#gi.writes

“Still, punching the FIA president at the fucking gala isn't very smart,” Max argues, not knowing what to do with his hands.

Max knows shouldn't tease Charles, after all, he's the one who got punched to defend his honour.

After he accepted the World Driver's Championship trophy and made a few jokes at the expense of the FIA, making Charles laugh and Checo roll his eyes, he didn't expect the FIA president to get on the stage suddenly, and start talking about how Max should be more grateful that he was never suspended for his language or his behaviour, or his deviances.

“You should be thankful the FIA is such a great organisation and it allows people like you to participate. It takes all our strength to support your kind,” the guy had said.

Max, in another circumstance, would have joked that yeah, competitive racers are really a strange breed!, but he knows what the words of the President mean. He knows he's referring to the paparazzi pictures plastered across every single sports news outlet the past summer. Pictures of himself kissing a random guy in Spain, during the summer break.

Everyone in the paddock, after the first month conveniently forgot it. The sponsors, the fans, the media. It was better for them to ignore that side of Max. It didn't fit their narrative of him, and so they scraped it off his character's page.

Max dreaded becoming the queer driver, in his strange wonderings late at night. He hated the perspective of becoming a symbol. Maybe he would have liked better to always wear the bisexual driver on the grid title than facing the complete erasure of an essential part of his being.

But the unprompted attack on the FIA prize giving ceremony might have shifted things.

After Ben Sulayem's abhorrent speech, Charles and Checo looked at each other and nodded, deciding to charge against the man, giving him a taste of his own dog-eats-dog mentality.

Max was only able to stop Checo, not Charles, who made an impressive use of his toned biceps. He got punched back, and, before an army of angry Italian people could intervene, his nose was broken and bloody.

"It will for sure be a night to remember…” Charles mumbles, not remembering which is the position to keep one's head with a nosebleed.

“Here… Let me…” Max mumbles instead, taking the handkerchief from the pocket of his suit and wetting it with cold water.

Charles flinches lightly as Max starts cleaning the dried blood on his prominent cupid's bow and upper lip, looking up, staring into those icy blue eyes.

“You don't have to cover for me, I can punch a bitch too… But thank you, Charlie…” Max whispers, holding his face softly in one hand, caressing his cheek with a thumb.

“I'm the only one who can destroy you,” Charles mumbles, gravelly, making goosebumps appear on Max's skin.

“And slam me into a wall?” Max asks, passing his thumb on the cleaned lips, watching as Charles parts them slightly, his tongue deciding whether to lick Max's finger or not.

“Yes, I am the only one who can draw blood, others shouldn't waste it for us,” Charles whispers, opening his legs so Max can slip a thigh in between them.

"Be prepared for next year, you and the gravel will have a deep and meaningful relationship,” Max grins on Charles' lips, caring to angle his face so as not to touch Charles' broken nose.

“Oh, uhm, guys, we have some issues with the cameras and microphones, so, uhm, stay here, until we tell you so,” a guy dressed in a FIA shirt says, closing the door to the room.

Max sighs, feeling George's cheeky glance on his back as he uncaps his bottle of water. Ten minutes until a champagne shower and then either a bunch of interviews or a real shower.

“You braked on purpose behind the safety car, to try to give me a race ban,” Max argues, not looking at George, but hearing his loud chuckle.

“I don't know what you're talking about, mate,” George says, leaning back against the soft and pillowy seat.

“If you wanna fight, there are no cameras,” Kimi says, still high on adrenaline to realise what he's implying. It's his first podium, he wants a gift for it.

“Your teammate is just a prick, Kimi, do not worry,” Max says, turning around to look at George. The race highlights are still not playing behind them on the big screen.

“You overtook me under safety car, mate,” George reiterates, still not knowing how much he can push while Kim isi there.

“Why do you call him mate so much?” Kimi asks, furrowing his brows. George is not making any sense. These are not the pet names Kimi expected. He might be a little disappointed.

“He used all his being a cunt trying to get me suspended, now he's afraid you'll cry if he calls me babe,” Max snorts, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, my God, just like Ollie predicted!” Kimi whispers, making Max grin.

“Do you wanna give him a show?” George says, a bit on the defensive side now.

“You surely do, princess,” Max mutters, making Kimi gasp and George roll his eyes. "And it's his first podium, let him have some fun..."

Kimi is sitting on the edge of his seat, intrigued by what's happening, eager to see, not daring to touch.

“Are you old enough even to see these things?” George asks Kimi, making Max huff loudly and his dick harden a little bit.

“I swear, if you don't kiss in front of me, I will crash you both out of the next race!” Kimi complains, as he watches Max getting closer to George.

“Heard him? He wants a show,” Max whispers, throwing away the small towel he dabbed his face with to sit on George's lap, wrapping his hands around his neck.

“I won this race, Max, don't forget it,” George says, before capturing Max's lips in a rough kiss, his hands travelling south, until they reach the soft meat of Max's hips, gripping them tightly over the layers of nomex.

“And yet, you're the one humping me, am I your prize, George? You can’t truly win if you don't beat me?” Max laughs, going his hips against George, rewarding him for the desperate movement of his hips.

“Fuck you,” George moans against Max's lips.

“I'd love for you to fuck me, but we don't have either time or lube,” Max says, condescendingly.

He sees with the back of his eye that Kimi is looking at them, thoroughly amused, maybe on the brink of some desperately wanted insanity. He's not touching himself, but he sees something growing.

“You're so fucking insufferable,” George half complains half moans, the friction against Max's dick too good to let go for his intoxicated brain. He wants and wants and wants so blindly he's afraid he'll pass out soon if he doesn't come.

The room feels a million degrees hot. He looks at Max, towering over him with the added height, through his eyelashes, remembering how it feels when he's in between his thighs. He wishes Max could suck his dick now, but he'll have to wait for it, finish the day, maybe Oscar and Charles will.join him too, fucking their frustrations away through him. That would be a good reward for his win.

The Dutchman cups his face, as if reading all these dirty unexpressed thoughts, and passes a thumb over his lips as George parts them.

“What a good fucking boy,” Max whispers as he deepens his movements, making George sob around his finger.

“You win my fucking races, baby, and you're not sorry for it,” Max continues, keeping a steady rhythm as George slowly loses his mind, his hands travelling to Max's plump ass, pushing his closer to him.

That really does it for George. The humiliation, but the power he still claims, maybe unsuccessfully, the voyeurism from Kimi, somewhere in the room George can't really pinpoint, too occupied with having Max's dreamily weight on top of him, pushing him into the chair, dragging against his hard and leaking dick. George wants so badly he might pass out.

“I'm- Fuck!” George moans, feeling his orgasm build up.

He feels so much. George groans, hips kicking forward, finding his last efforts to chase his orgasm, the last bits of adrenaline in him all drawn to use Max like this, fast and shallow, pressed so closely together that they almost look like one single entity. Max passes his thumb on George's tongue and he sees white completely as he sucks it. The tension building in his abdomen snaps suddenly like a bowstring, and George spills between their bodies with a loud whimper, groaning long and low in his throat as he continues to hump Max's cock, milking his orgasm, wishing to feel Max's cum shoot inside him. Maybe later.

“Fuck, George,” Max groans a moment later, breathless, face buried in the crook of his neck.

They stay like that, wrapped up in each other, as they come down from their high, Max taking his thumb out of George's mouth and lapping the saliva with his tongue, making Kimi groan. George hums in pleasure at the sight.

“This is far from over, and you know it, baby,” Max mumbles on his lips, before giving him a chaste kiss.

“Wow…” Kimi says, maybe too loudly, too enthusiastically.

“Do you need a hand, Kimi?” George asks, breathlessly as Max sucks a hickey on his neck, in a spot that will be covered by the fireproofs.

“I… No… I- hum, already…” Kimi stutters, his cheeks growing impossibly red.

“George did too, don't worry. He has a habit of coming pathetically in his pants… And some sort of humiliation kink when it comes to me…” Max whispers on George’s lips before denying him a kiss and getting up from his lap.

“Fuck you, Max, really,” George sobs, throwing his head back, his spent dick slightly twitching in his pants.

“This is for the attempted ban, you bitch,” Max says, but the venom is not poisonous, the sting comes just from arousal. “And don't complain to Kimi about the dynamic we have or I'll give Charles an idea,” Max continues.