Chapter Text
Rosenfeld - I Want To
George doesn't know the exact moment his life turned into an endless test of his patience, with the lead examiner being a nineteen-year-old, curly-haired Italian with Bambi eyes and the wiles of a succubus. Actually, he has a pretty good idea: it was the precise moment Andrea Kimi Antonelli stopped being a "promising junior" and became "his Kimi."
In the paddock, George is a rock, a leader, the face of the team. At home, George is a man whose jaw is in a chronic state of aching from the urge to fuck his own boyfriend. Kimi Antonelli is talent, youth, and those damned puppy-dog eyes that are impossible to say no to.
(Yeah, right. Puppy-dog eyes.)
George remembers a time when Kimi was different. Two years ago, at seventeen, he was a quiet, shy kid who would blush if George held his gaze for more than three seconds. Back then, George had appreciated the distance, respected those boundaries, even though everything inside him coiled into a tight knot with the desire to touch those goddamn curls. He waited. He was the patient, understanding "big brother" in public and a nobody in his own head.
But the moment Kimi crossed the threshold into adulthood, something in him clicked. Or broke. Or, on the contrary, was fixed in a way George couldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams.
At nineteen, Kimi Antonelli is a walking catastrophe with an angelic face and a devilish desire to push George over the edge. He didn't just get bolder. He got, for fuck's sake, feral. He tested the waters, found all the red buttons on George Russell's control panel, and now pressed them with enviable regularity, just to watch the beautiful explosion that followed. He quickly figured out that behind the mask of the strict and demanding George was a man who lost his mind over disobedience.
Kimi knew: George loved to be in command. But what George loved even more was when his commands were blatantly disobeyed, giving him every right to deliver a punishment.
And today, Kimi had outdone himself.
This evening, George is waiting for him at home. Antonelli was supposed to arrive in his brand-new Mercedes-AMG GT 63 S E PERFORMANCE—a black, angry, limited-edition bitch of a car, one of only two hundred in the entire fucking world. George had personally handed him the keys, squeezing his shoulder and giving a stern order:
"Go easy, kid. No showing off. It's not your F1 car."
Kimi had nodded then. (Of course, he'd nodded. Smiled that same smile that made George want to either kill him or drop to his knees before him).
And now, standing in the entrance hall of his mansion, George hears not the noble roar of an engine, but the swish of cheap taxi tires.
The door opens. On the threshold is, of course, Kimi. In a stretched-out black t-shirt, jeans, with disheveled hair and the look of a guilty dog who just devoured a steak from the master's table and doesn't regret a single bite.
"Georgie..." he draws out, his voice thick with guilt and excitement. "I think Kimi's been bad again..."
George exhales slowly through his nose, feeling the fire ignite inside him. He narrows his eyes, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest, his whole posture screaming, "Alright, impress me."
He lets the boy in, closes the door, and follows him. Kimi strolls deeper into the hallway without taking off his shoes, a languid swagger in his walk. Those damned hips sway from side to side, and his jeans hug his ass so tightly George's mouth goes dry. He stops in the center of the bedroom and finally turns around.
A devilish fire burns in his eyes.
Kimi silently pulls out his phone, taps the screen, and hands it to George.
The photo is of that very collector's dream. Or rather, what's left of it. George’s heart skips a beat.
"Are you okay?" He takes a step forward, grabbing Kimi by the shoulders, quickly scanning his face and hands. "You're not hurt? Didn't hit your head? Kimi, fuck, answer me!"
He inspects him frantically, searching for bruises, scrapes, but all he finds is that demonic fire in those dark eyes and a smirk that only grows wider. Kimi is fine. Kimi is, the little shit, absolutely fine and, it seems, quite pleased with himself.
"Oh, Kimi is so careless, Georgie," he purrs, not even trying to feign remorse. "The speed limit was sixty-five (mph), but the car was just begging to be pushed... I only got it up to one-ten."
"One-ten?" George breathes out, and the fear is replaced by understanding. And right behind understanding comes a wave of heat that makes his own pants feel tight.
"And what am I going to do with him, hmm?" George releases his shoulders and steps back again, leaning his back against the door. He scans the boy's figure, feeling the power shift into his hands.
"I don't know..." Kimi pretends to think, biting his lip. (The little manipulator). "But I think Kimi won't get away with this, right?"
"Definitely not. They took your license, I take it?"
"They did," Kimi agrees easily. "But, Georgie... are you going to punish me now?"
That tone. Fuck. It gets George instantly, painfully hard, pressing against the zipper of his jeans.
"Get undressed."
It's not a request. No. It's an order, and it tolerates no argument. And Kimi, who just wrecked a car to spite him, now obeys with frightening readiness.
He smiles back, slowly, unhurriedly hooking his fingers on the hem of his black t-shirt. The fabric slides up, revealing a strip of tanned skin, a lean stomach, sharp ribs. Kimi tosses it aside. His sneakers follow. He shucks off his jeans, balancing on one leg, and George greedily follows every movement, every play of muscle under young skin.
Kimi is left in nothing but his boxers. Through the thin fabric, the bulge that's already swollen with blood is clearly visible.
"I said get undressed, Kimi."
"But I... I already am..." he glances down, hooking a thumb under the waistband of his boxers and tugging it slightly. "Or..." he raises his eyes defiantly. "Are these in the way too?"
"Get them the fuck off," George growls.
Kimi smirks and deftly strips off his underwear, arching his back, sticking his ass out, deliberately showing off what George considers his property. George licks his lips, his Adam's apple bobbing.
He walks to the bed and sits on the edge. He doesn't need to say a thing. The script has been perfected down to the last detail.
Kimi approaches and obediently lies down, stomach across his thighs. His torso rests on the mattress, his hands gripping the sheet, and his ass is poised right in front of George's crotch.
The position is perfect. Humiliating and exalting all at once.
George slides his left hand under Kimi's stomach, palm sliding down to cup his cock. Kimi hisses, twitching at the touch. George's right hand comes to rest on Kimi's left ass cheek. At first, it's just a light caress.
"You know what you deserve," George says quietly, his fingers squeezing the skin gently.
"Yes..." A moan is muffled by the bedsheet.
The first smack is light. Almost a caress. Kimi doesn't even flinch, just his ass reflexively pushes back, begging for more.
"You like this, don't you?" George smacks the other cheek a little harder. "You like being a bad boy who wrecks expensive cars just so Daddy will pay attention?"
"Mhmmm..."
George starts getting into it. A smack—a stroke of his cock. A smack—a slide of his hand up and down the shaft. The skin under his palm begins to turn pink, to flush with heat. Kimi squirms, whimpers, spreading his legs wide to give George full access to his body.
"Such a naughty boy," George murmurs, feeling his own control slipping at the sight of that reddening ass. "My Kimi is such a bad boy."
But George can feel it—this isn't enough. It's not enough for his little masochist.
"You know," Kimi's voice is breathy, he turns his head to look at George with a hazy gaze, "if Kimi gets punished this weakly... he might just get up and go to someone else, someone who's more interested in this."
George freezes. His palm hovers in the air. Jealousy flares inside him.
"Oh yeah?" he seethes through his teeth, and the next smack lands much heavier, with a sharp, ringing crack. "And who would he go to?"
"Hmm," Kimi flinches, hissing, but continues the game. "There are a lot of options, actually..."
"Name one."
"Maybe... Max?"
George's vision darkens. Kimi knows where to hit. Kimi, the little shit, knows exactly how much Verstappen pisses George off and all the talk about his greatness.
"Yeah, definitely," Kimi's laugh borders on hysterical arousal. "I think Max would punish Kimi harder. He's a champion, after all..."
George smacks the other cheek even harder, leaving a white handprint that immediately floods with crimson.
"Like this?"
"No," Kimi breathes, smiling drunkenly. "That's still too childish. Max would definitely punish little Kimi like a grown-up."
George stops holding back. His jaw clenches. He knows it's a game. He knows Kimi is just pushing his buttons. But Verstappen's name in their bed is a red flag to a bull.
Instead of another slap, he forcefully squeezes Kimi's cock in his fist, making him arch his back, press his face into the mattress, and whine out, "Ouch!"
"Could Max do that?" George growls in his ear.
"No..." Kimi giggles, his whole body trembling. "Max couldn't do that. It's too good... Only one person knows Kimi's body like this."
George lets go of the brakes. He sees that flushed skin, hears those dirty provocations, and realizes he can't hold back anymore. He doesn't want to. Sharp, stinging slaps rain down. He pours all his fear for this idiot's life into them, and all the sick desire that's eating him from the inside out.
"Fuck, Georgie, harder!" Kimi screams, shamelessly bucking his hips. "Yes! Like that! More! Fuck, that feels so good!"
The room fills with the sound of flesh hitting flesh, heavy breathing, and moans turning into whimpers. George doesn't stop until Kimi's entire ass is an even, burning shade of crimson.
"Could Max give Kimi as much pleasure as I can?" George rasps, his hand burning from the strain.
Kimi struggles to turn over. He's soaked in sweat, disheveled, with a crazed glint in his eyes. He settles onto George's lap, wrapping his arms and legs around his torso, pressing his body close, seeking comfort from the one who just gave him such sweet pain.
"No one..." he whispers, his lips brushing against George's neck. "No one compares to my Georgie. Only he knows what I need. And how I need it."
George cups his face and kisses him greedily, biting his lips as if trying to suck the very air from his lungs. Kimi responds just as passionately, licking the taste of his own power over him from George's lips.
When they break apart, breathing heavily, George rests his forehead against Kimi's. He runs a hand down his back, down to his smarting ass, but now his touch is gentle, apologetic.
"You're an idiot, Kimi," he exhales. "A fucking idiot."
"I know."
"Please, don't risk your health just to get me to punish you. Anything but that. Do you hear me?"
George looks him in the eye, serious, with no trace of the game left.
"I'm so glad you're okay."
Kimi smiles—this time softly, without his usual bravado—and rests his head on George's shoulder.
"I promise. Next time, I'll think of something safer."
George just closes his eyes wearily. With this boy, "safe" was never going to be an option. And, it seemed, that was exactly how he liked it.
(Though his ass was going to be sore for at least two days. Serves him right.)