Archive of Our Own ^beta

Andrea Kimi Antonelli was eighteen when he first had a crush on a guy.

It's this weird subspace of discovery that never really arrived. Now, he doesn't trust his brain as far as he can throw it, but it all seemed to click one fine day.

Like any other day, his mechanic shuffles over to drag his ear for being late, Bono almost smacks him across the face when Kimi once again offers to 'show him the internet', and Toto gives him a hug he's only ever received once before. That once before was also, unsurprisingly, from Toto.

Lewis spots him just as he's slipping into his driver's room, hat dangling precariously off his head.

"Hey kiddo," a resounding clap his acknowledgement, Kimi finds these moments louder than if he were to actually use his words. Being near Lewis has that kind of effect.

"Buongiorno! Are you going for the sim also?"

"Yup. Get a couple hours in, I should be good for the day after about 4, so if you wanna check telemetry in the meantime," He vaguely gestures towards one of his own mechanics in a headset.

"Ah okay. Enjoy your uh, sim-time."

"Thanks kid."

Lewis ruffles his hair with a huff for a laugh, and Kimi immediately swipes at his offending hand to no avail. Luckily, he's sure it doesn't look too bad, a perk of having curly hair they say.

He should take the older driver's advice though, set and get some of his work down. Kimi grabs the stack of sheets off the table with his name stuck on top and sidles towards their empty hospitality suites. Usually, the others will leave him a glass of fresh juice and snacks while he zeroes in on the numbers that make or break his entire career.

The others being his favourite person after Lewis and Toto. Only because he's not a driver. Kimi rightfully cannot appreciate anybody more than a driver.

The suite, as is usually the case, is relatively empty and cold. A thrown blanket is draped over the black couch pushed to the side and two Merc-pillows line the back.

No snacks though. That's unusual.

He shuffles out of his sweaty shoes, throws his feet up on the couch and leans back against the armrest with sheets upon sheets of data nestled upon his lap.

And just like that, two hours fly by.

He's scribbling in the provided notepad, marking out distinct points of improvement or anything worth speaking to Toto about. There's a few sets of black pens scattered over the couch and the table combined, but that's because he can't find the one he likes just right.

Oh, and he's starting to starve.

As luck would have it though, it isn't fifteen minutes after he's had this gruesome hunger rage through him, that the door to his suite slides open in a slow click—and there stands possibly their most social member.

"Feet off the couch, blimey Kimi learn to listen!"

He's already yapping off without a second thought, but Kimi finds it hard to be irritated when George's face is all scrunched up. Like a baby fed sour lemons.

"Ah, mate, you gotta repeat it. Hot days I can't control myself ya know? The room is so cold, it's nice," he's very evidently teasing but George takes to fixating an austere glare on him. The kind that doesn't make room for argumentative Italian teenagers.

Now if Lewis or Toto or anyone else stared at him so viciously, Kimi might've taken offense. But because it's George Russell with a tray of fruits, cookies and cocoa in his hands, that's sort of not possible.

"Whatever. Ugh, I swear one day I'll just lock the room door itself, fancy seeing you get in without a passkey."

"I work here Georgie, someone would let me in eventually you know."

"I have it on good authority that the people working under me listen to me more than you, mate."

Kimi rolls his eyes, "Okay but you can't even stay mad at me for too long. You'll open it on your own."

"That's—!"

George groans even as he sets the tray down on the table while shoving a few of those messily thrown pens to the floor, a clear as day 'you're to set this place proper again' in his eyes. Which, hello, of course he will? Kimi isn't a hooligan thank you. Was raised rather sternly actually.

"Thank you Georgie. I'll make sure to make you proud and finish everything here," he tosses a cookie into his mouth, holding another right before the older.

George decides to catch him off guard this time, however, by bending down and plucking the confectionery out of Kimi's hand with his teeth.

His pearly white teeth grazing the roughened skin of Kimi's fingertips, chewing with his delicate hands rushing to catch hold of the crumbs.

Young as he may be, Kimi feels a swell of fondness settle down in his chest cavity. George doesn't notice his affectionate smile or gentle crease of the eyes—only laughs shrilly and then stumbles out the suite.

"Have fun! And please don't litter, Heaven's sake..."

"No promises!"

Whenever Max comes to the Mercedes paddock, it's a rare and memorable moment for Kimi, because he always makes it a point to help the younger driver in analysis and sometimes gives valuable tips.

It's even rare that Max and Charles come together, but it's the appearance itself that shocks Kimi, not the combination. They're always attached at the hip, and if Charles didn't live and breathe Scuderia, he's sure they would've ended up teammates.

Or so he thought, before Lewis made it very clear that Charles would rather eat Max's face off than imagine a budding friendship a few years ago, which is very funny but mildly concerning. Kimi has long learned not to question this sort of stuff.

"Max! Charles! Welcome to Mercedes, it's a surprise to see you," he waves at them excitedly, interrupting what looked to be a riveting argument between the two but they seem happy to entertain him. Benefits of being the youngest on the grid, they say.

"Hey Kimi," "Kimi!"

Charles steps forward to mess up his hair, rough enough to make Kimi groan but kind enough to let him set it after.

"I spent time on my hair!"

"We all do but then, it wouldn't be very useful after using the helmet you know," Max chuckles.

"LH is here?"

"No he's at the sim, he is busy for the next hours but I'm free!"

"Of course you are Kimi, you are always free," Charles chastises. Or attempts to but it comes off far too fond and doesn't actually do anything. Max jabs an elbow into Charles' abdomen, and then immediately ducks when an elbow comes hurtling towards his face.

"Max!"

"Charles," Max sing-songs. Kimi laughs softly. It's always enjoyable to have opponent drivers on the paddock, even if Toto gets a little annoyed.

"But, why are you guys here? Just walking? Not going for FP1?"

"Eh, nobody wants to watch when they could be racing."

"Maxie over here is just angry that Red Bull didn't let him irritate Yuki before his FP1."

Max grumbles, "It's only a little."

"Didn't," Kimi takes a tentative step back, "didn't he almost bite your fingers off the last time?"

"That's—" Max sputters in the background of Charles echoing laughter. The mechanics turn to stare at them, raising a few eyebrows but nobody has the courage to stop and interrupt the famously named 'Family Trio', currently excluding Oscar Piastri but he's not the type of guy to end up at the Mercedes Garage.

Hopefully. Otherwise it's Bono's job to justify the presence of rival drivers to Toto and nobody wants to be subjected to Bono's wrath, truthfully.

"Ahh Kimi I am tired. Don't you have any manners? We should get snacks!" Charles flicks Andrea's head, a slight red mark fading as quick as it formed.

"I second that. Kimi, we're VIP guests, we should get VIP treatment."

Max's teasing reminds Kimi of a very important suite. While massaging the gentle sore spot on his head, swiping at Charles with frustrated hands, he does catch a glimpse of the hospitality staff shuffling around carrying trays of water bottles and cans of soda. Not Red Bull of course.

"Hey, miss!" He waves a hand at one of the stiff shouldered woman flitting about with a tray of rock candy-chocolates whatever.

She turns to stare at him politely, a small smile forming in response to his enthusiastic tone. "Is it possible to accommodate the drivers at the suite right now? Is George using it?"

"Hmm... I do believe Mr. Russell is a tad busy, but if you book the suite specifically under him, I think he can be free. Might have to wait ten minutes though before he's available, would you like me to serve your friends?"

Kimi considers that for a moment. While he's strictly against bothering George when the man is already drowning under swathes of work, he also knows that Lewis has more than once tricked their head of hospitality into taking a break through, as he calls it, 'just means.'

"Learned it from Nico."

Lewis had told him. It's funny to imagine Nico Rosberg haggling a young George into some semblance of rest but then, nobody else would've had that sort of power.

"No, that's alright miss. Could I use the one under George? I can set it up! He taught me how."

Anybody else and she might've felt offended at the dismissal of her services, but George was a delight to be swapped with for his keen apologies and sincere praise. She smiles, nods, and walks off.

"Kimi knows how to set up a suite? That's a surprise," a thick Monaguesque accent breaks his suspended thoughts.

"Yeah, George taught me."

"Whose George?" Max asks, a quick once over around the garage to no recognition.

Kimi thinks for a second. He could tell them, but then if he starts he'll keep going on and on and on about how nice George is and how easily the man helped him feel welcome into a new environment when everything else around him seemed so fearful and how many times he's fallen asleep in the suite when running away from the pressure of everything and how George would filter his videos and content to make sure Kimi never read the hurtful things people said when all he'd done was make an honest mistake at the bad time and—

"You'll see."

The senior drivers share a look of confusion behind Kimi's back, but still follow him regardless when he walks determinedly towards the elevators.

Filled with soft light and loads of nonsensical chatter between the three, with Charles being adamant on referring to Oscar only as his 'son', by the time they exit, Max is seconds away from strangling the Monaguesque and Kimi is painstakingly close to crying of laughter.

"Okay, inchident over here clearly has a lot of opinions," Max rolls his eyes.

Kimi stops them infront of the suite, unlocks it the proper way instead of expecting it to be open. George is strict about it.

Not a second after it's opened, Max launches himself onto the couch like a missile made of weary bones and agitated Dutch, kicking his feet up to rest on the table with a pillow set behind his head.

"What a dog."

"It's called being tired Charlie."

"It's called not doing your skincare properly," Charles throws back.

"Okay pretty boy, whatever."

Kimi laughs loudly at that and gets a quick slap to the back of his head in retaliation.

"Ow!"

"Shh shh, keep quiet."

"Ugh," a grumble leaves him and Max waves pointedly towards the teenager to join him on the couch. He does just that, copying the Dutch driver to sit beside him while Charles leans back leisurely on the opposite couch.

A quick groan of hunger, then, "Any snacks kid? Really hungry here."

Kimi sighs pleasantly, almost opting to ignore the senior driver altogether but, one does not simply ignore Max Verstappen. So.

"I could call George. He might bring some appetizers they keep around here, but I do not know if they test good."

"Some food is better than starving."

"Right on Charlie."

Kimi sits a little straighter, his hand hovering over the button of convenience. It's supposed to call a host/hostess, but he knows it'll only ring to George. This is the 'special' suite used for only Mercedes related high ranking personnel and the occasionally politically powerful figure.

It dings, and then they wait.

"It's been like, five minutes. Have some patience Max."

"I'm hungry Charles! Hungry!"

"You will not starve, gros con."

"I can't even understand that."

"You—"

A sharp knock at the door interrupts them. Kimi peers out, sees his favorite person, and instantly breaks out into a warm smile.

"Ah, he's here."

He doesn't notice Max's raised eyebrow or Charles quick once over at his face, the sudden burst of deep tenderness flitting in his sharp eyes. Kimi's face looks unbearably fond, a softness he hasn't shown unless it's at the after-party of his race win.

This George guy must be special huh.

When the door slides opens, a tall, lithe body shuffles into view carrying a tray of what looks to be pastries, decadent and topped with the fancy type of whipped cream that is hard to pronounce, equally as hard to create. A set ranch sauce topped with chives and a plate of what looks to be deviled eggs—

Nobody's looking at the damn eggs.

Charles' feels something jolt through his spine. A sharp jawline, high cheekbones and light red dusted over his skin—he walks gracefully, as though elegance isn't something taught in a PR session with his pissed off manager, but something simply endemic to him.

His smile—god his smile—is all polite and distant, but a flicker of amusement sets alight those striking eyes and Charles is realizing he's never seen eyes so blue in his life.

He turns to find Max and maybe some solace in the process, but that idiot's already enamored.

Max stares at the guy's face, at his lips when they move to address Kimi and his glowing skin, alight beneath the warm lights of the suite. He seems to turn towards Max, maybe ask him a few questions or give him a run down on the appetizers but Charles knows the Dutchman isn't paying attention because he himself is not paying attention.

All the while, Kimi stares triumphantly.

"—and that's the selection for today. Would you like me to bring some of the novelty items on our menu? Kimi here said you were quite hungry. I apologize for the delay, I didn't mean to arrive so late but work just caught me in a web and well, here I am."

"You can catch me in a web."

"Sorry?"

Charles splutters like an idiot. The beauty has a beautiful voice, big deal idiot—he just wasn't expecting a person to be capable of sounding like allure and sharpness all at once. Max would laugh at him if he wasn't so close to whining himself.

"Ahem," Kimi pointedly clears his throat, "what they mean is if you could bring some of those cold minty drinks they will be really happy?"

"Oh," the pretty man's lips contorts into a small 'oh' and all Max can think of is whether he makes that face when he cums.

"Yes! Très bien that is exactly what we meant! Lemon ice tea for me please. And for him, for him as well," because Charles knows exactly what's going through Max's head and it'd ruin both their chances if they embarrass themselves altogether.

Very stupidly however, Charles' eyes flit down to the man's crotch. The lack of a distinct outline makes his head spin.

"Thanks Georgie," Kimi kisses George's cheeks and waves him off.

"Anytime."

George smiles softly, at Kimi, then at the two starstruck fools staring at him. Either he doesn't realize they're starstruck or he does, and can't be bothered to point it out. Kimi has a distinct feeling it's the former.

When George does leave, a hush falls over the suite.

"You know," which Kimi eloquently breaks, intent on destroying his respected seniors through any means necessary, "if you're proactive, he'll always respond."

They don't seem to get it though. Of course they don't, why would they? Charles tilts his head adorably to the side.

"Huh?"

"He's up for grabs?"

"To answer your question Max, he is infact single. But not looking to settle for a relationship, if you want that."

"Will he settle on my face?"

"Max!"

His dazed eyes flick away from Charles' red face, to sincerely stare straight through Kimi. "Will he?"

Kimi smiles the trademarked Antonelli smile they've learned to be somewhat apprehensive of. "Of course."

Charles feels like his lungs were rattled in a music box, breath knocked straight out and into a place of no return. This is depraved, deranged even to think about... tangling, with someone he's barely known ten minutes.

"Pretty boys Charlie," Max reminds him, "hard to come by."

"So all that fanaticism did nothing for his reputation! Can you imagine a character like that being written into cinema? A scratched up bauble is a better actor than whatever they thought he was I mean—"

"Chéri," Charles drawls, lazily trailing hands up George's waist, rubbing his skin through his Mercedes branded t-shirt. One hand slips past the Brit's waistband only for Charles' to dig pointed nails into his hip.

George fusses a bit more, squirming around desperately before puffing in annoyance only to rest back against the Monagesque, his ass purposefully grinding into Charles' crotch.

"All you drivers ever want, eh?"

"Hmm," Charles kisses his ear, trails his teeth further downwards, grazing the reddish hickey on George's nape, courtesy of Max.

The Ferrari driver's room isn't quite as decked out as one would expect, but it's spacious enough for Charles to rest, and big enough for no one else to have any complains. Other than Fred warning him not to let any cameras near when he's got George in the room.

Lucky him then, that Carlos also doesn't like having cameras around.

"You know, I should really get going," George teases, his hands coming up to try tugging Charles' palms off his hips.

He twists a little in Charles's grip, just enough to turn and face the man who bleeds Ferrari red dead in the eye, whispers sultry as they've started to always be with this particular driver.

"Should check my phone as well—never know when Alex needs me, hm?"

Charles hands tighten threateningly, "That so? You've got time for everyone but me, that's not fair."

He spins George's body around, like George isn't a man both taller and just as sturdy as him, slamming him into the wall.

"Wha- Charles!"

Charles isn't listening of course. He slips one hand below George's thighs, hefts the man's leg up and around his waist before grinding forward into George's slicking warmth, separated only by the jeans he's desperate to rip off with his teeth.

"Ah—mm, Charles you're already..." George chances a glance down, staring in a perverse amusement at the hard length nudging against his cunt, "no self control, hm? Charlie's such a bad bo—mmph!"

Eloquently, Charles slams his lips onto the Brit's in a sudden, purposeful motion, wide blue eyes snapping shut the second their tongues collide. George's back arches against the wall, his hands trailing upwards to tug at Charles' hair.

"mmph-mm!"

He whines again and again, shoving Charles off only to pull him back again.

George gasps when another hand lifts him up, thighs clenching around Charles' waist on instinct once he's entirely off the ground.

"Charles—mm, ah!—I can't breathe you idiot wait!"

Charles however, is in no mood to stop. He slips down George's neck, chewing on his skin like George is no more than a doll. The Brit throws his head back, hits the wall softly and grinds forward into Charles' abs, his clit swelling inside his panties.

"Mm, wait wait I can't—" George whines, wetter by the second.

"If you speak any louder Chèri, someone will walk in."

He says that, but Charles pulls off the wall, George hoisted up in his arms as he walks across to the makeshift mattress at the left hand side of his driver's room.

"Tomorrow's race is important, remember?" Charles whispers straight into George's skin, hovering over the mattress. George whines, the friction between not enough.

"George, do you remember?"

Charles doesn't move. His voice turns darker, raspy and strained. If George didn't know any better, he would've missed the way Charles' undershirt seemed to stick to his skin from the sweat and heat.

"Course I remember. Your home race Charlie, I know you'll do well," He's trying for pissed but it just comes off needy.

"I'll need a lot of luck, baby. So," Charles drops George into the mattress, ignores the gasp of surprise and immediate retort in 'Charles!', kicking off his shoes to nudge George's legs open. He stares down.

Red, flushed, completely soaked and writhing on his bed—George spreads his legs easily, like he was made to do this, to always accommodate Charles.

"Don't pass out on me Georgie."

George scoffs. "As if."

George passes out. Twice.

It's hard not to when Charles Leclerc is chewing on his clit like it's a fucking marshmallow.

Twice in the span of an hour is terrible stamina, but then, Charles is still licking him like a slobbering dog, slipping his tongue beneath George's folds, slick and spit trailing a river down his chin, punching out little 'ah, ah, ahs' from George, holding the Brit's hips down every time he tries to arch up and away from Charles.

"Charlie—ugh, ah, mmph—Charles!"

Three back to back orgasms was incredible, downright eye-opening, but George couldn't help feeling guilty.

"Shh," Charles whispered, a soft 'pop' startling George into embarrassment, "I can enjoy no? Let me have it. You can take it, I know you can."

"Ugh, you're so—fuck—"

Charles presses a gentle kiss to George's inner thigh, and slowly slides in two fingers. He immediately coos when the Brit's entire body looks up from the sudden intrusion, even though Charles slides in without any resistance at all.

George's cunt, sopping wet and puffy from Charles' tongue and teeth with his clit bumping against the Monégasque's knuckles on the way in, parts easily for two long, roughened fingers.

He feels the press of nails against his spongy, slick walls, the sudden rush of heat when Charles crooks his fingers just right and hits that mouthwatering spot, bruised thighs clenching shut around the Ferrari driver's face.

Charles pries his legs open with the other hand, sucking feverishly, tongue and fingers working together in an obscene squelch to ring another earth shattering orgasm straight from George's core.

George screams aloud, uncaring of how whorish or gross it might look—Charles seems to enjoy it, lapping up every last drop.

"Such a pretty little cunt," he whispers against George's folds, licking upwards while his fingers circle and lightly pinch the swollen nub vibrating against him, "she's always open for me, hm?"

"Stop..." George turns away, his face flushed red with embarrassment.

"Look at her, clenching so tightly around me. What a good girl," George whines, unconsciously bucking his hips upwards, grinding against Charles fingers inside him, "she knows me. Better than even you do, Georgie."

"I'll fill you up, keep you nice and warm all the time hm?"

He thinks he might pass out once again.

"So good for me baby, so tight," Charles kisses his forehead, grinding forward until his cock hits that deliciously sweet spot inside George over and over and over again.

Hazy blue eyes stare up at him, clogged with tears. Charles licks them away, pushing George forwards and backwards by the hips to meet every brutal thrust.

"Charlie, mmh—ah! Ah! Charles—wait—"

Charles pinches his swollen clit, watches in fascination as his dick disappears into George's cunt without any resistance, each thrust spilling more slick and cum. George wraps his long, sinful legs around Charles' waist, pulls him forward and deeper.

"Shh, that's it baby, that's my darling so beautiful. Good boy, such a good boy, all tight and wet for me," his voice sounds unfamiliar even to him, leaden with something heavier. It feels like he will never be sated, no matter what, "You like this? Tell me Georgie, tell me what you like."

"Y-you—" George gasps when Charles pulls out to the tip once more, presses down on his navel before he slams back in, "Charles please please please I'm gonna—"

"Is this your forth? Fifth?"

George shakes his head. He doesn't remember, hell he can't even think properly.

Charles drags a finger over his rim, slides one in using the wetness of George's slick. Doesn't budge when the body slotted around him arches in pleasure.

"Gonna do it? Gonna come on my cock like a little whore?" He chuckles darkly, "Do it George. Come."

George's screams should probably be muffled, but he clenches so tightly, digs his nails into the driver's back and drags until little red lines stay home as a reminder of Charles infatuation etched onto him.

When he does come, Charles isn't far behind, and soon they're a mess of sticky limbs pressed against each other, his softening cock falling out with a simple pull. George sighs in his arms, turns to wrap himself snuggly against the Monégasque radiating body heat and doesn't budge. Charles doesn't try to make him either.

A few minutes later, there's a knock on his driver's room.

"Who?"

"The guy whose been hearing you from when," a distinct Spanish accent belonging to only one man.

"Awe, sorry Carlos. Come in."

Carlos walks in mildly affronted, his eyes quickly taking in the sight of a still naked George and Charles cuddled up on the latter's mattress, the smell of sweat and something sweet thick in the air. Carlos pointedly glares at the sight.

"Now I have to wait like, five hundred hours."

Charles smiles sheepishly, "I'll let him know when he's up. Don't want to disturb him right now, no?"

"Carlos?" George's soft mumble disrupts them. Carlos sighs.

"Hey baby. Feeling okay?"

"Mhm. S'alright if you need," George turns softly towards the door, Carlos' body blocking the outside world from sight. He smiles, sex drugged and all, before reaching a hand down to spread open his red, abused pussy.

Charles nuzzles George's neck, slips a finger in between to graze his labia before the Brit hurriedly chastises him. He grins uncaringly, but pulls his hands back to wrap them around the taller's torso.

Carlos watches, considers for a moment before shaking his head. "Next time, mi amor."

The look of fondness he gets in return makes the wait worth it by decades, "Okay Matador, whenever you want it."

Carlos is very much the type to take it whenever he wants.

"That's it cariño," he coos, sucking a bruise while slamming in and out even as George writhes and clenches tighter around him, "always so pliant. Gonna knock you up at this rate, hm?" Shame he can't get pregnant. Or not, but he's too high off Carlos' to think.

He's still sore from Charles, but the Spaniard was so sweet and caring and patient and—

Of course they ended up making out, and of course George had to ride him like Daniel in Austin. (Because he does know what that feels like, no?)

When he does crumple from overstimulation and melts against Carlos' chest, soft kisses are peppered along his skin and George smiles like the cat who got the cream.

The worst amongst everyone is, as one might've rightly guessed, Lando. Second only to Max who likes biting George's nape whenever they have even a moment of isolation.

"I think he'll throw you out the window any second now Lan," Oscar chuckles.

Lando doesn't budge from where his hands grip George's waist. He manhandles the taller man over his lap, until he's mouthing at George's pale collarbone like a kitten.

"Any second now Osc," George breathes back with a smile, wincing when Lando's teeth graze the mark they'd just left. Childish brown eyes flick up at him, big and doe like brimming with faux innocence.

"Meanie."

"Says the guy trying to skin me! Lando don't bite," he chastises. Oscar holds back a laugh as he pulls his shirt off to match Lando, the McLaren suite air cool enough to battle the heat, but not enough to stop him from sweating buckets.

George tugs at his oversized black shirt (Oscar's, actually), loosening his thighs around Lando's torso from where his shorts ride up, leaving miles of smooth skin open to the reddening grip of one young Brit and Aussie.

"It's too hot for us to be sitting like this Lan," he complains to no avail. World Champion has never seemed like the listening type. Instead, he trails his heated hands up George's shirt, scratching his stomach and tweaking his nipples until George hastily grabs the offending limb.

"Oi, you said only hugs."

Oscar whistles once, slipping up from behind to gently tilt George's head backwards for a kiss. The press of lips is gentle, and he parts immediately when Oscar prods at his bottom lip.

Tongues gliding over one another until George flushes from the lack of air, with Oscar's sweet smile staring him down as he pants, it's enough to have him shifting on Lando's lap, a sticky, honey like warmth dredging up his core.

It's hot and cold at the same time, all too much at once. Oscar doesn't seem to mind in the slightest. His hands ruffle George's perfect curls, leaves a kiss on his forehead before dropping onto the couch opposite to Lando.

Lando, who's intent on pushing the definitions of a hug till it's elasticity has run dry.

He runs a thumb over George's stiff nipples, trails wet kisses down the older Brit's collarbone before reaching down to grab his arse, pulling George tight against him, crotch pressed against a fluttering cunt hidden by flimsy shorts.

"Lando, don't," he tries for strict but it just comes out airy.

"Aww, Georgie is no fun. You let Oscar inside yesterday! I reckon you're biased."

Oscar coughs, red in the face. Which is odd considering he'd fucked George against the wall, on the couch, atop his driver's table, pressed against the door—okay. So he'd needed a distraction that wouldn't lead to him lashing out at Lando. Whatever.

"Oscar," George pinches Lando's cheeks, gives the man some semblance of relief by grinding forward. A whine from the McLaren driver makes him smile cheekily, "didn't win their World Championship a week ago. And also, he asked. You'd do good to learn some manners, hm?"

"Ew, manners."

"Wow Lan, real representative," Oscar's deadpan is enough to make George laugh, even as he falls forward to capture Lando in a kiss, tangling his hands in the man's hair until he's a mess of short curls and needy gasps.

It's not like Lando's being deprived or anything. Yesterday was a good day for him. Not just in the 'world champion woah this actually happened' wise, but also because George had given him the most mind-blowing blowjob he'd ever experienced. That felt impossible.

When they break, a thin trail of saliva follows. Lando swallows, chasing George's lips only to be stopped by the press of a delicate finger. The resulting protest makes even Oscar crack a sympathetic smile.

"Next time baby. Next time you can put it in, okay?"

Because he's gentleman, Lando nods and goes back to nuzzling against the crook of George's neck, trading heated glances with Oscar every once in a while.

The second worst is still Max. Max, because he doesn't know when to stop.

George adores Yuki, loves it when the little guy (not so little when he's folding George into a mating press) leaves him kisses on the cheek whenever he visits Red Bull hospitality.

So maybe Yuki likes leaving hickies across his stomach. At least it's somewhere not noticeable. Unlike this stupid idiotic fucking crazy Dutch currently—

"Max! Fuck, Max stop I—you have, we, mmm.."

Max smiles against his skin, but clearly doesn't give a fuck. He pumps his fingers in and out of George's cunt, pressing him down into the bed while sucking a harsh hickey into his collarbone, biting the skin between his teeth.

"Can I take a photo, schatje?"

"P-pervert.." George breathe out, doesn't argue when Max snaps a shot on his phone where his fingers disappear into George's pussy.

"Bit tight no? Daniel went soft on you hm?"

Soft? "Wha—I can't even feel my legs Max! And you're so impatient you—" Max angles his fingers just right, where Daniel's cock was hitting him like a blunt hammer straight into his prostrate, and George screams. His thighs clamp shut around the intruding hand, squirting all over Max's wrist.

Max coos, "aww pretty baby is so tired eh. So, so tired." But he keeps ramming in and out, hitting George so hard the Brit is crawling upwards and away, trying to get away even as Max grips his hips and brings him down.

Daniel is a beast in bed, no doubt. He keeps George on the edge, plays with his clit and then has him balanced on his elbows, his fingers pressing into George's nipples and hips as he takes him from wherever he wants.

But sincerely, Max is so, so much worse. Worse because he's unrelenting in how extreme and twisted his ideas are.

Some days he'll record George touching himself, coming to completion with Max's name on his mouth and then set that as the notification sound for when they text.

Other times, he'll fit his fingers in with his dick, a mess of slick and cum easing his slide in.

Psychopath. Absolute psychopath, he is.

"Liefje, think you can cum once more for me?"

George sobs, shaking his head. "Nonono, Max I can't I can't I can't, feels weird, feels—oh fuck fuck, you're so deep Max you're so deep its—you're, Max, please oh god," he cries, almost sure his face is a splotchy red mess, "something—something is touching inside, I don't—"

"Shh, come on," Max leans forward, trails fingers all over George's thighs. The bed, cold against his back yet somehow soothing to the touch, suddenly feels on fire when they kiss. Spit and saliva mix in a pool of sloppy desire.

"Please George, please—" he nearly whines, and it's so... George can't help tangling his fingers into Max's hair, rocking back against the length slowly entering his cunt, filling in every aching inch of space.

When he does come, it's with Max's name plastered on his lips and a sweet kiss to the forehead, reminding him Pierre is free whenever George wants to drop by Alpine.

Maybe Mercedes isn't the greatest team to work for, but they hold a lot of power in ways that matter.