddenly become shit.
Toto doesn’t say anything when George approaches him. He only looks at him with a neutral expression and pats him on the shoulder before he returns his attention back to the race.
George wonders if Toto also paid attention to his race after Kimi DNF’d and the Brit came second in Barcelona. It doesn’t really matter. He’s not the one leading the championship.
They let him go to his room and lock the door as though he’s a petulant child and not a twenty-eight years old racing driver.
George tries not to think as he undresses and steps into the shower. Beneath the spray of warm water, he can pretend the tears running down his face are nothing more than droplets streaming from his hair. When the sobs finally come and he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes so hard he sees stars, George stops wanting to pretend everything is fine.
He gets dressed and puts a hat over his head. Someone will fetch him when it’s time to go give interviews, so in the meantime, George stares at one of the walls in his room and waits for time to pass.
It was supposed to be his year.
His assistant comes to get him before the race ends. They want to talk to him alone, without the other drivers around. It’s probably better like this. Less chances of George losing his temper and swinging at the first person that commiserates him as they gloat.
George talks and he answers every question that comes his way. His voice wobbles halfway through an answer, and he feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He forces them back, swallowing hard as he struggles to compose himself.
It all catches up to him as the interviewer moves on to the next question. Then another reporter steps forward, followed by another. The questions barely change, and every answer is given with at least one camera trained on him, leaving him nowhere to hide. He’s getting beaten by his teenage teammate and his own team principal is partially blaming his driving for his bad results.
George talks and talks until his assistant thanks the journalists and says that he won’t be replying to any more questions. The Brit thanks them as well and walks with her, keeping his gaze forward even though he can feel her looking at him.
“Are you okay?” She asks.
The smile that grows on George’s lips is robotic and practiced.
“Of course. Thank you,” he replies, and opens the door to his motorhome. He nods at her and waits until she leaves to close the door.
George sits down on the bed and stares at the wall. The pain he feels when his nails break the skin on the palm of his hands is nothing compared to the pain he feels on the inside; as cliché as that sounds.
Kimi wins the race, Max gets third place and George doesn’t leave his room until he gets a text from Alex asking him if he’d like to fly back to Monaco tonight.
Before he replies to Alex, he opens the message thread with Max. They haven’t spoken since Austria, and George tried to stay away from him, but he’s the only one who understands. Or that tries to understand.
Max.
Can we meet?
George stares at his phone until Max sees the message. The older man doesn’t reply for what feels like an eternity, and the Brit’s heart sinks deeper and deeper. Until three dots appear.
can you be in Monaco tonight?
Yes
The two check marks turn blue immediately, but Max takes his time replying. He’s probably pondering if it’s worth it or not to see him.
come to my apartment.
we’ll talk.
George reacts to his message with a thumbs up and calls Alex to tell him that he’ll meet him at the airport.
It’s not too late when he arrives at Monaco and calls a taxi to take him directly to Max’s house. He’s never been there, but they all know where he lives. It’s Monaco’s second worst kept secret, just behind Lando screwing half the Monegasque population since he became world champion.
George’s hands are sweating when the car stops in front of the luxurious apartment complex. He’s nervous, but he tries not to show it as he pays for his ride and tips the man handsomely, giving him a slight smile when the driver thanks him.
He texts Max to inform him of his arrival and the man buzzes him less than a minute later.
The elevator ride is short, and it does nothing to calm him down. His heart is still thumping inside his chest, faster than it had been when he was racing.
It makes no sense.
The door to Max’s apartment is open. George only hesitates briefly before he comes in and closes the door behind him with a soft click. The Dutchman is holding a drink, gin and tonic by the looks of it, and he grabs another drink that was sitting on the counter.
Aperol Spritz. George takes it from him without saying a word and when he tastes it, it’s perfect. Maybe even better than the one he prepared in Max’s yacht.
When he looks up from his drink, he sees Max looking at him expectantly.
George blinks. “It’s really good.”
Apparently, that’s what the Dutchman was looking for because he nods and walks to his living room. To the living room which is situated in his home, which is where George is right now. He never thought he’d be here.
He follows Max without having to be told to, and sits down next to him on the couch, leaving some space between them.
It’s awkward as they sip in silence, looking at anything but each other. This is not why George came here; even though he’s not actually sure of the exact reason.
“I’m sorry about what happened in Austria,” George forces out, pushing through the awkwardness.
Max looks at him, still holding the glass to his lips. “What are you sorry for?”
Is it too dramatic if he says, for everything? George determines that it is.
“I asked you to hurt me and you didn’t want to. And then I made a big deal out of it,” he starts to shrug, aborting the movement halfway through when he realises it might not be the best response.
“I hurt you before and you never told me nor asked me to stop. I thought you enjoyed it, that you like a bit of pain during sex,” Max says, setting his glass down, “I never meant to actually hurt you. And as my sex partner, you should’ve told me when I did,” he adds.
Max speaks with so much maturity that George can only stare at him for the next few seconds.
It started as Max saying that he’d put his head through a wall, how did they end up here?
“I did want to,” the older man scoffs and George rushes to speak. “I did! It felt good. I…I enjoyed having your hands on me and the bruises you left on my thighs in Australia.”
He touched those bruises later at the hotel, pressed down on them and came all over his hand.
“But, when you started to become nicer,” George swallows thinking about how Max’s gentle hands had caressed the scars on his hips, “that was really good too. And I didn’t know how to feel about that, so I always tried to hurt you.”
Now that he started, he can’t seem to shut up. “In Austria, I was happy and confident for the race, I had no reason to want to hurt anyone, and I thought you’d want to do it because your car is a tin can and you’d maybe like to hurt me the way I hurt you to let off some steam.”
George is almost breathless when he snaps his mouth shut, having to silently take a few deep breaths as he picks up his drink and takes a long sip.
Max appears to digest his words carefully, his face blank as he looks at him.
“You thought I’d want to hurt you because I’m unhappy with my car?” Max asks, and George can only nod. It almost sounds silly.
“I’ve come to you before when I was angry and hurting, and you made me feel good so I thought—,” George stops himself when he doesn’t even know where his own sentence is headed, “—you’d want it. Because I’m your rival and it’d make you feel good to have your hands around my neck.”
“George, I like being choked,” Max tells him so casually that the Brit almost chokes on his saliva. “And you like choking me. That’s why I let you do it. I would not want to hurt you by doing this; it’s sexual, nothing else.”
I like being choked.
Those words echo in his mind, like a siren’s most beautiful chant. They’re having a serious, mature conversation, but now George’s cock is twitching inside his pants and he can’t stop his hips from moving.
George meets his eyes, and Max tries to look disappointed in him, but he can see the desire in his gaze. The Brit hasn’t been touched by anyone in two weeks while actively dreaming about Max almost every night, so forgive him if he’s a bit desperate.
“I really want to ride you,” George states.
Max takes a sharp intake of breath, and the Brit watches as he adjusts himself in his trousers. It's so easy to get him hard. George is only just realising how much that turns him on.
“We’re having a conversation,” Max remarks, but George can see the facade cracking.
“We can have a conversation with you inside me,” he says, tilting his head slightly and allowing his hair to fall across his forehead. Max’s gaze follows the movement before returning to his face.
“Multitasking,” George adds.
The corners of Max’s mouth twitch. “Fine.”
The Brit doesn’t hold back his smile as he gets up from the couch, and takes a final sip of his drink before setting down the half empty glass on the table.
“Splendid, lead the way,” George gestures with his arm and Max obeys.
He leaves his gin and tonic next to George’s glass and gets up before walking in the direction of his bedroom. His heart is beating fast once more at the thought of doing this in Max’s bed instead of just a random hotel or on his yacht.
This feels more personal, and George doesn’t even pretend he’s not looking when they enter his room.
He finds photos from some of Max’s races alongside a few trophies, and more of Lily and Penelope. But there’s nothing of Kelly—not even one picture—and the Brit reminds himself to ask about it later.
“I thought you wanted to sit on my cock?” Max deadpans, already sitting on the bed and looking at George.
He rolls his eyes. “Pardon me for looking at your decoration.”
“You’re pardoned, now come here,” the Dutchman pats the sheets, and the taller of the two goes.
George presses himself to the line of Max’s body, pushing him gently to lie down as he slots their lips together. They fall into a practised rhythm, as though they’ve been doing this for years. It’s so easy to kiss him, to lose himself in the slow, lingering press of their mouths. When their tongues meet, it feels less like a choice and more like surrender.
George lets himself be guided until he’s lying beneath Max, then shifted again so his legs rest comfortably on the bed instead of hanging over the edge.
“You’re going to let me finger you, hm?” Max mutters against his lips as his hand travels until he’s touching George’s stomach under his shirt. “Take as much time as I want with it?”
The Brit’s next breath comes out stuttered. “Not too much time or I’ll fall asleep.”
Max huffs and licks George’s bottom lip. “As if. You moan on my fingers like I’m fucking you with a massive dildo.”
The younger man sputters, pulling back from the kiss to look at Max bug-eyed.
“I do not, I have never—” George gets rudely interrupted by another forceful kiss that he can’t help but continue, even if he nips at Max’s full lips.
Their clothes come off in a blur, landing one by one on the Dutchman's carpet until it's scattered with shirts, trousers, and socks. Max kisses him to distract him when the first finger goes in and fuck, George missed this. He missed his long fingers, not longer than George’s, but thicker, and Max knows where he needs to press down to make him scream.
Soon, George is rocking down against the motion, moaning into the kiss as Max slips a second finger inside him. The squelch of the lube every time his fingers leave him only to plunge back into him, is filthy, and it makes George’s cock twitch where it’s still untouched.
When Max hooks his fingers, the Brit can’t stop the way his back arches off the bed, a moan trapped in his throat that Max kisses away. His movements are deep and slow, but so sure as though he knows George’s body like the palm of his hand. He fucks him with his fingers until the younger man is begging for another one.
And Max gives it to him without George having to plead some more. He can see the way he’s rutting against the sheets as George writhes under him. Max is desperate to get his cock inside him, but he’s also a bastard who’ll only do it when the Brit is gagging for it.
“So pretty. God, you’re so gorgeous, George, it’s unfair. The prettiest in the whole paddock,” Max whispers when the first tear falls as his fingers press against his prostate, barely letting George breathe for a second.
“Now, Max—fuck. Now, I want it now,” he repeats like a broken record.
And it seems that the older man is sick of rutting against the sheets because he thrusts a couple more times, spreading his fingers to make sure he’s well stretched and then he’s pulling out gently. Lube drips out of George, but Max is there to catch it with his thumb and push it back inside him.
The Brit pushes Max away with a huff before he can get any ideas and decide he wants to keep fingering him. The Dutchman passes him the lube as he lies down on the bed, adjusting a pillow behind his head so he’s comfortable.
George coats Max’s cock in lube, not resisting the temptation of jerking him off slowly only to see his hips raise off the bed. He climbs on top of Max carefully, settling down on his thighs.
George looks down at the Dutchman who holds his hips, his thumbs right above George’s scars. The younger man swallows around nothing and props himself up to take Max’s cock in his hand and line it up with his rim.
The moan that leaves his mouth when the head slips inside is downright pornographic. George takes every inch slowly, gravity helping him as well as Max’s hands that hold him steady.
When he’s once again sat on the older man’s meaty thighs, George feels so full. It makes his brain stop working for a few long delicious seconds, and he focuses on breathing as he tries not to clench around his dick too much.
Once the fog in his brain clears, George opens his eyes to find Max staring up at him.
He looks at George as though he’s beautiful. It goes beyond his physical appearance; Max is looking at him as though he sees him and still thinks he’s perfect.
The Brit opens his mouth and the words start spilling immediately. There’s no fear in him, not when Max is looking at him like that.
“There’s this thing inside of me. It—it’s fucking horrendous,” George starts, looking into his eyes. “I hate it when others do better than me. I just want to bash their heads against a wall because I tried so hard, and I’m still nowhere near their level.”
“I’m so angry all the time, Max. And I don’t hate them, I just—,” George curls his hand into a fist. “I want to be them. I want to be better than them, I want to be the best.”
“And I feel this thing when we’re on track with your dodgy driving, sure, but not here,” he continues, shaking his head, “I’ve had such a shitty fucking day, and I still don’t want to hurt you,” he admits softly, tears rushing in his eyes like they’ve been waiting all this time to fall. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore, ever. I’ve been trying not to hurt you for sometime now.”
Max caresses his sides the entire time, listening without an ounce of judgment showing on his face. He lets the Brit breathe, taking his time to calm himself down.
“George, we’ve been having sex for more than a year now,” since Barcelona in Max’s motorhome. “Have you maybe considered that you like me?”
George blinks, his hands placed over Max’s chest. A tear falls. “But I hate you when you win and I don’t.”
“That makes you a good competitor,” he reasons, reaching for his cheekbone in time to wipe away the tear. “But you said that you don’t want to hurt me, right? Even after the race you had today.”
“I haven’t wanted to put your head through a wall for quite some time,” George admits, his thumb brushing the other man’s nipple.
Max smiles at him as though George recited the most romantic poem in existence and dedicated it to him.
“I like you too,” the Dutchman professes, easily, like it’s simple. “Also, have you considered that you probably just like it rough sometimes and are really into choking like I said?”
George feels the blush that takes over his cheeks, as though Max’s words are dirtier than the fact that he has a cock sitting inside him.
“It’s a kink. You don’t need to feel ashamed of course, I have it too,” Max adds with his Dutch honesty, and it is making George feel better.
The younger man nods, and adjusts himself over Max, wringing out a moan from the two of them. He catches a strand of Max’s hair and brushes it back, smiling softly when that gets the other man blushing.
“I just want you to make me feel better, I don’t want to think about the championship, not right now. It was so bad, Max,” George admits quietly with tears still making his eyes shinier despite the way his cock twitches.
“I know, baby. I know,” Max coos softly, leaning closer to George and propping himself up on his elbow to catch his lips in a kiss.
“Ride me like you wanted to, hm? I’ll make you forget about your day,” he continues, his voice muffled by the kiss.
Max waits for George to nod before he pecks him one last time and lies back down on the bed, his hands settling back around the younger man’s hips.
When George finally starts moving, it’s heaven on Earth.
He hoists himself up until only the head remains inside him, and then lets gravity do the rest as he drops back down and takes every single inch of his cock. It pulls a groan from George’s lips, his thighs quivering momentarily when the head drags deliciously along his walls.
He pulls himself up over and over again until the glide is easy and he’s riding Max’s dick like it’s the last time he’ll ever do this.
George adjusts his hips so the head of his cock brushes against his prostate and he trembles when he finds it, changing his grip to hold Max’s thighs instead, his back bowing beautifully. His cock bobs up and down, hitting his stomach and smearing precum all over his skin. He doesn’t reach for it and neither does George; he can come on his dick alone.
He rides him until his legs are burning and he straightens his back once more to face Max. This time, he holds his collarbones instead of his pecs, and it’s as though the older man can read his mind because he redirects George’s hands to his neck like they belong there. It gives George more energy to keep moving as he feels the hard muscle under his fingers.
“You just need to hold onto something when you have a cock in your ass, hm?” Max utters, his hands holding George’s waist as he slams him back down on his cock.
“Your fucking mouth,” George whimpers, throwing his head back as Max moves him like a ragdoll.
“Want me to keep talking?”
“I want you to shut up,” he blabbers, dropping his head down to look at the man under him.
“You know how to do that,” Max smirks.
And yeah, he does know how to do it.
George squeezes the sides of his neck gently, careful to avoid his Adam’s apple. When he was still trying not to think about Max, he ended up learning a few things about choking, including how to do it properly without hurting his partner.
Max moans, planting his feet on the mattress and snapping his hips up at the same time he pulls George down. It’s almost unreal to feel Max’s cock pulsing inside him every time George slightly tightens his grip.
He loves it so much that it has his cock dripping at the sight of Max looking so fucked out.
“That’s it, baby,” Max rasps, fucking him as he balances George on his dick.
It’s so much, but it’s not enough. The angle is only right a few times and George needs more. He deserves more.
“Max, Max…” The Brit whimpers after a few minutes, easing his grip on Max’s neck until he’s just holding it.
“Yes, schatje?” Max lovingly asks, his lips parted as he looks at George.
“I need more. Please,” he begs, folding his body until he’s lying on top of Max, breathing against his mouth. Max kisses him, and his thrusts come to a stop slowly until he slips out of him.
“Anything you want, sweetheart.”
Then, the world is tilting on its axis and George finds himself under Max. He’ll never get tired of how heavy the other man feels on top of him; how dense his bones are and how deceptively strong he is. Probably one of the strongest on the grid, although George will never say those words out loud.
Instead of Max slipping inside him like he was expecting, he takes his time to lay George on his side, shushing him softly when the Brit lets out a little confused sound. The Dutchman settles behind him also on his side, his chest pressed against George’s back.
It’s not an unfamiliar position. He’s had Carmen like this before as well as previous girlfriends, except he was obviously the one behind them. Now, having Max nosing the back of his neck as he grabs his pecs and massages them as though they’re tits, is a bit different. However, it’s not unwelcome.
It’s just making George’s cock so hard it hurts.
“Max, c’mon, I wanted more,” he reminds the older man, who hums as he bites and licks at George’s sweaty skin.
“I know, liefje,” Max rasps, and he knows that the Dutchman is smirking just from his tone.
George elbows him and listens to Max’s slight groan before he breathlessly laughs.
“Brat,” Max tuts, but pushes George’s knee so he’s leaning a bit on his tummy.
“So you’ve said,” the younger man breathes.
Then, Max is holding one of his cheeks apart while he guides his thick cock to his hole with his thumb. When he slides in, it’s so tight and warm that he ruts inside before he even bottoms out.
With George’s legs nearly closed, he feels impossibly huge, like he can barely fit as his cock drags through his walls. Max fucks him hard and shallow, holding him in place with one hand on his hips and the other one serving as a pillow for George’s head. It’s so good that the Brit just lets himself feel, his eyes closed and his mouth parted as drool drips from the corners of his mouth.
Little ‘uh uh uh’s leave his lips with each thrust, one hand holding Max’s where it’s draped over his skin. The other man pants against his cheek, kissing every place he can reach as he mutters sweet nothings that make George melt.
His cock is dripping once more, red and angry, and he needs to come so badly, but the only thing he does is clench around Max’s cock.
“I’m not perfect,” George speaks with difficulty, his breathing rapid as he turns his head slightly to try to gaze into Max’s eyes.
“I don’t need perfect,” the other man replies, pressing his forehead against George’s.
“Is this just sex?” He asks, though he already knows the reply.
“When has it ever been just sex, George?” Max retorts lovingly.
There’s no need for words after that.
Max keeps fucking him, adjusting the angle and hitting his prostate every few thrusts. When he wraps a hand around George’s leaking cock, he comes after a few seconds, clenching down so hard around Max that he brings the other man over the edge with him.
They breathe against each other’s lips, foreheads still touching, their hearts beating in perfect synchrony. Max doesn’t pull out until it becomes soft and it slips out of George’s hole with a lewd noise.
Neither of them pays it any mind, focused on each other as the Dutchman presses kisses into the younger man’s cheeks and George doesn’t let go of the hand holding his waist.
It’s quiet outside of Max’s apartment. It’s late; Sunday night has become the next day already, though Monaco never stops. There’s a party somewhere and a billionaire is most certainly driving through the streets to get to his mansion.
Here, in Max’s room, George feels at peace. Strong arms wrapped around his waist and lips that feel so soft against his skin. When they meet again on the racetrack, he won’t think about anything else other than being the best and beating everyone else, the Dutchman included.
Perhaps later, he’ll give Max a call and fall into his sheets again.
For now, though, there’s still Hungaroring to get through in a few days before the summer break finally arrives.
It’s still George’s year as long as he believes in himself. That task is made a tad easier when there’s a four time champion of the world wrapped around him whispering in his ear that there’s no other driver he respects more than him.
“Where’s Kelly?” He asks when Max is watching a race on his phone, still holding onto George.
“We broke up after Vegas last year. I didn’t feel good being with her. We are, of course, coparenting and I get Lily sometimes,” he replies easily, focused on what George thinks it’s his sim racing team.
“Oh. Was it because of me?”
“What?” Max frowns, finally turning his attention to George. Then, he shrugs.
“Not entirely,” he adds, “I only gave you a handjob in Las Vegas but it was better than anything I’d ever felt with her. It wasn’t right to stay and keep us both in the dark.”
George had him whipped after just one handjob? Wow. He needs to tell Alex about it.
His smile must be conveying some of his smugness because Max rolls his eyes playfully and sets his phone down.
“Yes, schatje, I was thinking about you for a long time.”
“I didn’t say anything,” George slyly replies. “Although…really? What if I had got on my knees like you wanted to that day? Would you have asked me to marry you?”
He’s joking, of course, but the look Max gives him is immediately a cause of concern.
“Blimey, we’re not getting married, mate. We’ve just established that I somewhat like you, don’t ruin it.”
George’s words may be harsh, but his tone is anything but along with the way his cock twitches against his thigh. He can feel his face getting warmer, and it’s impossible to hide it from Max who perks up like an overgrown puppy.
“Can you get on your knees and suck me off? No marriage proposals will come from that, pinky promise.”
He then proceeds to raise his pinky finger as George looks at him deadpan. Still, the Brit slides off the bed a few moments later, his knees resting comfortably on the carpet.
“Come on, then. We haven’t got all night.”
The laugh that escapes him when Max gets tangled up in the sheets as he tries to get near him is loud and carefree, and it only gets louder when the Dutchman joins him.
There’s still a smile on his lips when he sucks the head of his cock into his mouth, and when Max reaches for his hand to hold it, George can only squeeze his hand back as he lets his eyes slip shut.