#georgemax

George leaned slightly closer to Max, lowering his voice to a whisper. “He’s got a death grip on it,” he murmured.

Max glanced over again. Kimi had slid down a little in the seat, cheek pressed into the leather headrest, curls still stiff with dried champagne. The trophy was wedged against his chest like a teddy bear.

Max huffed quietly. “He should have taken a shower before we took off. He is going to smell like Moet all week.”

George rolled his eyes. “He might never wash that balaclava again, mate. You know how superstitious he gets.”

Max leaned over George further to get a better look. George always gave him the window seat so that he could stretch his gargantuan legs out into the aisle. He squinted suspiciously at the small Italian boy, curled even smaller in the seat.

“If he sucks on it, you of course must take it away.”

George chuckled softly. “Don’t think we’re at risk of that happening.”

Max raised an eyebrow at him. “How much champagne did he drink?”

George raised a hand to his chest in mock offense. “He sprinted away from the mechanics when they tried to spray him again,” he muttered. “I’ve never seen someone run that fast in the paddock.”

Max snorted softly, covering his mouth. “You set a bad example, drinking it on the podium, I think.”

George scoffed. “He dumped most of it in his own hair.”

They fell quiet again, both watching the sleeping Italian across the aisle. Even asleep, Kimi looked young. He looked younger than he did in the record books as the youngest F1 pole sitter of all time, younger than he tried to act when he was standing around the garage talking strategy.

“First win,” George said softly.

Max nodded once.

George’s shoulder brushed his as he shifted slightly in the seat. “I wish you’d been up there too,” he added after a moment. “Would’ve been nice.”

Max shrugged. “The car is fucked,” he said gruffly. “Even I cannot out drive a shitbox that has no battery.”

George didn’t argue. He just made a quiet noise that suggested he knew better than to push.

Max stared down at his hands. The DNF sat sour in his stomach. It wasn’t the kind of sour he could burn off in the gym or drown in post-race analysis. The new regulations had Red Bull chasing power unit electrical issues half the time and software ghosts the other half, and he hated it.

Seeing Lewis standing up there in Ferrari red, smiling like he’d just stepped into the future, George beside him, Kimi between them, wide-eyed and soaked in champagne. Even Bono was smiling and included.

One big happy Mercedes family. Fuck.

Max had watched it on the screen in the Red Bull garage, jaw tight, before heading off to do his own media obligations.

He hadn’t even gotten to Kimi until the media pen. The champagne had already gone sticky in the kid’s hair by then. Max had clapped him on the shoulder, told him nice job, ruffled his curls before the journalists could shove microphones between them.

But he hadn’t been there to wave at him after the chequered flag, or to help him with his helmet. It wasn’t that Kimi needed help. Max just liked being there.

George nudged him lightly. “Look at this.”

He turned his phone so Max could see the screen. Mercedes’ social media team had already posted a photo of Kimi sitting alone in the motorhome kitchen, lights dimmed, trophy on the table beside him. He was staring down at his phone like the whole day had finally caught up to him.

Max felt something tug in his chest. “Christ,” he murmured.

George smiled softly at the image. “He’s probably texting his mum.”

“Probably.”

Max looked back across the aisle. Kimi shifted slightly in his sleep, tightening his grip on the trophy.

George leaned closer again, whispering conspiratorially. “Did you see him dodge the mechanics outside the garage?”

Max’s mouth twitched. “He bolted.”

“They had four bottles. He absolutely panicked.”

“Understandable reaction,” Max nodded solemnly.

George laughed quietly.

Max let the sound settle for a moment before reaching over and squeezing George’s hand where it rested on the armrest. “You are a good teammate,” he said.

George blinked at him, caught off guard. “What makes you say that?”

Max nodded toward the sleeping teen across the aisle. “Because you are happy for him.”

George looked over at Kimi again. The fondness in his expression made something in Max’s chest physically ache.

“It’s rare, honestly,” the Brit said after a moment. “Having a teammate who actually gives a shit.”

Max nodded. He’d always tried to be decent with his teammates, and with the rookies too. He’d practiced patience and kindness with anyone new enough to still look around the paddock like it was a miracle they’d been let inside.

When he’d first arrived, some of the older drivers had treated him like an inconvenience, a kid who’d skipped the queue, because he had. He remembered saying that when he got older he’d never help anyone either, that they could figure it out themselves, like he did.

But somewhere along the way that had changed. Maybe it was because the sport moved so fast. Careers flared and vanished before he’d even gotten used to seeing someone’s name on the timesheets. One season he was fighting someone every weekend, and the next they were gone.

Who knew how long any of them actually had under the Formula One sun.

And if someone wanted to talk racing—really talk racing—Max had never been able to resist. Setup theories, braking points, tyre tricks, weird little instincts that didn’t show up on telemetry—he loved every bit of it.

The rookies were the best for that. They had this ridiculous enthusiasm that spilled out of them like champagne from a shaken bottle. They fired questions at him one after another, eyes bright, minds racing faster than the cars sometimes.

Kimi had been like that from the start, wide-eyed and hanging on every word, sometimes physically. Max had grown oddly fond of the teen who was already shaping up to be a championship contender this season, at the ripe age of eighteen.

George turned back toward him then, voice low. “I’m glad he has you too.”

Max didn’t answer right away. Instead he leaned sideways, resting his head against George’s shoulder. George pressed a kiss to his hair.

Across the aisle, Kimi slept on, curled protectively around his trophy while the plane carried them slowly across the dark.

Max closed his eyes. And somewhere deep in the quiet hum of the cabin, he wished, just for a second, that someone like George had been sitting beside him after Barcelona.

dropping garden-variety poisons into the drinks of people in the town who gambled their family savings away or kicked small animals or cheated on their spouses. Those who, in the eyes of the town, deserved their punishments. He simply meted out a form of justice that was not available in the district courts. Because that would take too long, and often cost too much in this sleepy coastal Dutch town that time seemed to have forgotten. 

Maiming enough to teach a lesson. Mostly. And while it was not a legally recommended form of justice, George had to admire the guy’s ingenuity. When your regulars and customers were drunk enough, you could get away with saying anything in passing as a joke. 

Meanwhile, Verstappen does not seem to have any qualms about holding the silence, sitting at his desk chair with his hands carefully folded, staring back at George. 

Two cups of tea go cold in their saucers. 

“What made you do it, Max?” 

“We are back on a first name basis now?”

“I put two and two together. You. At the truck stop, and then the supermarket, the ferris wheel– I thought I was seeing things.“ 

Max’s laugh is robust, convincing enough to be jovial, the same way a hyena is before the bite. “Bravo, George. Bravo. You’ve caught me red-handed.”

And still, while the threads tighten around them, George finds himself wanting to find ways out. Alternatives. George has made many citizen arrests in the past, clipped many case files shut and banished them into the back of his cupboards, into the depths of his memory, never to be thought about again. 

But this– this is different. He has never had to close the book on someone he once crossed paths with as a spotty teenager, who shared a secret smile with him at a campsite in the middle of the forest, so many years ago.

The truth is, George knows that whatever happens in the system after his participation is not up to him. He’s a private investigator. Handsomely compensated, but only a shadow component in a machine of many moving parts, trying to excavate truth.

Turns out they have this in common.  

The room feels suddenly warm, and his shirt collar suddenly tight.  

“Is this the part where you arrest me?” Max says, low and conspiratorial. 

“I don’t have to do that. If you’d come with me to the station.” 

 “And why would I come with you?”

“So that justice can run its course– civil society's built on it!”

Max inspects his teacup for specks and stains, tending to the porcelain like an old friend. “Civility’s just an excuse people use to mask what they’re too afraid to say.”

George bristles. “Turn yourself in, and I can help you.” 

Max sighs at his teacup, as if George has given the wrong answer. He swings his gaze to George, and it's like staring into headlights.

“I knew you’d be careful about what was in the tea,” Max says. “But I really thought you’d pay closer attention to your handkerchief.”

He sounds almost disappointed. George’s eyes go wide. He wouldn’t have dared. Not when George had spent so long building his trust, getting under his skin. It doesn’t even matter to George how he's done it– when he dusted the spores into his pocket, or swiped it across a panel, or his laundry pile when he wasn't looking.

He had told Max about the allergy at the campsite. Two children, sent away by their parents. Cross-legged at the embers of a fire, under a sliver of moon in the sky. So long ago, and they were so small, George thought he wouldn't have remembered.

He realises now, he was foolish. 

The world starts to go murky at the edges. Shadows in the room growing long and vaguely sickening. George digs his nails into the leather armchair, head already tilting back at a strange and unnatural angle. 

Max has moved to stand over him. He smells like the tobacco of the pub, and freshly turned earth. 

“The antidote's on the table,”  Max says, almost fond. “Sleep well, George. I look forward to when we next meet.” 

And before his muscles go slack, before the world goes black– George sucks in a breath. He finally heeds the serpent that takes shape inside his gut. Regards it for the first time, and understands what it wishes to protect.  

It is the coiled thing inside him that says: I look forward to it, too.

--------------

There was a rough hand on his chest, under his hoodie, palm spread flat over his sternum, fingers moving in absent, soothing paths. It shifted, fingers gliding outward along his chest, then back again, thumb brushing lightly where Max’s ribs curved, along the edge of his muscle, cupping his pectoral like a breast. The rough pad of a thumb brushed over his nipple and Max felt heat bloom in his gut, like flicking on a light switch. 

This time the words resolved. 

“Proper little handfuls, aren’t they?” George murmured into his hair, voice rough with need, fond in a way that made Max’s chest tighten.

George followed the words with a heated kiss at the curve of Max’s neck, then another, open-mouthed, as if he struggled not to consume Max entirely. “Fuck, I love your tits, Max. Honestly, you’re lucky I let you wear a shirt at all, looking the way you do.”

Max frowned faintly, lashes fluttering, his mind trying to catch up as the words settled into place and stayed there. Half asleep or not, they threaded straight through him, loosening something he usually kept locked down tight. 

The warmth in his core deepened, a quiet ache curling under his ribs, desire blooming in that familiar, dangerous way that left him feeling exposed even with his eyes still closed. He shifted slightly, instinctively, the movement small and unplanned, like his body was reaching for something his mind hadn’t approved yet.

Max felt cool air over his ass, his balls—what had happened to his boxer briefs?—And then something, something wet—Max’s heart was picking up, thudding heavier against his ribs, and he became acutely aware of how close George was, pressed up against his back, and something was pushing in and—

Max cried out, the stretch so overwhelming, so hot and huge that he couldn’t think about anything other than the feeling of cock sinking into him.

With sudden clarity, Max realized that George was fucking him. George was grabbing his hips and stuffing him full of his cock, opening him up and making him take it, and Max was whimpering into the sheets. 

What in the actual goddamn fuck?

They’d talked about it. More than once.

Max had been mortified, obviously. Sitting on the edge of the bed, pink to the ears, staring determinedly at the floor like it had personally betrayed him. “You—what,” he’d said, horrified. “That’s—don’t—” He’d hidden his face behind his hands, groaning. “Jesus.”

George had watched him, entirely unsympathetic to his discomfort. The way Max folded in on himself when flustered, shoulders up, ears glowing, like the attention itself was too warm to stand. “It deserves a proper conversation!” he’d insisted, as if that made it any easier.

Max hadn’t said no. George had kissed the words out of him. Again. And again. Like he already knew where this was going.  Eventually Max had cracked, eyes opening just a slit, flustered and pink and glaring up at him as if George had personally engineered this betrayal.

“So,” George had asked quietly, gently. “Would you hate it?”

Max had stared at him for a long moment, cheeks burning, pride and want having a very obvious argument on his face. He’d huffed, frustrated with himself more than anything, “No,” he’d admitted at last, barely audible. “I wouldn’t hate it.”

George’s expression had softened in a way that made Max immediately regret saying anything at all. “Yeah?” he’d asked gently.

Max had rolled his eyes, cheeks still burning. “Don’t make me say it again.” He’d tried desperately not to think about waking up to George on top of him, George’s fingers opening him up, George’s tongue violating him when he had no idea, no say in the matter. 

Max had pressed his thighs together under the table, shoving his hands between his legs in an attempt to keep a lid on the kettle threatening to boil over in his gut. “I mean,” he’d muttered, “I don’t mind. Just—don’t make it weird.”

George had promised, earnestly.

He let out a broken moan into his pillow as George somehow fucked deeper, splitting him open, cleaving him in two, remaking him from the inside out. His hole fluttered helplessly around the hardness deep inside him, forcing a groan out of George. 

“God’s sake, Max,” George rasped, smoothing a hand up Max’s back and into his hair, pressing his face into the pillow. “So fucking desperate.”

Max had been sleeping, actually, he hadn’t requested anything of the sort. He wasn’t desperate, he didn’t need George’s length filling him to bursting, he didn’t need it the way he needed oxygen to breathe, he just—Max had been sleeping, and George had interrupted that by taking what he wanted, and by using Max like a human sex toy, and Max just, Max wanted. 

Oh, god, he wanted. 

Max wanted to be used, he wanted to be wanted, he wanted to be needed, to be touched, to be manhandled, to be shoved in the pillow, to be rendered a whimpering mess without a say in the matter, and holy fuck—George felt so much deeper like this, and Max couldn’t help the needy moan that escaped his throat, his eyes fluttering when George tangled fingers in his hair. George’s other hand wrapped around his throat, squeezing just hard enough to fuzz his thoughts. 

It was so much better than he’d even imagined. 

“Bloody gorgeous like this,” George murmured, nosing at Max’s cheek, stroking his jaw with his thumb. “Look so fucking pretty with my cock in you.”

“Please,” Max whimpered, George fucking up into him in a slow, deep grind, forcing a few hot tears to spill down his cheeks. 

George pushed so deep Max would swear he could feel it in his throat, gasping with each pass of his hips. “So good for me, aren’t you? In my bed, in my jumper…” He cut off with a long groan, burying his face in the crook of Max’s neck. “Ah—Want you here, want you in my things—mine—”

Max couldn’t stop trembling, gasping and panting into the fabric practically shoved into his mouth. He loved the press of George’s fingers against his throat, how they blurred his traitorous thoughts, the pleasure it added to the cock nailing his prostate. 

“You’re a state, aren’t you,” George rumbled, his voice raw and fucked out, and Max nodded, helpless, incapable of doing anything except letting himself be fucked. He clutched at the pillow under his face wet with tears and spit, certain his face was blotchy red and flushed. Messy, desperate, wanting. He wasn’t good for anything else, really. George was right, this was what he was good for.

George couldn’t stop the filthy murmurs into Max’s neck. “So wet for me, such a tease,” he groaned, biting Max’s neck hungrily. “Acting like such a brat, knowing it would turn me on.” 

It took a moment for the words to reach him. Max swallowed hard against the hand holding his neck, breath uneven, letting the words sink in and the warmth spread. 

George’s teeth grazed his jaw, burying his hips so deeply Max could see stars. “Of course the champion wouldn’t want to share,” he said, voice low and close. 

Max’s shamefully hard dick pulsed at the words, dripping more precome into the sheets at the memory. 

The photo. George and Alex, out at dinner, after Monaco. Alex picking up the check. Max had stared at it longer than he should have, chest tight, heat crawling up his neck. It wasn’t that Alex was touching him. It was the way George looked open, unbothered, like he hadn’t spent the evening backing out of plans with Max instead.

Max had told himself he was being dramatic. That George was allowed to go out. That he didn’t own George. That he hadn’t been promised anything. That no one had left him, because that would imply he’d been waiting in the first place.

And then he’d gone to George’s apartment, drowned himself in one of his oversized hoodies, and crawled into his bed fully clothed, curled up on his side. The sheets had smelled like George too. Everything did. The pillow, the air, the stupid hoodie twisted under his chin. 

So if he’d been a little bratty when George had canceled their evening plans, that was between him and the man currently fucking him stupid. 

“Did you really think I wouldn’t come home to you?” George breathed, his lips sliding up Max’s neck. “You drive me mad. Did you need me to prove it?”

Max whimpered, squirming, bringing a hand to his aching dick. His hand could hardly follow instruction, his mind hazy with sleep, with George’s hand wrapped around his neck, with a massive cock splitting him open at God knows what hour. Fumbling, clumsy fingers wrapped around his untouched dick, spreading his slick down the hot length of him, punching a groan out of his throat. 

“Christ,” George murmured, breathy and undone, like the word had been pulled out of him rather than chosen. “You feel… heavenly. Can’t fuck you this deep when you’re awake, can I?”

Max whimpered, shaking his head. He was so close, just a little more—

George made a low noise, and Max knew he must look pathetic, touching himself, sloppy and rough, tears leaking into the pillow, but he couldn’t stop, so desperate to come that he’d die if George didn’t let him.

George grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand away from his cock, pinning it behind his back.

“No,” Max whined, looking down at his cock with a devastated expression, his hips fucking up against nothing. His dick twitched helplessly without any stimulation, hard and leaking.

He was so close. He was still so close, he could come from nothing, if George would just—

“Fuck me,” Max choked out, and his face flushed hotter, ashamed at the neediness in his voice, the obscene roll of his hips back shainst George’s, the tight buds of his nipples scraping against the roughness of George’s palms. “Please.”

The sound George let out at Max’s request was frankly obscene. His thrusts turned from slow and deep to punishing, brutal, pounding into Max’s hips. He braced an arm across Max’s middle, holding him in place while he fucked Max into a whimpering, leaking mess. 

Max’s free hand scrabbled, clutching at the arm across his middle, desperate for leverage, to feel the restraint as George pounded into him. 

“Fuck,” George groaned, pushing Max’s briefs down his thighs further. “Absolutely gagging, aren’t you?” His hand stroked up Max’s throat, massaging at his pulse points and sending waves of pleasure through him with each thrust. Max could only cling to the strong arm holding him, the broad chest burning behind him, the hot mouth panting in his hair. 

“Come on, love,” George said, voice ragged, nipping at his ear. “Be a good boy and come for me.” He reached between Max’s legs and finally, finally grasped Max’s aching dick. 

Max moaned, pushing against the hand holding his throat, fucking into the hand around his arousal, needy and past the point of caring. “Please, please, please,” he begged, voice raspy with sleep. “Need it—hnng—don’t stop—”

George barely stroked a few times before Max was dripping, streaking, spurting over his knuckles, hot and sudden. 

Max moaned hoarsely, his hole clenching so tight that George cursed, hips faltering. 

But George fucked him through it, stroking his cock and tweaking his nipple, kissing his neck and murmuring how beautiful he looked and how perfect he was until all Max could hear was TV static in his brain. 

George brought his come-covered fingers to Max’s mouth, slipping them easily between his soft lips. Max was too far gone to argue, letting his mouth drop open, sucking his own come off the long fingers he’d come to adore, looking across the bedroom with unseeing eyes. 

“So good for me,” George breathed, gripping Max’s hips under the rucked up hoodie, yanking Max back onto his cock, hard and rough, ignoring Max’s breathy whimpers of oversensitivity. “Should just—ah—keep you like this always, fucked open in my bed.”

Max’s eyes fluttered, then drifted mostly closed on their own. He sucked absentmindedly on George’s fingers as George’s hips continued their punishing rhythm. His mind went pleasantly foggy, edges blurring as if he were sinking back into sleep without quite leaving the moment. Max’s lashes lowered fully, his focus narrowing down to warmth and sound and the steady presence holding him there. The world felt distant, unimportant.

“Want you so much, Max,” George murmured, breath warm and uneven in Max’s hair, the words broken by the press of his mouth against Max’s throat. “Only you,” he added softly, quieter now, almost lost to the space between them. “Always you.” The last part came out rougher as his thrusts stuttered, George filling the condom with a gasp of Max’s name. Max’s thighs trembled, his spent cock giving a feeble twitch.

Max exhaled, long and loose, tension easing out of him in a way he rarely allowed. His thoughts slipped out of order, drifting instead of snapping into place. He was aware only of how safe it felt to be like this, wrapped in someone who wanted him exactly as he was.

“Mm,” George murmured, fond, clearly pleased by Max’s quiet surrender.

Max barely heard it. His mind was already floating, eyes closed, body relaxed and warm, letting himself be held there just a little longer before the day could find him again.

He could feel George, the steady warmth of him, the familiar weight curled close, the quiet press of a chest against his back. George’s hand rested at his waist, thumb moving in absent, reassuring strokes. 

George spoke softly into his hair. “You don’t like sharing,” he breathed, fingers tracing idly through Max’s hair. “Neither do I.”

Max made a quiet sound, but he didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t have the energy. He let the sound of George’s voice wash over him instead, familiar enough to feel safe.

George smiled, pressing a gentle kiss into Max’s hair. “You pretend you don’t need anyone,” he whispered, like it was a secret meant only for the dark. “But you do. And I like that you let it be me.”

Max’s fingers twitched faintly in the duvet.

“No one’s ever trusted me like you do,” George went on, softer still. “Letting me take you.” He slid a hand over Max’s chest, warm fingers spreading over his sternum. “Letting me keep you.”

He kissed Max’s temple, lingering there, like he was committing the feeling to memory. “God,” he whispered, breath catching, “you’ve rather ruined me, I’m afraid.” 

Max’s breathing slowed, deepening, his thoughts slipping loose one by one. The words slipped past defenses he didn’t have the strength to hold up anymore.

George stayed like that, whispering truths big and small into the dark, unguarded things he’d never say when Max was fully awake, until Max finally drifted properly under, relaxed and warm, held together by the sound of George’s voice and the quiet certainty that he was wanted.

~~~~~