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Max Verstappen’s lips were made to suck cock.
That is the first thought that strikes George as the aforementioned eagerly opens them to swallow his tip, already and embarrassingly half-hard from the mere sight of Max dropping to his knees and looking up at him with that gleam in his eyes that’s ridden with an animalistic hunger—so frequent in him yet so different now.
Maybe he wouldn’t have to tie Max up to get him all pliant—it’s a fleeting thought, however. Fleeting because Max takes more of him in his mouth, hands finding purchase on George’s clothed thighs and gripping like he needs this; and then all thoughts except for ‘fucking hell, those lips’ vanish from his mind.
He finds it’s easy to fist a hand into his straw-textured hair, nudging the back of his head with deliberate carelessness to get it all messy like it gets after a race; and by the time all of his cock fits inside the eager warmth of Max’s mouth, George is entirely hard and having to bite his lips not to moan into the eerie quiet of meeting room C.
He’s pretty sure all the other drivers went somewhere else now that the GPDA meeting is over but there is no such thing as too much precaution when it comes to getting blowjobs in semi-public from your officially sworn archnemesis; if there was ever a handbook detailing the do’s and don’ts of such an endeavour.
But if there were, George is pretty sure that there would be no do’s, and all it would say would be don’t, don’t, don’t, why would you ever do that?
Because it feels fucking good, George would scribble on the margins, angry, because if his lips need a cock to suck on then it might as well just be mine.
He opens his eyes to the sound of a moan that he belatedly realizes isn’t his own, is Max’s throat vibrating against him in whatever pleasure he finds in this. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off George, as if the sight of the GPDA president being sucked off is truly worth the trouble of keeping his eyes open and straining them impossibly up.
Fuck, George must look wrecked already. And he hates the thought of giving Max such an easy win but then he thinks, he’s the one whose dick is getting sucked, so it’s probably fine. Probably.
He feels his thighs dig against the rough edges of the table, maybe he should sit on it properly but whichever thing on god’s green earth Max is doing with his tongue right now feels entirely illegal, and George doesn’t want to risk moving—so he stays, awkward pain settling in the back of his thighs as he’s half-sat-but-not.
The hand that Max had gripping at his base moves down to George’s thigh, the other to pair, and he pushes them open, as if he needs more space to swallow George’s cock entirely, as if it’s not already—oh.
That moan, George can’t keep down.
Max’s nose touches the spring of his happy trail and George feels his tip hit the warm, welcoming back of a throat. He thinks Max does close his accusing eyes then but he can’t be too sure, because keeping his own lids from fluttering shut becomes too tall of a task as a heat wave takes hold of his body.
God, it should not be this good.
There is something between a wet and choking sound coming out of Max, and George thinks maybe he should be nice and let him breathe but his hand does the opposite, pushing on Max’s head, gripping hair, fuck. And Max moans into it, tongue trying to wrap around the girth of him like this isn’t already—like there’s more he can do to make George feel completely insane; his head slowly starting to settle into a rhythm, bobbing up and down his length like it’s nothing, like he—
“Max—” it’s an animal growl that stumbles through his lips unbidden, pulling on Max’s hair with what he hopes is a gentle nudge away; if he keeps going like this George is going to—
Max lets George’s cock slide out of his mouth slowly, staring up at him with a defiant glance, hand already training back onto his length, sliding his soft cotton briefs further down with the other one. Like a fucking professional. George has to stop himself from groaning too loud.
He thinks that anyway, as Max gives him a too indulgent moment to breathe, they are a few decibels past the threshold of complete secrecy, so it might not matter. In the grand scheme of things, at least.
“You’d rather fuck it?” Max’s voice, raspy and fucked, tickles his tip, leaking and sensitive. George shudders into the daze, and Max licks his lips hungry and predatory; they’re glistening with spit and George wants to think precome, swollen and a pinkish red that should by no means be colouring a place like Max Verstappen’s lips.
But it is, and it’s all George can think about. He thinks, delirious, that they could just as well be a pussy.
Max is looking up at him expecting, and George remembers he has a question to answer. “What?”
“My throat,” Max explains, impatient and matter-of-factly, giving the impression of a rushed post-race debrief that he’s trying to get through fast enough to have the time to go lay down on his bed and take a quick nap. George’s own throat gets caught strangling itself on a breath.
“Or have you also never done that before?” Max tilts his head with a shit-eating smirk, infuriatingly raised eyebrow, letting the tip of his perfect-fucking-cocksucking-lips barely graze him.
George thinks now for some reason that ‘have you ever throatfucked someone before?’ might be the hardest question he’s ever had to answer outside of a media pen. He thinks of that one model on Raya who asked him to do it and the sound of her name in his mouth lost to time, years maybe months if they’re passing too slowly. George thinks nothing at all.
“Y-yes just— not with you.” When Max’s eyes flick up, George thinks for a moment that it might be recognition, that it is a strange thing to say when barely minutes ago Max had never had his lascivious lips anywhere near his crotch. He’s suddenly back in Sardinia, in that basement he’d had to rent under a fake name (he’d thought William Hermann would maybe be too on the nose, but then the self-deprecating and often correct voice in his head had told him that little enough people gave a shit about him as is to ever bother knowing about the names he doesn’t use) and with Max shuddering under him, too conscious and yet still begging for it. He thinks of the taste of Max’s come on his tongue, how it had tasted awful but George hadn’t washed it out with anything, just spit and a terrible mix of lust and guilt; how Max’s girth in his mouth and the thick outlines of his veins had been the first taste of a man to trespass George’s lips and how it had felt like a divine punishment that he was inflicting on himself, at once God and sacrificial lamb.
“Of course,” Max’s breath tackles him out of it, voice aberrantly sincere in its momentum. “But you want to.”
It’s not a question, Max lays it on him like the footnotes on a thesis, dull reference and its number to boot: these are the facts and this is what I have to say about them; of course George Russell would want to fuck my throat dry, why would he not.
“Do I?” he says, shimmying off the table anyway, Max’s hand still lazily stroking the base of his length.
“Obviously,” Max answers, affect somewhere in the perfect middle between annoyance and lust. “Look at you.”
He lays a chaste kiss on George’s tip as he says it, eyes still not flickering away from him, like his gaze is a thing he’s trying to inflict on him.
George thinks that if he were to be honest, what he wants the most right now is Max’s lips in any capacity, whether it be kissing or bruising or fucking, maybe even vivisecting if that were something he knew how to do.
But he says none of that, allows himself for once to be the liar that Max believes him to be and puts his thumb between those maybe-girly-definitely-ran-through lips and presses a little on Max’s lower teeth, wonders if he’ll bite. But Max just opens in a paradoxically pliant contrast to the damning look in his eyes and lets George fuck a thumb into his mouth, lets him see how he wraps his tongue around it and sucks, flush on his cheeks growing redder.
He nudges his tip gently against Max’s mouth too, and Max does something that would be a smirk if he could right now before letting it be pushed in along George’s thumb. George bites his lip hard.
If there were ever things that were forbidden to see, then this would be the one at the top of the list. If there were ever things that were forbidden to feel, then he is feeling all of them right now, and he’ll be first in line for the ninth circle of hell.
He knows he won’t last long like this, or like anything as long as Max is there, so he gives his startlingly soft and plump lower lip a last stroke of the thumb before pulling his hand onto the back of Max’s head and gripping, debating keeping the other one on the table for balance before deciding that fuck it, he might as well just.
He places the other one on one side of Max’s face, feels the vague shape of himself when he caresses a hollowed out cheek lined in stubble and spit, feels the vague blur of his mind dissolving into Max’s wet, warm, perfect mouth, feels himself rough and violent pushing and pulling at strands of Max and thrusting into him, feels the urge to open his eyes to see such a sight and then the weight of pleasure keeping them obstinately shut.
He tries, admittedly not too hard, not to moan Max’s name.
But then it’s a lot to keep track of, the wanting of his hips fucking into him and the shaky grip of his hands keeping him bound in place and how little Max struggles, so he can’t also keep track of his throat making sounds, half of which are Max, Jesus Christ, the other half of which aren’t words that a human would say, animal snarls undoing the last of his composure, if he ever had something like that.
Probably, he didn’t. What people think is his poise and politeness has always been nothing more than a chain he keeps himself on, the dips of his paws still raw from declawing, the involuntary baring of his throat, belly up—look, I wont hurt, would you ever kill me in willing submission? Would you rather have a rotting body at your feet, or a slave?
People have always bet on subservience, the less violent violence, the invisible poison that if they put in your plate, they can blame you for eating.
Except for Max. Max will watch you roll over and say, ‘what the fuck is your problem?’, and then he’ll watch you not and say the same thing except louder, and then he’ll drop to his knees and swallow you whole.
He feels himself hit the back of Max’s throat again, and what should be a grunt of pain from him is instead a pleased moan, his steady hands gripping harsher onto George’s thighs to keep balance as his thrusts grow erratic.
He takes a moment, before the precipice, to force his eyes open and stop. Max squints up at him, the defiance in his look gone for something more crude.
He watches his lips, swollen and obscenely stretched around his cock, the glassy look in his eyes, unmoving as George watches his girth slowly slide out of him, how he can see it a bit through Max’s cheeks and how Max’s tongue flicks playfully at his tip when it’s barely just on his lips.
Then, slowly, he pushes himself back in, watches Max’s eyes shutter closed as he moans, the way his lips were made for it, they take him so easy, feels in the back of Max’s throat a sigh that tries to escape but can’t, because George is fucking him breathless; he did that, he did that.
It takes him a moment to realize he’s coming, and by the time he does it’s already too late to do the chivalrous thing and pull out—but he tries anyway, between two shaky breaths keeling Max, shit, shit shit shit—
All it achieves is that it makes it visible. Evidence piling on evidence. Dripping a bit on the corners of Max’s mouth, filthy. Max licks the worst of it away before George can admire it properly, still not once prying his fucked out gaze away from George.
He’s seen that look on Max before, when he’s on too many drugs to keep count and he stubbornly opens a pair of eyes that insist on following him, although poorly. But this time, it’s the same look, except it’s just him that did it. Just George.
He makes a list of things to tell the Devil, the day he finally meets him.
The first one would be, “fuck you,” and then he’d lean back on the table and almost collapse.
Max scoffs, resting his forehead against the clothed part of George’s thigh. He can’t see Max’s lips anymore. It makes him kind of annoyed.
The second thing he would tell the Devil would be, “can I kiss you?”
And Max would tilt his face up. “I thought you were straight?” he asks, snarky and gravelly with strain. George almost slaps him.
“I lied,” he lies, because it wasn’t a lie when he said it five minutes ago. Just as it is not a lie that most of the time George Russell is a relatively well-adjusted and relatively young man with an amount of dirty laundry roughly similar in size and magnitude to that of anyone who drives a Formula One car—which is to say, a lot more than that of the average person but a lot less than he would get in any tangible trouble for, or that a proper PR team couldn’t handle.
“Figures,” Max snarks, pulling himself up by the hem of George’s shirt. Now seeing those eyes up close, George thinks he might do something stupid. Like fall.
Against the table, that is. He hurts his arse a bit, but now at least he has a place to sit on. Max laughs, sarcastic and mean as he crowds George against it.
He doesn’t know how he’s never looked at Max’s lips before, how if his eyes have ever skirted them to find the shape of a scowl or a smile, he was ever able to pry them away. How he’s never gone—lord, I could fuck that mouth a hundred times and never get bored of it. I should. Life is too short.
George figures it’s probably because he’s straight. He figures it’s probably because that mouth spends most of its time lying too, saying things like if my boat is next to Toto’s then it’s next to Toto’s, things like I have never seen someone try to screw someone over that hard, things like I am very beautiful? George Russell.
And it’s Max who kisses him. George’s lips open without a fight, his hips welcoming the grip of a hand and his nape another, shortly after. He has to tilt his head up but Max’s steady grip keeps it from falling, holding it there to lick eagerly into his mouth. His tongue tastes bitter, of George.
It’s soft, until Max climbs onto the table too and George thinks they might tip it over. Maybe he doesn’t care right now, because Max is in his rough jeans grinding against his naked dick sore from the orgasm and his hands are wandering all over George in places that are too oddly personal and he’s straddling George against the table where not even fifteen minutes ago George must have been giving a very serious speech on the 2026 regulations—and all he can think about is how he doesn’t know how he’s kept himself alive for twenty-seven years without Max’s mouth on his.
How maybe this was, really, what he wanted. How maybe the absence of this is why everything else hurt.
He’s never kissed Max when he’s asleep. Just barely, once, and then he cried about it. Thank God Max couldn’t see. He wonders if it’s God he has to thank for things like that, if their maker really allows things like him to roam free, even lends them a hand sometimes.
The great thing about going to Hell, George thinks, is that God always asks for confessions, but the Devil will never want an excuse. The great thing about going to Hell is that you don’t have to explain yourself when you burn.
Max’s hand slips under his shirt and George feels himself protest, except Max then shoves his tongue almost to the back of his throat and George forgets to feel desecrated.
They only break the kiss to let Max awkwardly shuffle the shirt over his shoulders; George doesn’t help him very much because he’s going to Hell already, and he likes to see Max struggle—frustrated, a kitten trying to make sense of its first toy.
When he finally figures the mechanism out and the shirt is off, his mouth goes to George’s exposed neck, and kisses too. No marks, George tries to say before he thinks that it would probably be very unfair.
So he only opens his mouth for a sigh, when Max’s lips find his jugular and suck on the spot, when he feels the world slip from under him and Max’s name slip through his lips; the sudden urge to play a game of fuck-marry-kill where he is the only option, and it’s Max who gets to choose.
With the way he’s trying to devour George, he would probably choose fuck, George wants to think. And George thinks he’d let him.
Max could marry him as well, he thinks, when his hungry mouth moves down to his collarbone and doesn’t quite bite, when his hands find George’s waist and carve shapes of thumbs and nails; maybe in Monaco they couldn’t but there’s always somewhere else, there’s Vegas, there’s doing it for the hell of it. He’d like waking up next to Max and nosing at his neck, making him coffee while he lies half-asleep still, trying to struggle out of the bedding they’d have chosen at one of those places like, fuck knows, IKEA. He laughs at the ridiculousness of the image when Max’s mouth hovers over a nipple, poised to bite.
“What, sensitive?” Max looks up, poorly concealing a smirk.
George lifts a hand to Max’s unkempt mane, shaking his own head. “Just thought something funny.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm,” he strokes Max’s hair, soothing. The silence is a question spoken in breath. “You wouldn’t find it funny though,” George clarifies. It’s not a lie. “British humour. Too advanced.”
Max snorts, lets him know what he thinks of that with a bite on the nipple that has George hissing, nails digging into Max’s scalp, he doesn’t know if away or towards and only just feels, speaks with his mouth closed the whine in his throat which could mean pain or fuck, please do that again.
Max could kill him too, because George would deserve it.
“I thought something funny as well,” Max says when he’s done mauling George’s nipple. George mourns the loss with a barely contained groan. “And I’m nice, so I will tell you,” he continues, lips ghosting up George’s chest and his neck and his chin until they almost touch again.
The hands around his waist give a hard press. Max breathes and George breathes into it too.
It’s almost like Max wants him to ask.
“It’s funny that I have never seen you like this,” Max caves. Impatient little thing. George’s heart stops. His blood is a block of cement shaped like his arteries, and it’s quickening. “With how much you enjoy walking around with your shirt off. I mean—”
There’s a smirk on Max’s lips that could pass for knowing if George didn’t kiss it off him the moment he cracked it.
George thinks that the rest of the sentence could’ve been anything, I mean, I’ve been tied up in your basement like a dozen times and not once have you had the dignity to let yourself be seen; I mean, it was fine last year, not good but still fine, and the flirting was fine too, I thought we were something; I mean, still, I threatened to murder you in Qatar but before then it seemed like you liked me enough to, no?
And he won’t hear any of it, so his tongue shoves itself in the way of Max’s words and Max opens for him, his hands landing on George’s neck with something almost like reverence.
Like he could break it, if he weren’t careful. The kind of wilfully ignorant gentleness that’s made to demean, ‘G-force isn’t strong enough but I am, but I won’t, but I’m kind’ Max says with his hands curling softly onto his nape, letting George’s tongue maul his mouth, armoured in the willingness of a devotee on his knees uttering his first prayer after a lifetime of sins that are just now starting to catch up to him.
When George meets the Devil, he’ll tell him that Max deserves worse, deserves to be flayed alive until he forgets there ever was such a thing as compassion. But his hands don’t say that, his hands travel down Max’s shirt and onto his hips, he devours Max’s mouth with starved desperation, grips at him like letting go means falling down the well and never getting up. He finds his hands on the hem of Max’s jeans when Max moans into the kiss; he toys with the idea of doing something about that before deciding to just let his hands wander further down.
He's taken Max’s clothes off once before. Only, Max doesn’t know, or pretends not to, or both, and George doesn’t want to do it again. As if it makes up for it now, to be measured.
He’s gripping onto Max’s strong thighs, feeling them tense and relax with every nibble at his perfect, pliant lips, every violence inflicted, every—
“Fuck, ow—” Max yanks himself away suddenly, something breaks.
George’s eyes travel first to where his hand touches the inside of Max’s thigh, and he sees it as if Max were naked.
It’s there. Fuck, it’s there.
Somehow, George had forgotten about that. That day in Sardinia, he lost his temper, and regretted it. He’d told himself he would never hurt Max in a way that would last, but then he’d cut his thigh open and kissed it, and he’d been sure in the moment that no feeling would ever compare.
He’d put Max to sleep after, while he stitched the aftermath of it, because he couldn’t bear the thought of Max seeing his tears in a moment like that. Even if later, Max wouldn’t remember.
George would. George always does.
Except he had entirely forgotten that he had left stitches on a body and then never removed them, except he’d told himself he would leave Max alone from now on and patted himself in the back for being so sane, without caring to think that he’d left the worst of his profanity in the shape of surgical thread on Max’s naked surface, he hadn’t wanted to think.
But now his body moves on its own and his gaze yearns to meet Max’s and his hand releases pressure, still trying to find the uneven ridges through the fabric of jeans.
Max is frozen, his face reads something between terror and awe. George thinks his own might be painting a similar picture.
Max’s mouth is half-open, like he’s going to say something, something that George isn’t prepared to hear; the blood in his vessels is suddenly sharp shards of glass tearing their way from his heart to the rest of him.
Knock-knock—
Both their heads turn brusquely to the door. “George?”
It’s Kimi’s voice, muffled through the soundproof. “Yes Kimi?”
“Toto is looking for you, he sent me to—”
George is suddenly assaulted by the guilt of a phone in his pocket on which he imagines half a dozen missed calls, still on silent from the meeting; Toto waiting stern behind his desk and anxiously tapping his foot on the nearest available surface.
The feeling dazes his nerves, and he barely notices Max shuffling off him, he barely notices himself hoisting his underwear and pants back up with a shaky hand. “Yeah, sorry! I was just… discussing a few things with—Oscar! Be there in a sec, alright?”
“Alright, yeah, I’ll tell him!”
Ultrasonic steps disappear into the ether of the corridor and they’re alone again, but they’re not. Max shoots him a strange look, something that could be a smile if George had ever done something to deserve one.
He throws his shirt back on, double and triple checks that it’s the right way, smooths out the wrinkles with a hand he tries to steady, finds the keys in his pocket.
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he croaks, making his way to the door where Max is already waiting.
Max shakes his head in amused disbelief, following the rhythm of the click and clack of the lock. “Next time.”
George almost wants to look, to decipher in Max’s face something other than the bottomless vertigo he feels right now—but he can’t. He has to talk with Toto, he has to look composed, unyielding.
He doesn’t try to imagine either, what Max might be saying with everything that isn’t his mouth. He thinks that if he did, Hell would find him a lot sooner than the day of his death.
“Next time,” he echoes instead as the air of the corridor frees them both of the meeting-room-singularity.
Max laughs, or, almost. This is where they go their separate ways. He makes an effort to meet Max’s eyes as they shake hands, the gesture strange in context but paradoxically all too practiced and natural.
It’s Max who lets go first.
His mouth smiles, its lips still roughed up with the ghost of obscenity. George wonders how his own look like right now. George wonders if Toto will notice.
Max has already turned when he says: “hopefully soon. I really don’t know how to remove those.”