I luv you Danyul, I luv you *puppet kisses*

Like today, in the strategy meeting. Toto and Kimi had been making eyes at each other for the better half of an hour, and it was all so egregious and blatantly obvious that it made George’s eyes burn with furious tears he refused to shed. Before the meeting, Kimi had done everything he possibly could to overtake George’s lead, and even after the younger driver’s DNF, George had still fallen to third on the WDC. It was all so bloody unfair, it truly was. He’d never gotten to be the golden boy, he’d never gotten to be Daddy’s favorite, he was just… there. The eternal middle child, forgotten, sandwiched between the prodigal perma-champion, i.e. Lewis, and the new, shiny hope for the team’s glory. No room for him, left to rot in the corner. Always eclipsed by the one that came before him, and the one who came afterwards. And he’d had enough. He saw it in Carmen’s eyes, he heard it in the words the journalists purposefully left out, too: he needed to be a man and take the reins of this situation while he still could. March into Toto’s office and ask, no, demand to be given the respect he deserves as the older, more experienced driver of the two. He bursts into the office without knocking, face splotchy red and eyes glossy from the pent-up anger. “You know what, Toto, I’ve had enough of you parading me around like a-”

“Toto’s not here.” An annoyingly young voice answered, pouty lips curled into a teasing, all-knowing smile. And wasn’t this cunt downright infuriating, with his perfect little curls and dark, magnetic eyes, a cherubic little boy from the land of Botticelli and Caravaggio. Except he wasn’t a little boy any longer, was he? He’d grown up into a man, no; a hunter, and he’d done it so fast George hasn’t had a chance to catch up to him ever since. There’s a dangerous edge to him, now, alone in the stuffy office of their team principal, a dangerous pull coming from his Mona Lisa smile. “Why were you looking for Toto, though, mate?”

The Brit swallows past the painful knot of anger that’s lodged in his windpipe, reminding himself to take a deep breath through his nose, sighing it out through his mouth. He watches Kimi watch him, sees the way those dark eyes watch his lips make a soft ‘O’ around his breath as George blows the air out. Finally, he feels like he can speak without bursting into tears. “I just wanted to speak to him about a private matter. I’ll come back later, Kimi, it’s alright.” He’s nearly proud of himself for his response. So dignified, so brotherly, so civilized. You almost couldn’t tell he’d strangle the Italian little shit if he got the chance. But his teammate didn’t let him off the hook so fast; no, Kimi got up from his spot at Toto’s chair - what was the little shit doing in their boss’s chair, anyways? Who did he think he was? - and walked over to George, caging him in as he closed the door behind him with a soft click. He was shorter, younger and more compact, but George couldn’t help but notice how easily the younger man filled out the sleeves of his team kit, his eyes drawn to the tan curve of his biceps. When he looks up to Kimi’s face, he realizes he’s caught him staring. The younger man simply smiles another one of his all-knowing smiles, annoying and hypnotizing all at once, like he’s in on a joke you don’t know. Lately, George feels like everyone’s laughing except for him. “You look cute when you’re mad.” Kimi muses, snapping him out of his trance. What the fuck did this kid just say to me? George thinks, and then, intelligently, he says, “What the fuck did you just say to me?” Kimi just smiles, unbothered by George’s rising tone of voice, shrugging. “It’s good news that you’re always mad lately, isn’t it?” “I-” “Are you mad because you know you’ll never measure up to me?” That does it. Before George can fully register what he’s doing, limbs moving to their own accord, he’s pushing his teammate up against the wall, pining him there. “Take that back, you little cunt.” Kimi smiles joyfully, looking like he’s having the time of his life. Proper twat. 

It all happens too fast after that. Kimi must've been training - not just lifting, because it's not that he had muscle, it's that he knew how to use it, too. He held onto George's wrists and twisted his arms, forcing George to turn his back on him (lest he walk away with a dislocated something), and afterwards it was all too easy for the Italian to slam him into Toto's desk. George groaned, a deep sound coming straight from his sternum as he felt pain blooming in his chest. 

A part of him felt like this was all his fault for trying to speak up, for daring to disturb the status quo. Who was he kidding? He was never going to be a champion, he'd always be the second driver. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. 

The hot tears that had been threatening to spill since the strategy meeting finally won out; big, fat tears that streamed down his cheeks and pooled on the polished wood of Toto's desk. Far away, like it was happening to someone else, he felt the warm wetness of sticky spit dripping down his crack, Kimi's surprisingly strong hands kneading the firm curve of his sculpted glutes. When had he pulled his pants down? George couldn't say. 

He felt his teammate wipe away his tears, but they just wouldn't stop coming, big, ugly sobs making his chest heave. Those same warm fingers were then shoved into his mouth, making him have to breathe through his stuffy nose, crying even harder as he drooled over Kimi's fingers. 

“You know, it's a shame.” Kimi mused, using his saliva slick digits to prep George's ass, using what little lubrication he had to spread his tight entrance, starting with his index and his middle finger, slowly inserting them. “I think we could've been friends, you and I. In another life, maybe.” 

George sobbed harder. Even so, he couldn't help but push himself back into Kimi's fingers, a silent plea for more. The younger man obliged, spitting on his pink, twitching rosebud again before easing a third finger in. George has trouble breathing, between the bruising on his chest from being slammed down into Toto's desk, and the burning, toe curling pain from being fingered so dryly, but he still manages to pant out a few words. “I would've- I could've- I would've liked to show you, I- I mean, teach you, that is.” 

Kimi chuckles behind him, and it's warm, but it feels ugly and cruel and unbearably condescending to George. “I don't know if there's anything left for you to teach me, Georgie.” 

It just makes George cry harder. He's humiliated and he's infuriated and he's throbbing in his boxers, and it all mixes into an intoxicating blend of degradation. 

For all he knows, he could've been getting fingered for hours, though he doubts it - Kimi doesn't have the patience, still too brash and too eager, so painfully young. As much as he plays up his confidence, though, Kimi’s own dick is as neglected as George’s: he gives it a couple of half-hearted tugs with his free hand, but it’s clear he’s hesitant to properly penetrate the Brit. That, or he’s waiting for something. Eventually, the door opens. George immediately tenses up - he’s bent over his boss’s desk, pants around his ankles and boxer briefs halfway down his thighs, riding his teammate’s fingers as he arches his back and cries and drools, panting and huffing like a dog. Not exactly the civilized image he likes to put out to the world. But Toto doesn’t seem to mind, smirking as he walks in, giving a nod to Kimi before closing the door behind him. He’s unnervingly calm as he walks over and takes a seat at his desk, looking down at the little puddle of drool and tears that George has made. “George. I don’t remember calling you to my office.” George staggers, gasping for air. His knees are weak and pain has long given way to pleasure as Kimi explores his tight inner walls, occasionally brushing against that special spot that makes George’s pink, needy cock throb and gradually pulse out beads of sticky precum. But he realizes he’s still expected to talk, as unprofessional as this situation is. Even worse, he suspects this might be the first time since last year that Toto’s actually given him his undivided attention, and he’s not about to pass on that opportunity. “Well- I, uuungh, I came here to- to- oh God, I came here to… ah, to um, ah… to say that I- I ought to be, mhm, yeah, right there, reeeeeespected. Toto.” Toto then had the gall to take out a notepad and start writing, nodding seriously as George stammered on. Fucking asshole. “What makes you say that, George? Do you not feel respected?” Toto asked, voice low and gravelly, eyes on Kimi as the younger driver used his free hand to finally pull out his aching cock, spitting loudly in his hand before stroking his shaft. Toto continued as if nothing was amiss - the only acknowledgement of the situation at hand was the fact that he was speaking louder, since the wet slap of skin on skin echoed in the quiet room. “I feel like you must know by now that you’re greatly appreciated here, Georgie.” “Not the- aaaah, f-fuck, not the same thiiiing, T-Toto…” George objected, or at least tried to do so, feeling painfully empty as Kimi forcefully withdrew all his fingers at once. Soon enough, though, he felt the warm stickiness of a cockhead press against his sensitive, raw and gaping entrance. He was so lost in the intoxicating friction of his own, neglected cock rubbing against the hard edge of the wooden desk, and the anticipation of finally getting filled to the brim, that he almost didn’t notice Toto standing up. He had a funny look on his face as he leisurely undid his belt, his eyes raking over the Brit’s wrecked figure. “Alright, I’ve heard enough, George.” He smiles then, giving Kimi a nod, making the Italian brutally thrust into George without a warning. “I think it’d be best to shut you up before you say anything you’ll regret. After all, it’s two against one here, isn’t it?”

“Well, you’re the one who insisted I wasn’t nearly as funny as my comedy special would have them believe-”

“Not what I said! I said that you wouldn’t be making jokes all night long, which is different-”

“Listen, Lew, you know how hard comedy is, I can’t help it if Fallon asks me to tone my material down, you know I wasn’t allowed to bring up Tru-”

“Ugh! You’re so bloody infuriating! You’re not even listening, bubs, I’m telling you that’s not what I-” “What am I supposed to be, some sort of trophy wife?! Is that why you took me to this stupid law firm circle jerk, so you could-”

“Obviously you’re not a trophy wife, look at yourself!” “What is that supposed to mean?!”

“I mean- not like that, bubs, just that trophy wives are usually- you’re all covered in tattoos and you showed up in a goddamn leather jacket, I mean-”

“Don’t take it back, I know that’s not what you meant-” “And another thing about the leather jacket, that was completely inappropriate, I asked you to wear a suit, how hard could it possibly be-” Daniel felt like he was going to punch something, and instead settled for screaming into their feather pillow (the one Lewis categorically refused to use under any circumstance even though it was more comfortable, because animal cruelty, with the I’m-better-than-you attitude thrown in for free), hoping to avoid saying something he’d later regret. The rest of the night passed by in a flurry. Lewis eventually stormed off to go take a shower, and then he conveniently remembered he had forgotten to answer some emails (even though by that point it was one in the morning), and then he just had to draft a memo for the firm’s latest case, and then he was performing a risk assessment, whatever the fuck that was. 

Not to worry though, because whenever his partner was being petty, Daniel fully committed to annoying him right back. Instead of going to bed, even though he was exhausted from the long evening, he called his mum (thanks, Aussie time difference!) and loudly explained to her what had happened in a version of events that was so laughably skewed he almost felt ashamed. Then he called Max but the Dutchman didn’t pick up, so Daniel recorded several voice notes, as loudly as he could while maintaining plausible deniability. 

Afterwards, running out of ideas but still desperately wanting to impede his husband’s impromptu nightly work session, he just straight up blasted a random Spotify playlist and started singing. 

That seemed to do the trick. 

To Lewis’ credit, he made it through five whole off-key country songs before he slammed open their bedroom door. “Would you shut up?!”

Daniel stopped his pacing then, chest heaving, cheeks flushed as he stared into his husband’s eyes. “Make me.”

A flurry of emotions passed through Lewis’s face, from shock to confusion to, finally, arousal. He sighed deeply, shaking his head, eyes on the floor as he chuckled to himself. “Was that really what this was all about? All of your fucking-” he stopped then, grabbing Daniel tightly by his curls, forcing him to meet his gaze, “All of your fucking bratiness so that I could fill your mouth with my cock, hm? Would that shut you up?”

Daniel was dizzy from how fast blood left the upper half of his body, his cock instantly getting the memo. In all honesty, he didn’t think this was what he’d wanted all along, but at times like these Lewis knew him better than he knew himself. He could feel the stress of the evening washing away as he nodded, voice soft and whimpery like he knew his husband liked. “Mhm, want you to fill my mouth.”

Lewis smiled that wicked smile he only ever got when he caught a client lying in the midst of cross examination. He was a killer; bore his teeth and didn’t look away when his pupils dilated, unabashed as he showed off his hunting prowess to the adoring jury. Even though Daniel was the one with the Netflix specials and the dwindling Apple Podcast deal, at times like this, there was no denying Lewis was the one that was born to be worshipped. “Careful with your words, bubs. Words have meaning, you know. And I can fill up your mouth real good if you want me to.” Crossing the room in a couple of long, decisive strides, Lewis starts rummaging through Daniel's nightstand - not Lewis’s nightstand, because the Oxonian was a big shot lawyer that only read the classics and kept important memos besides his bed; no, Daniel's nightstand, filled with trinkets and sex toys and silly things because nobody treated him seriously, so why should he? He was just a funny guy who didn't know when to keep his mouth shut. 

Eventually, Lewis smirked again, holding up a ball gag. The bright pink silicone made the Aussie’s cheeks burn in embarrassment, his right hand finding his way to his dick without him noticing, looking at the floor as he shamefully shrugged off his boxers and stroked his length. All that cock, and it was good for nothing, just a bratty little bottom with a useless fat cock he'd never get to use. 

“Lew-”

“You said what you wanted already, bubs. Quit it with the incessant chatter, will you? Some of us have real jobs to do.” 

Daniel's breath stuttered out, a sharp staccato of swallowed-down whines. His knees felt weak; as if reading his mind, the Brit tugged on his curls, guiding him to the floor, until Daniel had to look up at him. Lewis fitted the ball gag around his jaw, tight but not uncomfortable, and left after patting him on the head - same treatment he gave Roscoe. 

He was probably going to his studio, needed to work on something important and too complex for Daniel's limited comprehension. The mere thought of it was enough for his throbbing dick to twitch demandingly against his toned, hairy abdomen, but Daniel refrained from touching himself - Lewis didn't like messy dogs. He was left to pant and huff, on his knees in an empty room, drooling around his pink ball gag as he tried to get used to the ache in his jaw hinge (he never got used to it, but he wasn't allowed to take it off. He'd just get spit- no, drool everywhere, make himself a messy pup again).

And that's what he ultimately was, wasn't it? 

Not a trophy wife, Lewis had made it clear.