suddenyearning

[suddenyearning]

prompt: George getting six Alexes in the post

with gracious thanks to @latecomersprivilege for letting me bombard her with all 6,666 words of this without explanation or excuse

Williams aren’t supposed to sell the life model duplicates. George is pretty sure of that. 

It might not be an actual rule; his eyes had got blurry somewhere around page 300 of the latest FIA update, but he’s fairly sure he’d have noticed ‘selling the testing clonebots’ if it’d come up. They’re proprietary. They know too much. They’re not allowed out of the factory at Mercedes, except for track days. They’ve programmed George’s line to keep their eyes shut when they’re boxed, an engineer told him. HR had measured; it lowered the mental health sick day callouts by 5%. Can’t ignore data like that. 

So. Even if there isn’t a rule, it’s against the spirit of the whole thing. Top secret, hush hush, we definitely didn’t check the safety gear by throwing a couple of 3-D printed almost-humans at it. Yes, Max Verstappen does all his own press. 

Then again, George isn’t supposed to be on the log-in, platinum-credit-card only section of Williams’ shop, sorting from most expensive to least in the hope they’ll have put another sweat-soaked set of fireproofs up for £75k and whatever is left of his dignity. The last set just tastes of his own spit now. 

The fine print says it’s just a rental. 24 hours. That- that’s probably not much better, really, if he thinks about it. 

He doesn’t think about it. 

His fingers are sweaty when he types out his CVC, picks express delivery and…

It times out. 

Fuck. Of course, it had to be a mistake, not a real listing, but-

He refreshes anyway. A couple of times. Maybe once with a really firm click, the sort Toto must be doing every time he sends another sodding email without a sodding contract and-

Payment accepted. 

It’s probably not real. He probably just gave Williams a race-worth’s of money for nothing. That’s fine. Toto won’t know. 

Express delivery, the little thank you note reads. Tracking available soon!

Underneath, in small print:

Atlassian Williams Racing appreciates your valued custom and discretion. 

----

The knock on the door is perfectly friendly, no great harbinger of doom. A little odd that the concierge hasn’t rung, but George has talked to his neighbours before. Once. In terrible Franglais. Charles had given him big sad eyes at the next race, and George hadn’t been able to tell if word had gotten back or it was just, you know. Charles being Charles. 

It’s Alex, which is explanation enough; Francoise on the desk knows to buzz him up regardless if George has warned her or not. 

“George Russell! I was wondering!” he says, nonsensically. Par for the course with Albono, but- There’s something to the grin, something too bright, too wide. The kind of smile George usually has to work hard to earn, like Alex knows he craves it, knows George’s knees lock when he gets a glimpse of premolar. “Fake name on the address, very smart,” he adds, and George squints at him for one long, stupid moment before his stomach makes a dive for the floor. 

“Oh my god, you’re a-”

Premolars again, gleaming white. “Got it in one, Georgie. Which, I mean, you should, given you made the order. Which rather begs the question: what did you want me to do?”

Lascivious. That’s the only word George can find for that expression. He cribbed it off the back of one of his mum’s bodice-rippers, when he was back for Christmas and sick of wanking himself raw to THAI TWINK HANDLES MASSIVE PYTHON.

“I hope you’re not looking for insider secrets. I know the car’s better than expected, but they did give us a wipe before they boxed us up. Factory settings and all.” Alex – not Alex – this Alex, nudges him backwards a step or two, slips into the flat. He stands close; George can see where little filaments of leftover printing material clump his eyelashes together. 

“I-” He- he’d come up with a plausible excuse somewhere around 3am, just in case it was real, something about IP rights and bodily autonomy and putting the system to the test and responsible reporting and possibly even union representation and he can hear himself stammering it out now, almost convincing and- 

Alex is stretching. Not Alex. The LMD. Stretching his arms above his head so the blue Williams shirt rides up his stomach and George’s eyes drop to where the skin is smooth and lightly haired. No trace of an appendectomy and the worst night of George’s life. So. 

The LMD catches his gaze on the rebound. His grin goes wry even as his eyes get softer. “Bit stiff from the lorry. I need to stretch out before I get up to anything athletic.” George swallows. “Or anyone athletic.”

“I- I wouldn’t-”

“George. C’mon. You know why people rent a LMD. Or, you know. LMDs. Plural. I’m sure our original will be very grateful for the extra front wings.” George can’t stand the mention of real Alex, has to stare at his own feet, naked and long, toes curled against the hardwood. “Gotta say, it’s the first time I’ve shipped out with so many of us. You got the last few in stock, you pervert.”

He still hasn’t shut the front door. There are sounds in the hallway. One of his bloody neighbours is going to see, going to know, and probably tell fucking Charles again, and- wait. “Last… few?”

“The rest are coming up by the stairs. Sneaky sneaky-like, figured you didn’t want the nice girl on the desk knowing you’re an absolute freak right away.”

The real Alex knows Francoise’s name, keeps flirting with her, big and bold and obnoxious, while George waits for the lift after padel. That’s the thing about LMDs; you can’t print cheaply and keep all the detail. Things get lost. Apparently, in this case, Alex’s sense of taste; his pupils are wide and dark as he presses a thumb to George’s lips.

“You are, aren’t you? A freak. Can’t get enough of me.”

George opens his mouth to- to-

Oh, he can’t even pretend he was going to argue. He opens his mouth and sucks. 

It’s sort of perfect, sort of awful, the way Alex’s face jumps through such familiar motions. Maybe a thousandth slower than it should, but so elastic, so real, the quirk of his mouth, the self-satisfied crows’ feet. He tastes clean, not enough sweat, no track grime, like he’s fresh from a long shower. It’s not- George isn’t disappointed. It just isn’t like he imagined. Cruelly domestic, to imagine an Alex that could want him outside of four adrenaline-soaked days, back in F2. 

“Good boy.”

Noise in the hall again. The door creaks open and George shuts his eyes in desperate self-preservation, like it’ll make him invisible. Like no one will see the way he’s grinding against a flat hand, Alex not even bothering to cup him, make it comfortable. 

“Oi, we said no starting without us,” comes another voice, the same voice, an echo. George can’t open his eyes, not with fingertips under the hem of his shorts, but another line of heat presses up to his side, then one more behind him. Another thumb joins the one in his mouth, pressing down where his tongue drools against his teeth.

“Gosh, that was quick,” one of them says. “What was it, thirty seconds’ head start?”

“Did you see the order? Of course he’s gagging for it-”

“Not him, us. Didn’t even tease-”

“Oh, like you’d be any better when he looks like that.”

Regnal numbers, George decides, desperately. Like his old wooden ruler from the British Museum, all the Henries and Edwards crammed in together. Only it's just Alexes, half a dozen of them, crammed into his tiny front hall. Practically crammed into him, as a knee knocks his legs further apart. Another hand slips up his shorts, bolder than the last, squeezes his balls for a split second to make him yelp.

“Planning a party, George?” Alex the Sixth asks, arriving in the doorway. “Room for one more?”

George gargles round the fingers in his mouth – four now, when had that happened? His lips are stretching wide. The Sixth smiles, small and wicked. Shuts the door behind him. 

If George were normal, it’d probably be impossible to tell them apart. True, they’ve got different trousers on under the ubiquitous Williams team shirt, but it’s not the slacks that register; it’s the way Alex the Fourth doesn’t have the right pores on the left side of his nose; how the Second laughs a little too quickly and the Fifth too slow when George scrambles out of his shirt. 

Alex the Third kisses him too kindly. Romantic, almost, the way he slows it all down, lets George wind trembling fingers in his hair, feel the smooth glide down the planes of his back. Pathetic, how George can’t stop himself clinging, kissing, even after he notices the missing mole that should be lurking under a curl just where Alex’s hair meets the nape of his neck. 

It feels like lurching from the sauna to the plunge pool, how dizzyingly turned on he is, and how ashamed. The hot and cold chase each other round his body, so he shivers into every touch, mad with sensation. He couldn’t stop if he tried. If. 

They get on, the Alexes, happy to collaborate. He can see they’re a team, the way they pass him about, spin him from mouth to mouth. One set of teasing fingertips picks up after another pretty seamlessly; when they realise that pinching his nipples makes him gasp there’s a bit of jostling, everybody wants a go, but for the most part there’s only the normal amount of bickering, the kind of self-recriminations George is used to, when real Alex rolls his eyes when he spots his own reflection, ducks his head like he’s avoiding an unseen gaze. 

Alex the First has got his shirt off too by the time George is back in his arms. His skin’s a little colder, maybe, than real Alex would run, but that hardly matters when he gets George’s neck under his teeth, digs in until a tendon jumps and aches under the pressure. George has never been this hard. He has to bat away too many bloody hands to curl his fist round himself and squeeze, whining, against the need to come. 

“Fuck,” Alex the First swears against the bruise he’s made. “Bend over the sofa, Georgie, there’s a good boy, you’ll get it-”

“Easy,” Alex the Sixth says. There’s an edge of warning to it. “We’ve got time. Bed first.”

“Not enough time,” comes the reply, and George is already reaching for the cream cushions, imagining how the stiff fibres will rub his stomach red raw, how it’ll linger, how the fabric will stain-

“No,” the Sixth snaps. Then, after a beat. “Don’t be selfish. We all deserve a show.”

The consensus, it seems, is reached. There’s a compromise, in that George finds himself losing shorts, boxers, and dignity as one of them – the Fourth, maybe? – suggests fucking him up against the full plate glass windows overlooking the harbour, and George’s knees briefly stop working. That gets another of them going – “can we have him crawl?” “no time, remember,” – and all in all, George is quite grateful when they take the initiative and manhandle him to the bed, on top of the duvet like a hedonist, flat on his back. 

The noise they make when he pulls his knees up to his chest – he’ll keep that. He’ll remember that, after, and the shame will be worth it. 

It’s harder to keep track of the numbers once they’ve all got their trousers off. George has other pressing matters to consider. He thinks it’s Alex the First who starts the search for the lube, and Alex the Third who finds it; Alex the Fourth who gets bored during the wait and spits on his hole; Alexes the Second and Fifth who join in when he shudders at the sensation, the slow slide of saliva down to the bedsheets. 

He can’t be sure; but it’s definitely Alex the Sixth that lays a broad hand on his chest, sending darting glances down to where the spitters are dragging fingers through the mess they’ve made. “Easy there. Not all at once.”

George makes a noise he doesn’t recognise, high and shocked and humiliating. The Sixth’s wicked smile returns. “Not yet, at least.”

The Third is slicking himself up, generous with the lube, sliding through his own loose fist with a thick, wet sound. Alex the First looks unimpressed. “I was here first.”

“Exactly,” the Third replies. “The rest of us have catching up to do. Fuck’s sake, have you lot even opened him up yet?”

“Relax. It’s not a race.”

“Could be,” Alex the Fourth muses. It must be his fingertip idly circling George’s rim; the pressure varies with his words. “Do you think we could run it like Le Mans? Swap in and out, just keep fucking him one after the other after the other for the full time? I reckon I could get hard again while the five of you have a go each. Really fill him up. Would that finally be enough for you, darling?”

George can’t speak, can’t breathe. The bastard between his legs grins in triplicate. Sextuplicate, probably, if George could see them all. That lonely fingertip taps at his arsehole, mocking. “Too big a question? Okay darling, how about: do you want our fingers?”

The grunt George makes feels like his diaphragm making an escape bid up through his lungs; all the air whuffs out of him, and it seems like a miracle his ribs are still intact. But-

“Sorry, darling,” Alex the Fourth says, with a smile that’s anything but apologetic. “Quirk of programming. Need a verbal yes. Boring, isn’t it?”

George laughs, incredulous. It loosens his voice. “Bored to tears, mate. Yeah, go on then, if you want.”

“Cheeky bugger.” But the lube is getting passed along the line of them. Alexes the Second and Fifth dip their fingers into the backs of his knees, where he can feel he’s humiliatingly damp with sweat already. He lets his thighs relax a little and they take the strain easily, keeping him spread open. 

The stretch of a single finger should be nothing after what George has been doing to himself all winter break, but the foreignness of it, the unexpected twist of a much-studied knuckle- He’s not proud of the noise he makes, but it’s okay when Alex the Sixth leans down to him and swallows it. He’s like Alex the Third, romantic about it. Nevermind that Alex the Fifth is nudging a fingertip up alongside the Fourth’s. “George, can you give me a-”

“Yes!”

“Lovely.”

There’s something terribly wrong and blasphemously good about two fingers inside him moving independently. George feels like he’s discovered some new form of perversion, or a very, very old one. The kind the Pope would’ve outlawed in the ninth century and then no one would ever have spoken about it again, for fear of being burnt at the stake. One Alex’s finger crooks, then the other, in slightly different directions, but George feels it as clearly as a wheel rim in the gravel, the careen of it up his spine. 

Looking down between his own splayed thighs is like flirting with the edge of a roof. One Alex so determined he looks almost grim with it; another absolutely delighted to watch George try to keep his hips on the bed. The deep red-purple of Alex’s dick, cast in different lights across the room. The splay of their hands on him, in him. George’s eyes keep rolling in their sockets, each glance searing an afterburn onto his retinas. 

Alex the Third catches him watching as he puts his hands on Alex the First’s waist to squeeze by. With a smirk, he slides a hand round to his counterpart’s cock, ignores the swearing that stops as soon as George groans. This, he’ll remember this too, Alex’s eyes fluttering shut, the way his head falls back against his own shoulder, the way his hips shunt into the loose grip of his own hand, his dark eyes shining wicked from behind. 

“I don’t think that really does anything for me,” Alex the Sixth confides, mouth low to George’s ear. His breath is hot, mint-fresh. “But seeing what it does to you, fuck. Should I fuck myself and make you come just by watching?”

“No, please,” George begs, alarmingly close to tears. “Fuck me, please, fuck me.” He bears down against a third finger like that’ll hurry it along, like the grins between his legs aren’t feral. 

“I think we can promise that,” the Sixth says, a little hoarse. 

Alex the Third is bullying his way between George’s legs. The fingers slip away but George can feel how open he stays, whorish. 

The Third taps the head of his dick at George’s hole like he’s knocking at the front door. He doesn’t ask for a condom. Wouldn’t need to, obviously, but George carefully discards the thought of offering anyway. He wants to be full. “Gotta ch-”

“Yes,” George answers, impatient. Stupid fucking protocols- and then he has to snicker at the pun, fucking protocols, it’s a good one, he’d use it on Alex later if it weren’t for, well. The obvious. 

The slide of Alex’s dick inside him is everything he ever feared. Three fingers wasn’t really enough, for a moment he thinks that despite all this emptiness, the hollow of him, it won’t fit; and then everything is giving way, the yield of muscle and the sag of the taut rope of his lungs, his neck is lax in the cup of a large palm and Alex is inside him. And he’s crying. 

“Sweetheart,” the Third is saying, walking his hands down so he’s over George. A bead of sweat runs down his nose, hits George’s sternum. “Sweetheart, you still with us?” There’s hands on his arms, one in his hair, stroking, soothing. He nods, hard.

“M’okay. Just. A lot.” When he forces his eyes open, he can tell his smile wobbles, wan. “I can stop, if it’s, y’know, gross.” He sniffs, but that sounds worse, the rasp of snot through his nostrils. “I’m outnumbered, don’t let me spoil the mood.”

“Shhh. You’re the only one that matters. You want to cry, sweetheart, you cry.” Alex the Third starts moving at that, long dragging thrusts that carve more space for him inside George’s body, send more tears cascading out. There are lips either side of his face, at the point where the tears run to his ears, kissing them up. Drinking them down. 

He thought – he imagined – that if he ever got this, or some rough approximation, someone close enough to pretend, that all he’d feel would be the dick in his arse, maybe a glimmer of awareness of his own cock somewhere towards the close of proceedings. It just seemed so overwhelming, such a distinct act, that everything else would fade out in comparison. 

The other Alexes don’t let that happen. A mouth on a nipple, a thumb on the inside of his thigh, fingers intertwined through his, a proprietary squeeze on his arse. Lips, soft, on the sides of his face. 

And between it all, snatches of murmured conversations. 

“Fuck, he takes it so well.”

“Here, right here, watch? See? Pretty as a picture.”

“I want to suck him.”

George’s gasped yes, pinned to nothing in particular but the warm froth of Alex’s regard, is followed by the Third leaning back onto his knees and sudden, shocking heat on the head of his dick. George yelps, shoulders lifting from the sheets. Someone takes the opportunity to slip in behind him and his head ends up pillowed on a sweaty thigh, mouth at the crease of a knee. He laps at it sloppily as one of the Alex’s does the same to his dick; shocking lack of technique all round, really, but the part of George that cares to judge pales into insignificance against the build at the base of his spine.

“I’m going to-” he pants, and six groans echo back at him. 

The sight of Alex the Second’s grin streaked with his own come would be fatal if Alex the Third’s thrusts weren’t keeping his heart beating in time with the slap of his hips. Now it’s like he imagined, the feeling of each slide obliterating every other sensation. Even sight feels like it’s on a delay, precious seconds needed to process every image; it takes him far too long to spot the worry creeping onto the Third’s face and he barely makes a grab with his knees in time to stop him pulling out. 

“Keep going.”

“It’s meant to be- not as good, after you’ve come.”

“Yeah,” George manages – chokes a little, as one of the other Alexes unhelpfully decides to start pinching his nipples – “this is how I look when I’m having an awful time.”

The look the Third gives him is almost soppy. If it were real, if it was Alex, George’d tease him for days about it. The next few tears feel a little colder on his skin. He dashes them away himself, reaches searching fingers up and gets his hand held, squeezed, long enough for the moment to pass. 

“Are you even close?” one of the other Alexes complains. The First, it must be; he’s gripping the base of his dick tight enough George can see where the colour changes around his fingers. The Alex inside him grits his teeth.

“Extremely, if you’ll stop ruining the mood-”

“I’m coming on his face,” the First announces. No patience, that one, George decides. Too much Red Bull in him. 

He doesn’t say that, of course. He just cranes his neck and opens his mouth. 

“Oh you fucking dog, good boy,” the First replies. His knees nudge at George’s shoulders as he swings into position. 

Maybe breaking line of sight – that horrid, romantic look – does something for the Third, because his movements get short, jerky. The slow creep of sensation at the base of George’s spine kicks up again with each rough thrust; his dick twitches. When the first Alex taps the head of his cock on George’s lips, he moans. 

It doesn’t take long for either of them, the First or the Third. Twin groans and then there’s warmth inside and across George like nothing he’s ever known, and bitter salt on his tongue. He bites back a teasing comment on matched results, but he can’t help raising an eyebrow. 

“Pfft, none of that cheek. D’you know how long I’ve wanted to do that?” Alex the First asks, chest heaving. He’s still rubbing idly at the head of his cock, letting the last few drops fall onto George’s chin.

George counts backwards. “About 9 hours?”

He laughs. “Give or take, I suppose. S’funny, what we keep between wipes. You should see your-” 

“Shhh,” says the Alex behind George, the one whose thigh is now streaked with the come that ran off his face. A thumb swipes through the mess on the side of his nose, drags it down to his mouth to suck away. “No trade secrets.”

There’s sweat under the taste of come – Alex’s come – now, blissfully familiar. George could stay here for hours, Alex’s thumb in his mouth, weight on his ribs and firm hands on his thighs. 

But- he ordered six. He owes something to all of them. 

And it’d be a shame, really, not to make the most of it. 

“Who’s next?” he asks. There’s a brief, mad scramble. He ends up flat on his back again as all of them – even the First, with his limp, pink dick back in his greedy fist – try to crowd between his legs. George knows he’s a bit of a peacock sometimes, but how is he not supposed to chase these moments, when the feeling of eyes on him crowds out the fear of judgment? How, when a thumbpad traces over where he’s hot and open and clenching down towards it makes six men groan?

And yet- there’s already cold stealing down his arms, goosepimpling his skin where before there’d been acres and acres of Alex all around him. So outnumbered he’d practically disappeared. Law of averages reducing him to almost nothing in the mix. He wants that back.

“Wait,” he asks, and everyone else in the room freezes. “Just- My mouth as well. At the same time. Like this,” he offers, turning on the bed and tipping his head back over the side, mouth wide. He’s- he’s seen it done, in videos, how it turns the line of a throat into another hole to be fucked. 

One of the Alexes moves forward, but another stops him, a white-knuckled grip on his shoulder. 

“I don’t think that’s physically possible outside porn, George,” the Sixth is saying, but his eyes are wide and round. They all are, staring at him. He wants to cringe, but then he spots the flush travelling up their necks, identical heat in their gazes. 

He takes a risk and pouts. “At least try.”

“You’re not the expendable one here, Georgie,” Alex the Sixth says, something horribly soft and sad on his face. George shuts his eyes against the shame, warm as piss spreading across his sheets. 

And then, a tap of two fingers on his hollowed cheek. From one of the others: “I need a-”

“Oh for God’s sake, yes,” George snaps, and he barely has time to get his teeth out of the way before there’s a cock between his lips, and the rough grip on his hips is back, and fingers winding through the maze of his abs, ghosting past where his own dick is rising again. 

For long, long seconds, he can’t breathe. It’s glorious. His nose is tucked up into the soft skin of Alex’s balls, too tight to inhale, the scent subtly earthier than the taste on his tongue. He’s not choking, not yet, just starved of air, pressure in his throat and his chest and his arse, god, his arse, as another Alex slides in smooth and hard, like George has been reshaped perfectly for Alex’s cock.

He will be, after this. Shaped for Alex, secretly, under his clothes and his jokes. And Alex will never know.

It’s okay. He’ll be okay. He has to be.

The Alex at his head starts to move and oxygen floods back into his nostrils. His eyes water with it, only half-tears really. Thick sounds from his throat are floating up through his jawbones, rattling inside his head like cheers. 

“Careful,” he hears someone warning and, obstinate to a fault, he drags a hand up to the back of a thigh, digs his fingers in to urge them deeper. Imagines a bruise at the top of his mouth, something he can press his tongue to furtively when some idiot in the media scrum asks him for the dozenth time if Antonelli’s a threat. 

When he scratches lightly with barely-there nails, the Alex in his mouth swears and his hips shudder even closer. He starts coming like that, fully jammed in George’s throat, but pulls back enough that some of it spills over his tongue, like he knows George is hungry for it, filthy. Freak, the first one had called him, aeons ago, back in the hallway. Maybe if he asks very nicely, they’ll call him other things.  

“Oh my god, Georgie, open your eyes, please, I need your face-”

His eyes are sticky with half-dried tears. He has to force them open to catch Alex the- Sixth, he thinks, Sixth, yeah, must be, with one hand on his dark red dick and the other on his phone, filming. George hadn’t realised they kitted them out with phones. Very lifelike. 

“I’ll delete it after, I promise, but- Georgie, I have to.”

On instinct, George opens his mouth to show him – empty, all swallowed down, just a hint of the taste of him lingering on his teeth – and the Sixth swears, drops the phone and gets on his knees to cram their faces together. The angle doesn’t work, perpendicular, except for the way it always works, for George, when it’s Alex. 

The Alex fucking him is really putting his back into it, none of the soft romance the last one had gone for. Without an equal opposing force at his head, each thrust keeps juddering George across the sheets, like he’s turned insubstantial. The Sixth chases his mouth, braces him with a strong arm, til he’s almost bent double on the edge of the bed. He’d fear falling, but there’s too many eyes on him, too many hands. He’s never felt safer outside a helmet. 

It’s not until a hot palm traces the line of his dick that George realises he’s hard again. Not right on the edge, not quite, but thudding pleasure drumming out from his very bones. He’s never been in so much of his body at once, all his limbs alive and feeling. 

“You want-?”

“Not yet,” he manages, and the palm stills, holds him, a perfect fit.

The Alex at his hips – the Fourth, he’s pretty sure, the one with all the good ideas, up against windows and running trains and fucking George til he can’t walk – is grunting with the effort now, brow furrowed. His gaze is centred somewhere around George’s nipple; George cranes his neck to make it into view and Alex curses him, adjusts his eyes elsewhere. It is, unfortunately, immensely gratifying. 

“You’re not impressing anyone,” Alex the First jeers. “We’ve all got the same stamina.”

“Beg to fucking differ,” the Fourth starts, and George – what, is he supposed to let that go? – George clenches, throws his head back against the shoulder of the Alex behind him, and is rewarded with an improbable string of swear words groaned out, and the hot pulse of come inside him. He can hear it, slick, when Alex pulls out.

“Careful now, hips up, keep it inside. You have to let it take.”

George whimpers, and someone bites down on the side of his throat. 

They’re looking, he realises, when the silence drags on. Five of them clustered at the other side of the bed, watching his arse leak, running teasing fingers over the bones of his feet, up the backs of his calves. Only the Sixth is still holding him, sucking a line of marks down the side of his neck, rudely high above the collar line. 

George turns his nose into the skin of his shoulder, eyes closed, and lets himself drift in the heat of it, inside and out, arousal under his skin and hot gazes on it. Barely there and the centre of it all. 

And then: narrow hips knocking between his thighs, his legs aching with the stretch back. “George, a verbal-”

“Yeah,” he mutters, and it takes him a minute to hear the chorus of protests from the gathered crowd. It feels like ages before he can crack an eye open and see Alex the First, dick hard again, elbowing his way past the others. 

“I’ll show you bloody stamina,” the First is saying, all cocky grin and bright premolars. George is willing to forgive all previous judgments, all castigations, for an Alex willing to fuck him twice as he sets the head of his dick at George’s hole. 

He can feel it – they both can – how open George is. The suck of him. The First nudges forwards, teasing, just the tip, and then his face goes abruptly slack.

“Fuck, he’s so wet. George, you’re so wet. You slut-” 

It arcs through him like lightning, the crash of the word, the thought, the truth. His muscles seize with it, joy and shame and getting what he wanted and feared all run together in the rainbow of his bloodstream. Alex starts swearing, shit shit shit shit, and he’s coming, barely inside George, spilling out and down to the ruined sheets. George’s own orgasm paints his abs shiny, his cock spurting pathetically short dribbles. 

He pants for a few long minutes as the other Alexes rightfully rip the shit out of the first one. He comes back into proceedings when they turn on him instead. 

“Didn’t realise fast did it for you on and off the track, Georgie.”

“Can’t bear someone else coming first, is that it?”

“Not sure why I put my back into it if all it took was just the tip.”

“Could probably cum on a thumb if you called him a whore for it.”

It’s dizzying, the blur of their voices, their faces, like having a dozen dreams at once, layered and nonsensical like stained glass windows lined up under the sun. Someone starts dragging the come on his stomach up to his nipples. He whines, oversensitive and arching into it all the same.

He’s made such a mess of himself, Alex tells him, voice fond and dark as fresh honey. Such a mess, and still Alex needs to make him messier, and George has to nod as another hot splash of come hits his chest. Eager fingertips swirl it in with the rest, hold some to his mouth – the two of them, together, bittersweet on his tongue. 

He can barely move his arms, lift his eyelids, but it’s still there, the buzzing at his spine. The need. 

“Is that everyone?” he asks, faintly. The Alexes share a look. 

“Not quite.”

It’s the Sixth, the one left over. He’s giving George a dubious look that’s frankly insulting after what George thinks is a pretty strong performance, all factors accounted for. “I don’t- I can wait,” he says, like he hasn’t got a thumb and forefinger pinched under the head of his dick. George gives that the eye roll it deserves.

“Don’t be thick, Alex. Lemme just-” He turns over – directly into a damp patch, naturally, sticky on the hairs of his stomach. But letting his legs drop and stretch out feels incredible. The verbal assent thing is bloody annoying. He’d love to leave them to it, drop off for a quick nap, wake up fuller and wetter and wider. Maybe Williams will take some anonymous feedback. 

Alex slots in beside him, rolls him onto his side and ignores his faint grumbles. “You’ll never forgive me if I fuck pillow creases onto your face.” And then, no teasing, strangely raw: “Let me touch you, please.” Far too many bodies scramble onto the bed after him; the frame creaks. But it’s warm, ripe with sweat, grimy. It’s perfect.

Gentle fingers lift his knee, just a touch, and Alex slides in silently. No one says it, but George hears it anyway in the hushed intake of six breaths. How loose he is. How easy for them.

Slowly. That’s how this Alex fucks him, languorous movements that never amount to much more than an inch’s glide through the thick mess of come and lube trapped inside George. And yet his hands won’t stop wandering far and wide over George, up the filthy inside of his thighs, round the bowl of his armpit, the shallows of his hips. Everywhere he’s already been touched, lighting up again in recognition, reunion. 

The others join in, all of them soft now, sweet about it, where George has shaken himself near exhaustion. They keep finding new places to kiss him – the tops of his feet, the back of his palms. His eyelids, closed against the playact of devotion. 

“Jesus, Georgie, you want it so much,” Alex the Sixth is panting in his ear, his movements slow and deliberate over George’s prostate. It feels outsized in George’s body, too much pleasure to exist in so small a place, like he’s been fucked so well it has grown to match. He’ll need a fucking screening; have to explain to a white-coated doctor how greedy he got. Insatiable. 

“You can give m- us one more, can’t you, baby?” Alex croons, so hot and sweat-slick and firm against George’s back it’s like he can feel himself losing his solidity, melting into a pool of Alex, Alex, Alex. His leaking cock looks obscene against the dark flush of another Alex’s hip, the beauty of his softened dick. When he tries to shake his head the Alex behind him hooks his chin over George’s shoulder so he can’t move. If it weren’t for the tiny shifts of his dick inside George, he’d swear they were glued together, inseparable. “You can, sweetheart. Make the most of it.”

His dick kicks despite the impossibility. Alex’s hips move in tight, vicious circles. George can feel come leaking out, turning his thighs sticky. 

He thinks it’s a sob at first, the way the orgasm rises from the pit of his stomach, a comet of need and relief burning through him. But a sob wouldn’t quake his knees as well as his lungs, wouldn’t blank out the guilt and sorrow and humiliation of it all, the George Russell of it all, with such brilliant light. 

George is fairly sure he blacks out. There might have been some embarrassing convulsing. When he’s back, there are gentle hands on, well, almost every part of him. Alex the Sixth is still inside him, but motionless, soft. The Alex in front of him – the Fourth, with the wrong constellation of pores – smiles, wry. “That one’s a wrong-un, getting off on you going limp. Keep an eye on him.” 

The Sixth huffs. Tugs himself out and turns George round, clasps him with both arms against his chest like a jealous child grasping a toy. “Just ‘cause I won…”

The other Alexes jeer round yawns. George feels like he’s in one of those kitten videos Alex shows him on planes before albon_pets announces another seventy two cats; small, fluffy bodies piled on each other, heedless of heads and feet, undeniably content. 

“Double or nothing next time,” one of the Alexes murmurs, snuffling up against George’s spine. 

There won’t be a next time. He won’t survive it. He can see it, with clarity and without terror, without fear; it doesn’t beat back the happiness to know it, that this is everything he wants and nothing he can have. Once is enough. 

----

The Alex LMDs sleep like the original, deep and heavy. George stirs when one of them accidentally elbows him in the gut. Naturally, his attacker sleeps on, oblivious.

George can’t bring himself to mind much, luxuriating in the new aches and tender places. There’s so much weight on him, holding him together. The hair on his thighs is stiff, crusted together. Cracking his legs apart is momentarily heartbreaking, until one of the Alexes shifts, tucks a warm knee between them.

Christ, he hopes he hasn’t slept too long. He’s only got 24 hours to find out how many parts of himself he can reshape around Alex.

His phone is where he left it the night before, abandoned on the bedside table. Checking the time brings a small measure of relief. He can’t’ve napped more than an hour. Still. Time is money, quite literally, and-

The Alex letting him rest across his chest snuffles, halfway to a snore, in his sleep.

Another hour’s rest can’t hurt.

He swipes away an irate text from Oscar about letting him and Lando down for padel. Honestly, those two should just be grateful they’ve avoided getting rinsed again. And no way in hell is he rescheduling for tomorrow. He can’t imagine what Alex would think, watching him waddle onto the court.

He ignores the negotiations update, the reminder about the boat Alonso told him to buy. Fuck knows he’s spent that fund. In fact-

There’s a series of notifications from his banking app, all for the same absurd amount of money. 

Five transactions, all a minute apart. 

Five.

Under his cheek, Alex’s collarbone is a rough knot of healed bone and old scar.

[suddenyearning]

he's been glowing

[suddenyearning]

i doubled down on a sinking ship

[suddenyearning]

…so they smoke weed and have crazy sex

[suddenyearning]

A little bit more mpreg Max for a Monday evening. Carries on from part 1 and part 2 and part 3.

little rivers of light part 4

(reminder that this contains mpreg, reference to giving birth, Max Verstappen's bad dad, past abuse, and on-track accidents.)

Max feeds his baby sitting in the back of Daniel's car in the multi-storey car park at the airport.

It's weird, feeding Bastiaan where someone can see. Where Daniel could see, if he wasn't sitting in the front of the car pointedly not looking in the rear view mirror to where Max has one arm out of his t-shirt, his compression top unzipped, and his baby tucked up against him.

Max doesn't think about the things his dad used to say about breastfeeding fathers, the names he used to throw out if they passed someone doing it in public. Or about breastfeeding mums too. His dad had said that it was just his luck that the women who liked to breastfeed in public where his dad could see were always the ugly ones anyway. But then his dad had pushed him down the stairs to try and hurt his baby, so it doesn't matter anymore anyway. His dad isn't ever coming close to Max's baby again. Ever.

He doesn't know what he misses about his dad, but it isn't his fury. It isn't knowing that Max deserved it sometimes, that he needed it to survive.

Max doesn't think about his dad. It's easier that way.

"What time's your meeting with Cyril?" Daniel asks, without looking back over his shoulder at Max.

"Three," Max says. It's not even lunchtime yet, even if some people — Max's baby — are already hungrily demanding seconds. "I can make my own way if it's easier."

"It's not easier," Daniel says. "I'm taking you."

Max nods. He wants to be racing again. He wants Cyril to give him a chance. He wants to stop feeling like his entire world is enveloped in cotton wool, like if he touched another human being they'd feel him, see him, know he was there. Like it's not just him and Bastiaan alone together.

But he also knows that it's too soon. That he's fucked up by spending his capital too early, asking for this meeting when he's still having to wear the thick pads in his underwear because everything's still fucking gross and he keeps leaking blood and gunk. He can't get in a car, even if Cyril wanted him, which he doesn't, because he's got Daniel in one seat and Nico Hulkenberg in the other.

But Max doesn't know how to do anything else. This is all he's been trained for. This is what he's been bred for. He's had one umbilical cord severed in the last month. He hasn't got it in him to do it again.

After a while, Bastiaan gets bored of eating, and looks up at Max with big, blue eyes.

"You're very gorgeous," Max tells him, because he is. He's a very handsome baby. A very lovely little boy. "Are you all full up now?"

Bastiaan blinks up at him. Max has a little stack of muslin cloths that Celine had passed to him from someone in the cafe whose baby relative had grown out of them. This one has little elephants on it, and he wipes milk off Bastiaan's chin as he positions him to rub his back, sitting him in his lap and holding him like the picture in the leaflet the hospital gave him, until Bastiaan burps up a little more milk. He's a hungry little thing when he eats, with a fierce little latch. Max's nipples are red raw and painful, but it's okay if Bastiaan is all full up.

Max doesn't want him to be hungry. He never wants him to be hungry, and anyway, Max has got used to pain. A little bit more won't hurt him.

"I think you might go to sleep now, little baby," Max says. The car seat is next to him on the back seat. It clips into the pushchair frame which had made it easier when they got off the plane. Daniel had helped him with Bastiaan's things, but he hadn't known how to put the pushchair together so Max had ended up giving him Bastiaan to hold while Max did it himself. He'd put his backpack on and the changing bag in the tray underneath the pushchair, then he'd turned around and seen Daniel making stupid, ridiculous faces at Max's frowny, serious little baby.

Max had spent a long time secretly wanting to jerk off to Daniel, but it had to be the hormones, the way seeing Bastiaan in Daniel's arms had made Max want to fucking sob. Nobody else had really held Bastiaan, apart from Celine and Max.

Bastiaan's life was so little so far. Maybe too little.

"Do you need a hand getting him in the seat?" Daniel peered over the seat, having clearly spied that Max's tit was back inside his compression top and his t-shirt pulled back down. Max hadn't really expected to leak milk around feeding his baby, but it's okay. He'd not had time to take much when he ran away from his dad's place — and it had turned out afterwards that he'd forgotten a lot of the important stuff — but he'd cleared out most of his wardrobe and drawers into black trash bags, and in one of them had been a pile of workout gear and stuff he'd worn during gruelling physio sessions after his leg surgeries. There'd also been an old pack of stupid free shit that he'd never worked out in, including a sweat-absorbent, zip-up compression top that mostly kept Max's leaking milk on the inside and meant he could go outside without making too much of a statement. It rubbed, and Max only had one of them, and it didn't exactly make getting it on and off again anything short of horrible half the time, but Max had had a couple of years on the F1 circuit before crashing out so spectacularly. He knew what it was like to chafe in restrictive underclothes. He'd worn worse.

"It's okay," Max says. "He will complain, I think, because if it's a choice between sitting with me and sitting next to me then he would like to pick me and he can't." Max smiles at his baby, who frowns at him, his little mouth going down at the edges because he's being settled into a car seat and not in his daddy's arms. Bastiaan really only has one place in the world he likes to be. Max would rather he was there too. "It's not safe, little baby," he tells a distressed little Bastiaan, strapping him into his seat. "Crashes and accidents are not nice. But Daddy is right here next to you." He leans in to kiss Bastiaan's little hand before making sure that the seatbelts are securely fastened according to the pictures in the instruction booklet he'd read very carefully cover to cover.

When he looks up, Daniel's still watching them, and he has a strange look on his face that Max doesn't understand.

"Are you sitting back there?" Daniel asks.

"Yes," Max says. "So the baby knows he's not alone."

Daniel looks at him. He swallows. Max tries to smile but he can't. He doesn't know why not. Everything is upside down and back to front, and it has been ever since Max had given birth at twenty past three in the morning, alone but for the hospital staff who kept asking him if he had anyone they wanted him to call.

He strokes the crook of his finger down over Bastiaan's little cheek. "It's okay, little one," he says softly. "It's all going to be okay. I promise."

Max doesn't have anyone's number anymore. He doesn't have his old phone. Maybe after today he can put Daniel's number in his new one. A contact list that's empty apart from Celine and the doctor she took him to when she realised he hadn't got one, that he hadn't seen anyone, that nobody had told him he needed to get a scan and be looked after.

"Max," Daniel says.

Max looks up.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes," Max lies, because inside he's barely holding himself together. "I'm fine."

Daniel looks away first.

Max swallows, and smiles down at his baby. He’s fine. They both are. It’s all he has to hold on to.

[suddenyearning]

„cheeky“

[suddenyearning]

i took a break from drawing cats to draw a cat dad

[suddenyearning]

CARLOS SAINZ Japanese GP 2025, Media day

[suddenyearning]

not George liking F1's reel of Alex's angry radio

[suddenyearning]

Formula Gender: A Trans F1 Fest is a creative fest for the F1 community celebrating trans people and their stories and is open to all forms of creative media. Our mods are @nobrakesdown, @seafoampearlygirl, and @waddlingpenguin!

The Rules

Works should focus on a character or characters who somehow identify as transgender, including any non-cis gender identity.

There is no word minimum for fics or requirements for art.

Works cannot be created using generative AI.

Fics can be posted in chapters but must be complete at the time of posting. 

Intentional transphobia on the part of the author is not allowed.  However, any other topic is allowed as long as it is tagged properly.

There is no penalty for not completing a work.

Be creative and have fun.

The Schedule

Sign-Ups Open: April 7th, 2025

First Check-In: April 30th, 2025

Second Check-In: May 15th, 2025

First Reveal Submission Date: June 1st, 2025

First Reveal: June 3rd, 2025

Second Reveal Submission Date: June 16th, 2025

Second Reveal: June 18th, 2025

How to Join

Join the ao3 collection.

Fill out the sign up form.

We do not currently have a discord, but if you are interested in one let me know.

Miscellaneous

Reblogging and sharing this post would be a huge help!

If you have any questions, please send them to our ask box.

[suddenyearning]

My goat!

[suddenyearning]

ALEX ALBON | MEDIA DAY; JAPAN

[suddenyearning]

dts season 7 episode 7

[suddenyearning]

for want of a nail: what would have happened in dead heat if max had been lucid enough to follow daniel out of the bar in brazil 2018

(unusual fic ask game) max's post-breakup rut crisis only let's make it daniel instead of the stranger in the toilets -- fuck or die dubcon warning!

“You’re a mess, Max. You’re sloppy.”

Daniel steps away and Max steps into him, crumpling his nose and smearing his lips into the nape of Daniel's neck.

Daniel whirls around. "No, Max."

Max's eyes are big and glazed and all pupil, changing colours with the club lights. His jaw is hanging open but his tongue is out, running frenetic lines over his shiny bottom lip.

"Max?"

"Daniel, Daniel. I--Daniel, more." Max goes for the cocktail glass in Daniel's hand, bending at the waist like he forgot he has hands, like he's just a sucking mouth and lashing tongue.

Daniel yanks the glass away. "Max, what the fuck? Are you rutting right now? Did you OD on Valtteri's phero? What's wrong with you?"

"A girl." Max's tongue pulses out in the space between the two words, seeking.

"What?"

"Phero, a girl."

"Okay, shit, okay." Maybe a psycho fan drugged him. "C'mon."

Daniel pulls him by his clammy wrist.

"You can't bring that outside," a bouncer says, referring to the fucking cocktail glass. Daniel imagines tasing his ballsack.

He's not leaving fucking slick crime scene evidence in a club in Mexico. He brings it to Max's restless mouth. "Clean this up."

Max groans and lurches forward, laps at the rim. He rocks his hips forward like he's trying to hump Daniel's fucking thigh and he's--hard, definitely. Knotted, maybe.

Daniel writhes away. "Jesus, fuck, Max. Get it together."

He sets the glass on some fucking surface, fits his hand around the back of Max's neck, and pulls him into the night.

"Need it," Max moans, stumbling, crushing Daniel's fucking foot.

"You need an exorcism." Daniel can't see any taxis. It's not a far walk; Max can probably make it. "Just--be cool. Pretend you can walk, yeah?"

The brim of someone's party sombrero pokes Max's eye two blocks in and it improves things, distracts him. He's stumbling along with one eye covered until he gets back at it, pressing in too close and drooling on Daniel's shoulder. "Knot you."

"Fuck you."

"Need it, please. Need--taste--"

Their hotel in the distance like a celebration beacon. "Be cool. Shut your mouth."

Max shuts his teeth on his tongue, makes a hurt sound.

Daniel tries to smile at people in the lobby, points long-sufferingly at Max, like, drunk friends, amirite?

Shut in Daniel's room, Max gets frantic, paws at Daniel's clothes. "Need, need. I can't--I feel--need you."

Daniel shakes his head. "Hate you."

Max is stripping, tripping. He yanks off his jeans and boxer briefs in one go, stumbles over the ankle-fettering denim. His skin is fever-hot when Daniel steadies him.

"Fuck, is this--"

Cecilia's warning:

No synthetic alpha pheromones (heat aids, phero poppers, etc.) OR ELSE YOU COULD HAVE A SUDDEN ONSET HEAT CRISIS

"Max, fuck, I think you're having a rut crisis, yeah? I think--I need to call--"

"No." Max presses his hot, naked body into Daniel's cold and clothed one. His chest lurches with panting breaths. "I need--Daniel, I need."

"Yeah, fuck you, I know what you need." Daniel yanks off his own shirt and Max goes crazy from the skin exposure, sucking hickeys into his skin, trying to make Daniel one big bruise. "I hate you, I fucking hate you."

Max falls to his knees, fumbles ineffectually with Daniel's fly until Daniel bats him away. He looks up with big wet eyes. "I love you."

Daniel says, "I'll hate you forever."

Max mouths over Daniel's thigh as soon as it's uncovered. He says, "No, no."

Daniel feels it in his blood cells.

He's been wet since the club toilets. His briefs are hot and soaked, drop heavy to the floor. He kicks them away before Max can be insane with them, but Max is too distracted crying into his fake tattoo. "Daniel, Daniel."

"Knot me, Max. It's what I'm good for, yeah?"

"I--what--" Max doesn't look up from the bite-covering butterfly. It's starting to crack at the corner; it's been on too long. Max looks confused and mesmerised, digging his fingernail into the split of it. "What--I--what."

Daniel pushes Max away with a foot on his chest. "Knot me."

Max's whole body is splotchy red. His dick is fully knotted, straining and leaking.

"You look crazy," Daniel says, crazy.

Max stands up and gets dizzy, crashes back onto his ass.

"Max, fuck."

Max wobbles, legs long in front of him, palms on the floor. "I need, I need. Daniel, Daniel."

"Fuck, fuck. Yeah, fine." Daniel drops down and climbs astride him, wonders how many people have lost their virginities this way.

The move makes Max lose it, groan strings of Dutch, mindlessly fuck his hips up into the air.

"Stop, calm the fuck down or you're gonna hurt me."

Max freezes immediately, seals himself to the floor. "I..."

"Can't believe that worked," Daniel pants, getting his fingers back inside himself, trying to work the tight ring of his rim open enough to sheath Max's blown knot. "You never cared about hurting me before."

"No, no." Max is crying now, desperately rubbing Daniel's peeling tattoo.

Daniel lines up the head of Max's cock, breathes and breathes, sinks down, tries to go slow and keep making progress--every minute pull-back burns--and then Max's knot is catching on his stretched rim, too big to take, impossible to swallow.

Max is shouting, straining, neck muscles popping out. He bites his own palm, stops himself from thrusting up, from pulling Daniel down, from taking what he needs even when he's brainfucked from its nearness.

Daniel shifts, groans with the new angle. He needs to take Max's knot before Max fucking dies or whatever rut crisised assholes do, but instead he shuts his eyes, draws back and sinks down, and it's--he does it again. And again. And it's--

"Good. Yeah, good, fuck."

"Daniel, Daniel. I need--I need. Daniel, I."

"Yeah, fuck. In a minute." Daniel opens his eyes to Max staring, open and heartsick and horrible. He goes faster, gets madder, strokes his own cock, chases the feeling, hates Max. "Oh, fuck. Yeah. I'm gonna--Max, I need to--"

Max shouts again, a guttural, frustrated, helpless sound that Daniel feels in his chest, in his balls. And he's coming--deep shudders that scrape him out--making one low and continuous sound from deep in his throat.

Max's face is tear-streaked and astonished. "I--I--"

Daniel reaches down and squeezes his knot, hard.

Max yells again, pounds his heels into the floor, gasps.

"Isn't this good enough, Max?"

"No, no. Please, need. Daniel, Daniel."

Daniel feels liquid. "Fine, do it."

Max's hips jerk up. "I--Daniel--"

"Now."

Max thrusts up and pulls Daniel down and knots him and shouts and shakes and spasms inside, crazy and endless.

It's like he gets lucid the second he comes--he's wide-eyed and serious, hinging Daniel's thigh open. "Daniel, Daniel. Daniel what is this, Daniel."

"Fucking--get off." It doesn't make sense, Daniel's the one who's on, not Max. He pulls back and feels a hot bruisey tug on his hole, stuck.

"You love me," Max says. "You love me, you--"

"You left me," Daniel spits. "I hate you."

"No, no, I--"

"Shut the fuck up, Max."

"Daniel--"

"Shut up, I swear to god, if you ever once gave a fucking shit about me, don't say another word until I can get the fuck off of you."

Max presses his lips together, but his eyes are sharp, irises crackling with unsaid words. The second his knot deflates, Daniel is out of there.

"No." Max makes an abortive movement to follow and Daniel rounds on him, clothes halfway on.

"You're a shitty fucking person, Max. You're the worst person I've ever known. If you--if you could fucking comprehend what you've done to me, you wouldn't be--"

"Do it to me," Max begs.

Daniel stills. His heart slows. "What."

"Do it to me the same." Max is crying hard now, naked on Daniel's hotel room floor.

"You want me to bite you and leave you, Max?"

Max nods, chin trembling.

Daniel finishes dressing. He slips into his shoes. He crouches down on the gross floor, runs his thumb over the inside of Max's thigh. The muscle is taut, trembly.

"Fine. Fuck you, Max. Fine."

Daniel leans in and bites.

Hard.

Max shouts louder than his rut crises knot orgasm.

Daniel leaves him.

[suddenyearning]

19. De-aged - carcar

Oscar makes a wry comment that it’s just his luck, getting stuck with Carlos in this state and Carlos’s lip wobbles, his unfortunate eyebrows pinching together. For a horrible, lurching moment, Oscar thinks Carlos is going to cry, before he manages to gather himself.

“Sorry,” Oscar says. He’s trying to reconcile the lingering urge to throw a drink in Carlos’s stupid face with the actual face that’s in front of him now, narrow and topped with a shaggy haircut. “It’s not your fault I’m angry with you.”

“You are mad at me?” Carlos asks. There’s a thread of badly disguised hurt in his voice and Oscar’s reminded of some interview he saw of Carlos– the Carlos of Oscar’s timeline, relaxed and handsome and oblivious about the things he was saying, blithely putting his entrails on the table for some podcast host to pick through–saying his father told him to bite or get bitten. Oscar had thought it was an insane thing to say to a kid, but now he can’t help but feel like Sainz sr. had a point. Everything about this Carlos’s face is so desperately vulnerable Oscar can barely look at it head-on, from his disastrous sideburns to the nervous tilt to his mouth. Pack it away, he wants to snap at Carlos, don’t you know people can see you?

“Not you-you,” Oscar says and he has to pause to consider–how is this his fucking life? “The you that’s–my you.”

“Why?” Carlos immediately asks and Oscar squirms uncomfortably under the onslaught of his relentless, wide-eyed gaze. He doesn’t–it’s probably not cool to make Carlos’s younger self a part of this entire clusterfuck, but on the other hand: if Carlos didn’t want Oscar to mess with the space-time continuum in the unlikely event a time warp deposited a de-aged Carlos in his vicinity, he shouldn’t have been a dick to Oscar in the first place.

“You, um–” Oscar fights against the urge to scrunch up his face. “Or, I guess–other you, kissed me after the last race and then kind of–ran off? You haven’t texted me back and you’re avoiding me, so. I’m mad at you. Other you.”

His stomach turns as he looks at Carlos’s stricken expression. “Oh, Jesus, no, forget about it.”

“I am not–” Carlos swallows thickly, eyes flitting nervously between Oscar’s face and the floor. “Gay.”

“Well, there you have it,” Oscar says, impotently trying to stuff the toothpaste of this conversation back into the tube. “Mystery solved, that’s why you’re not texting me back.”

“Or–” Carlos’s pale face twists. “In the future times, am I–? Have I ever–?”

“No, no,” Oscar quickly says, voice shrill so he can hear it over the insistent blare of you stupid fucking idiot in his brain. “You never even gave like, any indication that–which is why I was so surprised and–look, nevermind, okay? It’s fine, we’re fine.”

“Oh,” Carlos says. His mouth moves for a moment, jaw shifting from side to side and it’s so reminiscent of the Carlos that Oscar knows that his stomach clenches with it. “I thought, maybe–”

He stops talking and looks at the ground, hand flying up to fiddle with the collar of his Red Bull Junior fireproofs. It’s heinous–Oscar wants to pry him open like an oyster.

“Thought what?” Oscar says and Carlos sighs. His entire body rises and falls with it, thin shoulders and gangly arms.

“You said I drove for Ferrari,” he says.

“You do,” Oscar says and Carlos looks at a point somewhere near Oscar’s shoulder.

“If I go back to my own–the you in my–you won’t know what I say now, right?”

The Oscar in Carlos’s universe is twelve years old and still divvying up his time between karting and RC racing. Oscar doesn’t think he’ll mention that part. “No, I don’t think so.”

“I told to myself that once I got in a good team and I drove well and I was older and–braver, I guess, then maybe I could–” Carlos swallows and looks at Oscar’s mouth. “Not to tell anyone, I mean, but just that, maybe I could find someone and–I don’t know.” 

A terribly tender thing twists in Oscar’s chest. There’s many things Oscar hasn’t told him about current Carlos’s life. Lewis. Williams. Did Oscar’s Carlos ever seriously consider it? When he outscored Charles in his first season, or when he bought an apartment in Maranello or when he won his first race? Oscar doesn’t think so. He won’t tell Carlos that, either.

“But maybe I am just being–” Carlos swallows again and Oscar tries not to look at the movement of his throat. “I have never even kissed another guy, so–”

The back of Oscar’s neck itches as his mind starts racing, thoughts stumbling over each other faster than he can register them. Oscar got most of his exploratory fumbling out of the way in the junior Formulas, when the stakes were lower. He can’t even imagine mustering up the courage to do it now, with the relentless media attention, fans lurking everywhere. If this Carlos, on the cusp of making it into Formula One, hasn’t ever–it’s nine years of time unaccounted for so it’s definitely possible that Carlos has, in the meantime–but somehow it’s just as likely that, maybe. That maybe he didn’t, often. Or ever. 

“Oh,” Oscar says. His mouth is dry. 

“But maybe–?” Carlos’s eyes are very wide as he looks at Oscar. “I mean–nobody will know if I go back to my own time. And in this time, if we have already–so maybe it does not matter?”

Say no, Oscar thinks. Say: absolutely not, are you crazy, it would be insane and not to mention creepy and probably cause the timelines to explode.

“Um,” his mouth says. He can’t tear his eyes away from Carlos’s mouth, too big for his face and being worried at with his teeth. God, Oscar is being a massive creep. Except, well, the Carlos in front of him isn’t even younger by the same margin Oscar is younger than original Carlos and–Jesus, Oscar’s been feeling like a cradle-snatcher for all of thirty seconds and he already kind of wants to expire from shame. And he doesn’t even have added weight of like, three decades of cultural Catholicism to grapple with. Has Oscar, perhaps, been a tad inattentive to the fact that Carlos might have complicated feelings about all of this? Ugh, Oscar hates having to reckon with his own behaviour. 

Carlos steps in closer. Too late, Oscar realises that just because he’s been distracted by the way young Carlos is different from his Carlos, an open nerve not yet scabbed over, he hasn’t been paying attention to the ways they’re alike. Single-minded, cocksure. Headache-inducing. Carlos takes another step.

“Surely this is not fair to other Carlos,” Oscar says, a shamefully weak excuse. It doesn’t keep him from reaching out and curling his hands around Carlos’s hips, pulling him in until their bodies are flush.

“From what you tell me,” Carlos says, looking up at Oscar from under his thick eyelashes. “He is a dick anyway, so–”

“Don’t talk about your elders that way,” Oscar says and Carlos smirks, insufferable now that he knows he’s got Oscar where he wants him. If Oscar was a better person he’d–oh, well. He clearly isn’t, so. Fitting a hand around the back of Carlos’s neck, he pulls him in, kisses him hard and filthy until Carlos gasps and his body melts against Oscar’s. All of his fresh cockiness evaporates in an instant, leaving him pliant and slack under Oscar’s hands. When Carlos makes a sound deep in his throat and before Oscar can do anything that will really leave him having to reckon with his own morality, Oscar pushes Carlos back firmly. 

“What–” Carlos asks, mouth spit-wet and red and eyes hazy. He cranes his neck forward, trying to catch Oscar’s mouth again and maybe current Carlos and his neck strength could have done something against Oscar’s grip, but this Carlos just flails for a bit before finally giving up. 

“No,” Carlos says, aghast. “You cannot, that was barely–”

“Sucks, huh,” Oscar says and he manages to not smile at the outrage that fills every line in Carlos’s face.

“Are you taking revenge on me,” Carlos asks him accusingly. “For what other Carlos did?”

Oscar shrugs.

“Other Carlos is the worst,” Carlos moans and now, Oscar can’t keep in a grin. The foolish, tender thing in his chest curls tight and warm and for a lenient, indulgent moment, Oscar lets it.

[suddenyearning]

yuki talks about his red bull debut in his home gp

[suddenyearning]

sometimes you listen to lucy dacus's new song big deal on repeat for 12 hours and then you write 800 words of sad galex LA fic

When Alex goes outside for a smoke, George follows him even though it’s in his Williams contract that he isn’t allowed. He’s sure it must be in Alex’s new Red Bull contract too, but George isn’t about to rat him out, not when it means he gets to steal a tiny, private moment, just the two of them.

George isn’t really smoking. He’s just holding the cigarette in his hand, letting it burn down to the filter. His head is buzzing enough from the vodka, from Alex’s secondhand smoke; even though Alex is trying to blow it carefully away, the wind keeps blowing it in George’s face, and each time George thinks about how the air had been inside of Alex’s chest, in his lungs.

Inside, the lads are shouting about something, the general murmur of voices rising to riotous din, and George can just about make out Lily’s laugh through the noise. Outside, the sun is still setting, taking longer than it ever seemed to in London. It feels like it’s been setting for hours, like the day is clinging to the golden hours when everything is painted with a perfect brush. The light is reflecting in the pool, catching in the smog, making everything beautiful. It’s what he always imagined California would be like when he was kid — a big, fancy house up in the hills, warm air on his bare skin.

He knows he should say something about Lily. It’s obvious that Alex really likes her, that the two of them fit together. It’s ridiculous given that they’ve only just met, but the second George saw the way Alex’s face went when he looked at her, he could already imagine them getting married, could see himself standing next to Alex when Lily walked down the aisle.

It was inevitable that Alex was going to find someone like that. He couldn’t always be George’s. Friendships didn’t work like that.

“I always kinda thought,” Alex starts, like he can read George’s mind and George’s heart stops in his chest. Alex laughs before he keeps going, small, like he’s making fun of himself already. “Before, I thought, if neither of us ever found anyone else. But.”

“Oh,” George says, and then he can’t find the words to say anything else. He feels dizzy all of a sudden, and drunker than he had ten seconds ago. He had always thought so too, but he had imagined that he would have to be the one to confess, years down the line probably, after they were both safely retired. It had always felt to him like it was already in their futures, a certainty waiting down the line, when they were both ready to try.   

“Stupid,” Alex adds, laughing again. “It never would’ve worked, with us both in F1 now. If I had gone to FE like I was supposed to, maybe—“

“You’re not supposed to be in FE,” George interrupts. “Look at you Alex, come on. You’re a Red Bull driver.” In the half-light of the setting sun, George can’t see Alex blush, but he can see when Alex dips his head, can imagine the pleased, shy smile on his face. Alex had finished 5th in Austin. George had finished two laps down. George knows his time will come, knows he has it in him to be in a top team, but in the meantime, Alex deserves it. Just like he deserves someone like Lily.

“I like her,” he offers. “And she must like you too if she’s putting up with that lot.”

“Yeah,” Alex says, and George can hear it in his voice now, the grin that must be splitting open his face. He can imagine Alex trying to fight it back, to wrestle it under control. “I didn’t think — I didn’t mean to ruin our trip.”

“You’re not, mate,” George says, and he knocks his shoulder into Alex’s arm to make the point. “That’s what I was trying to say.”

“I just,” Alex starts, and he drops his cigarette onto the paving stones, crushing it under his shoe. “I don’t want it to change anything between us.”

“It won’t,” George promises, knowing even as he says it that it isn’t true.

He feels a sudden prick of pain on his hand, and when he looks down, he realises that the cinders of the cigarette had died down until they found the thin skin webbed between his fingers. He drops it immediately, too late, and looks at it littered on the ground, lying next to Alex’s, the last embers glowing in the gathering dark. 

His skin is smarting, and he knows he should go inside to run it under the tap, but he stands there a minute longer, dooling out the time left in measured increments.