Here For Lestappen

It’s only when Max slips away from view does George manage to regain control of his bodily functions. He quickly walks/runs to try and find Max, even though he has no idea what he’s going to say the fuming Omega.

But he doesn’t even get 10 steps in when he sees Charles Leclerc looming in the shadows. The darkness of the half-obscured hallway makes the Ferrari driver look like a fallen angel—the angles of his face are harsher, the doe-like quality of his eyes appear sharper and more calculating. The way he stands—feet firm on the ground, arms crossed, makes the muscles of his body stand out.

Chiseled and marble-like, almost inhuman in its combination of beauty and danger.

“Going somewhere?” Despite the seeming friendliness of his voice, Leclerc’s eyes are hard and unforgiving.

“Ah, Charles. I didn’t see you…here.” George clears his throat. “Skulking about the stewards offices.”

“Just waiting for someone.” He smiles.

The Mercedes driver is now completely unnerved.

What once was a charming, dimpled smile that sent fans (and several celebrities) swooning, was now a rather eerie half-smirk. "Guarding the gates of heaven, so to speak." Leclerc continues. "But what makes me curious is why you're still here, George. I would've thought you'd be at the airport, considering your attempts to backstab Max failed."

He bristles, standing on edge. "I did not attempt to backstab anyone, I was merely making my own position clear—"

"Your incessant whining already stripped my Max of pole position. What more could you possibly want?"

George is taken aback—not just by the icy words that are practically dripping with venom—but by two specific words.

My Max.

He feels...disoriented.

Disoriented in a way that clashes with his previous revelation that Max was so much more than just a competitor on the grid. He was—

"Charlie! Oh lief, you didn't have to wait for me!" A bright, delighted voice calls out from the darkness.

A bright, delighted voice with a lisp that's all too familiar.

George feels like he's underwater as he watches the 4-time world champion emerge from a side door dressed in dark, navy blue joggers and an enormous bright red hoodie.

And not just any red—Ferrari red.

His hair is tousled, there's a bit of toothpaste on the corner of his mouth, and he doesn't even seem to register that George is standing less than three feet away.

Instead, the Omega throws himself at Charles, practically knocking the Alpha backwards as he hugs him tight. "Thank you for staying, schat." He kisses Charles's jaw. "Thank you for being the best part of today."

"Anything for you, mon amour." The Alpha murmurs, running one hand through the mess dark blond hair as the other holds onto the Dutchman's slim waist.

A waist that's drowning in red fabric and the heavy scent of a smug, covetous Alpha.

George tries to clear his throat but Charles is a bastard who doesn't play fair.

Who won't even share Max's attention with anyone—much less another Alpha who's looking at his Omega with an expression that has Charles seething.

Max never even notices George because right as the Brit tries to approach, Charles ducks down, mouth latching on Max's uncovered scent gland—

And sucks.

Hard.

"Ch-Charlie...baby, mmh—wait a little more, please schatje, I'm gonna...I'm gonna get all wet." He sounds needy and shy, his voice all high pitched and whiny.

And George knows this is punishment.

This is Charles shoving what George can never have in his face.

Because George only gets the faintest memory of Max, desperate and aching, while Charles is the one pinning him down and knotting the Omega full.